Chapter Thirteen
Izzy
I looked at my watch—almost noon.
I ignored the growl in my stomach and wished time would move faster. My breakfast—a can of Rockstar and a chocolate Pop-Tart—was no longer doing the trick, and I needed sustenance. I usually ate lunch at eleven, like a senior citizen, but that day, I was holding out until twelve thirty.
No reason—I just feel like waiting , I thought as I got out my compact and added a little blush and lip gloss to my face.
Thirty minutes later, when the alarm on my wrist buzzed, I stuck my debit card in the pocket of my skirt and stood. Grabbing my black peacoat, I slid my arms into it as I left my office, heading for the exit like my ass was on fire.
Butterflies were going wild in my stomach as I rode the elevator down, which was ridiculous, because I was just grabbing food. It’s what people do at lunchtime, right? Nothing weird about that at all. Just because I knew that certain people enjoyed the Monday specials at Caniglia’s food truck, and they usually took their lunch sometime between twelve thirty and one—well, that shouldn’t make me nervous. Lots of people did that.
I pulled out my phone as I walked the two blocks to the mobile Italian restaurant. No texts . It wasn’t a surprise, really, that Blake was radio silent during the workday; he was all-business, after all, and we’d made rules.
But after he’d dropped me and the bike off at my building after coffee, we’d pretty much been in an endless texting conversation for the rest of the day.
I’d texted him while we each watched the same football game, I’d texted him as I’d gone down into the creepy basement to do laundry, and I’d texted him while I’d given the Darkling a bath. For someone so aboveboard and executive-like in person, he was surprisingly fun on the phone.
That morning, when I’d been walking toward the building (I had to take the bus downtown because my car was still impounded), I’d felt my phone buzz in my purse. And when I pulled it out, Blake had texted, I can see you from my window .
The Ellis building was an all-windowed skyscraper, and even though I knew Blake worked on the fifteenth floor, I had no idea where exactly that was on the face of the building. So I’d stopped and responded: You have to be lying.
Blake: Black tights, black boots, black coat, red purse and—is that a piece of toast in your hand?
I’d laughed and texted back: A Pop-Tart. And quit being a creeper .
Blake: I was simply looking out the window, and there you were. Shocked the hell out of me, tbh.
Izzy: Can you tell what I’m doing now?
I’d switched Pop-Tart hands so I could hold up my arm and flip off the building.
Blake: Not very nice.
Izzy: You’re interrupting my breakfast stroll; THAT isn’t very nice. Can you tell what I’m doing NOW?
I started hopping on one foot.
Blake: Making a spectacle of yourself.
Izzy: No one is watching me but you.
Blake: The man behind you begs to differ.
I’d turned around, but no one was walking behind me.
Blake: Made you look.
His idiotic texting had put me in a great mood as I’d breezed into work, and it hadn’t waned all day. But now, for some reason, I was nervous to see him. Even though we’d shared our frequent whereabouts with the sole purpose of possibly running into each other, what if he didn’t want me there? What if he’d changed his mind and didn’t want to be my sort-of friend?
Really, it was just a little nerve-racking, being the first one to casually happen upon the place that the other one happened to mention they might be visiting. Felt a little stalker-y, if I was being honest.
It’s no big deal , I told myself as I turned onto the next block.
He probably wasn’t even there anyway.
Blake
I could tell it was her, even though she was still a half block away. I leaned against the front of the building and thought it was the same as when I’d happened to glance out my office window this morning and immediately spotted her down on the street below.
Fucking weird.
It was like Where’s Waldo?, only Izzy wasn’t wearing stripes, and my superpower was apparently being able to instantly find her in a crowd.
I put my hands in my pockets and allowed myself to watch her, mostly because there was no way she could see me yet. Her hair was down, blowing in the fall breeze, and she reminded me of Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail with her dark tights, skirt, wool coat, and scarf.
She should have a damn pumpkin under her arm and a coffee in her hand .
But as I watched her walking in my direction, I felt them again.
Fucking butterflies.
What in the hell was with that?
Nope. Fuck that. Not butterflies, no way. If I were interested in her, the way my stomach felt at that moment might possibly be butterfly-related, but I wasn’t. In all actuality, what I was feeling was just, shit, uh…gladness.
Seriously—gladness?
It was lame as hell, but yes, I was simply glad to see my friend. Lunch with a buddy was better than lunch alone, so I was glad to see her.
That was all.
I straightened and walked over to the food truck, getting in line. I looked at the menu board for a solid ten seconds before I heard, “Blake?”
I turned around, and shit. She was smiling up at me with that mouth, those lips, and the soft smell of her perfume was coming at me like some kind of a…uh… shit , something I couldn’t ignore. Or something.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, and my chest felt a little tight as I looked at her lipstick.
“I thought that was you,” she said with a teasing glint in her eyes.
“It is me,” I replied, unable to stop myself from grinning back. “Are you out trolling for calzone, too?”
She leaned in a little closer and said, “To be honest, I’ve never been a fan of the dough-dome pizza that they call calzone. I like my slices big, open, and melty. Just like my men.”
“Did you seriously just say that?”
“I know, ew. I was trying something.” She crinkled her nose, narrowed her eyes, and said, “I don’t think it hit.”
“I don’t think so, either.” I turned my attention back to the menu and said, “Their fried ravioli is good.”
“Is it ricotta cheese filled?” she asked.
“I think so,” I said, looking at her. “Why? Is that bad?”
She nodded. “Ricotta is lumpy and disgusting, like curdled milk mixed with cottage cheese. But you enjoy, buddy.”
“Oh, I will,” I said, thinking of her Pop-Tart—and empty fridge—and wondering if she was a picky eater.
But as I looked at her—as she looked up at me, wearing a shitty little grin—it held for just a moment too long. Something passed between us, a memory or an awareness, before she cleared her throat and turned her attention to the menu.
Said, “Do they have good spaghetti?”
Spaghetti? What’s a spaghetti?
I just stared at her profile, my brain slow to move on and comprehend her words. “No one knows the answer to that question, because who would be stupid enough to order spaghetti from a food truck?”
“I would,” she said, still looking at the menu. “I love spaghetti.”
“But you can’t walk and eat it at the same time, dipshit.”
That made her look, and then her grin was back. “Now I have to—challenge accepted—which will be a colossal mistake for which I’ll blame you all day. Every time someone looks at the blob of marinara on my shirt, I shall curse your name.”
“I thought that was a dress,” I said, and the look she gave me—forehead crinkle—made it clear that she was just as shocked by my asinine hyperawareness of her attire as I was. What the fuck was that?
“Yeah, um,” she said, raising a hand to push her hair behind her ear, “it’s a skirt and top.”
“Ah,” I muttered as I stepped up to the window, needing an escape from that moment of idiocy. I lowered my voice and ordered. “Could I please get the spaghetti?”
I heard her quiet laugh, and then she stepped beside me and said to the second cashier, “I would like the spaghetti, and can I also get a slice of cheese pizza and a piece of garlic bread, please?”
I opened my mouth to comment, when Izzy whipped her head toward me, pointed a finger, and said, “Don’t say a word—I’m hungry, okay?”
I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t not smile. I looked at the freckles on her nose and said, “What would I even say, Iz?”
Izzy
“So let me get this straight,” Blake said, his face relaxed behind dark sunglasses as he walked beside me. He was looking straight ahead, his hands in the pockets of his perfectly pressed suit pants. “The house that you accidentally ‘forked,’ which I can’t even believe is a thing, was being watched by the FBI.”
“Yep.” I took a sip of my soda as we walked back to work. “Forked the wrong house, which turned out to be the residence of some questionable members of a satanic cult. So not only did we get picked up by the feds, but we were questioned at the station and also got MIPs because we had a bottle of vodka in the trunk.”
“Wow.” He looked at me then, and even though his eyes were covered, I knew they were squinting, because his dimples were out. “Your high school experience was very different from mine.”
“When there’s nothing to do, you make things happen, Phillips.” I saw the Ellis building at the end of the block, and I was bummed it was time to go back. Even though Blake was my polar opposite and the kind of guy (hot, successful) who usually made me nervous, I felt totally comfortable around him.
I had fun with him because I was able to relax and be my uncool self.
“I forgot to ask,” he said, glancing over at me as we walked around a woman and her French bulldog who was sitting on the sidewalk with zero intention of moving. “Did you get your car back?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, rolling my eyes. “In order to get it out of jail, I have to take the title to the impound lot and pay a few hundred bucks.”
“Oof,” he said.
“Oof, indeed,” I replied. “Because after that, I get to have it towed to a mechanic, who will probably tell me it’s going to cost a fortune to fix.”
“No idea what’s wrong with it?” he asked.
“None,” I said, looking down at the scarred sidewalk as I tried not to think about how little money I actually had in my bank account at the moment. “But I didn’t hate taking the bus today, so perhaps this is a chance to reexamine my vehicular needs.”
“Yeah, but how far is the bus stop from your apartment?”
“Only a few blocks.”
“Do you really want to have to hoof it a few blocks in the snow?” His voice was full of concern as he added, “In the dark? In the rain?”
That reminded me of the dark and rainy night where I’d kissed Blake, and my stomach did a little flip of its own accord. That kiss was in my head on an hourly basis, swear to God. I cleared my throat and said, “No, but I’m also not going to throw a lot of coin into a car that’s fifteen years old.”
He looked at me—I could see his eyes through the sunglasses now because the sun was hitting the lenses just right—and it felt like he was having some sort of internal conversation with himself as he just watched me. He didn’t say anything, and when we stopped at the corner to wait on the light, he said, “What are the rules about car repairs?”
“What?” I tossed my cup into the trash can next to the crossing light and put my hands in my pockets. “What do you mean?”
The light changed, and we started walking again. Blake said, “If you wanted to have it towed to my place, I could take a look at it.”
That made me stumble in the middle of the street, which made Blake grab my arm and say, “Easy, Shay.”
Easy, Shay. Good God—what was he trying to do to me? Since the moment I’d met him, his entire existence had been an assault on my ovaries. And now he was going to add car fixing and stumble stopping to the dopamine equation?
I needed holy water or garlic stat, although that fleeting sarcastic thought brought to mind an image of Blake having un holy water poured over his massive chest like some kind of hot guy wet T-shirt contest participant.
I was disappointed when he let go of my arm, which was a ludicrous reaction, so I said, “I think that’s probably not allowable. But thank you.”
He gave me an eyebrow raise. “Why not?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, it just seems too personal.”
He grabbed the sleeve of my coat and tugged. It startled me, the jerking motion that moved me a little closer to him, but his mouth slid into a smirk before he started pulling me along behind him as he walked toward the alley to our right.
“What are you doing, Phillips?”
“Getting you to listen to reason before we go back to work, Shay .”
He let go of my sleeve once we were out of foot traffic. He took off his sunglasses, and I felt the gold flecks of his intense brown eyes as he said, “Hear me out. I’m still all in on rule following for us, but you’re my friend, Iz. If I can fix your car and save you a fortune, why wouldn’t that be okay?”
Because it would feel like…something. Something from a daydream about boyfriends working on their girlfriends’ cars.
Side note: Every time he called me Iz, a sex angel got its wings.
“Because of money, maybe?” I couldn’t think all of a sudden, but I knew there was a reason. Reasons…reasons…what are reasons again? I cleared my throat and said, “You’re my boss, so there’s got to be a rule about me paying you for services.”
“Like I’d charge you,” he said, sounding disgusted.
“Well, I would have a rule about that, then, Blake,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ears and looking up at his perfectly trimmed stubble. “No way would I let you fix my car without paying you.”
“Then you can pay me with a favor,” he said, and I watched as it hit. He’d said it innocently, casually offering to work for nothing, but his eyes got hot when he realized. His voice sounded deeper, rougher, when he continued with “I’m sure I can come up with something.”
The air in the alley suddenly got thick and quiet, like we were underwater. The city sounds disappeared, and I swore I could literally hear my own heart beating. I swallowed, but my voice was a little husky when I said, “I’m sure you can, too.”
“If we were alone,” he growled, his voice nearly a whisper as his mouth lowered to my ear, “I think we could negotiate a very good deal.”
“I know we could,” I said, my eyelids heavy as I felt his breath on my neck.
Every nerve ending in my body was crackling and straining toward him, and I was almost lost to it, when I heard a car horn in the distance.
Yes, you’re in an alley, dumbass!
I blinked fast and muttered, “Which is why we need to get back on the sidewalk now .”
He smiled down at me. “We’re in the center of the city during lunchtime on a weekday—far from alone. I think we’re safe.”
“You don’t think this alley feels private?” I was still blinking, slightly disoriented as he pointed that gaze at me. “I feel all alone in the dark with you here.”
The instant those words left my mouth, I regretted them, because Blake’s languid smile dropped. His jaw clenched, and he just looked at me for a few long seconds before he said, “Izzy—”
“Ohmigosh—I have to get back.” I pasted a grin on my face and took a step away from him, mortified. Obviously I’d been the only one on the verge of combustion, and I needed to get the hell out of there. My voice was too loud and perky when I said, “You may be able to take long lunches because you’re Mr. Fancy VP, but this lowly generalist has to be on time. I’m going to sprint back—I’ll see you later.”
His eyebrows went down again. “Iz—”
“Bye!” I turned and literally started slow jogging, knowing I looked like a moron but unable to stop myself because I needed to put space between myself and Mr. Chest.
All I wanted in my quiet little life was to keep my friend Blake and to embark upon a promising career at Ellis, but if those things were going to happen, I needed to find a way to be cool when I was close to him.
There had to be a way to speak to him without melting into an endorphin-riddled puddle of goo, right?
It wasn’t until I got back to the office, sweaty and still embarrassed, that I saw he’d sent a message.
Blake: I have a Plan B, Iz, so don’t freak out. Can I call you at six?
Plan B? What did that mean? I sighed and contemplated not responding, but texted, I’ll be dining with the Darkling, but I suppose he won’t mind if I take a call.
Blake: Excellent. Also, you looked VERY cool jogging through midtown in high-heeled boots, FYI.
Izzy: Oh, I know.
I logged back in to my computer and was just getting started on a head count report when my phone buzzed again.
Blake: I just found a marinara stain on my tie, so I think I’ve proven my point about spaghetti.
I smiled and shook my head, even though I was alone in my office.
Izzy: Serves you right—the whole thing was your fault (it didn’t have to be like that). I have an orange, Saturn-shaped stain on the center of my shirt, so your tie is child’s play. #CountYourBlessings
Blake: Have a good afternoon, Scooter’s Amy.
Izzy: Same to you, Mr. Chest.