Chapter Seventeen
Izzy
Blake: Fun fact—I hate flying.
I looked at my phone and smiled as I waited in line at Scooter’s. I texted, That’s because you’re a control freak.
Blake: A. No, I’m not. B. I don’t need a diagnosis, I need a distraction.
Izzy: You think I’m free to just drop whatever I’m doing to entertain you?
Blake: Be honest—you’re in line for coffee, aren’t you?
Izzy: That’s terrifying. Did you put an AirTag in my purse?
Blake: No, I stuck it to your back like a modern-day “kick me” sign. Also, you told me the first time we met that you waste money at Scooter’s every morning.
I ordered my coffee, swiped my card, and moved over to the waiting area. Josh had dropped me off because I hadn’t wanted to ride the bus with my overnight bag, the bag I was hauling to work with me because I was going to Blake’s swanky apartment when I got off work.
I was excited about the view, the challenge of making his cats love me, and walking to work in the morning like I was the fashionable protagonist in an NYC sitcom, but I was also nervous for some inexplicable reason.
I looked down at the phone and texted, Do you have a window seat?
Blake: Nope. Wedged in between a talker and a hummer.
I snorted and texted, A talker, a chest, and a hummer walk into a bar…
Blake: Funny girl.
Izzy: Thank you. What time is your bed being delivered, btw?
Blake: Sometime before two; the doorman will let them in. NO PIZZA on the bed.
Izzy: If a pizza falls on a bed in a forest and the owner of the forest bed isn’t there to see it, does it make a sound?
Blake: It doesn’t matter because you’re not eating on the bed, Shay.
Izzy: Chill, bro—it’s hypothetical.
Blake: I WILL KNOW.
Izzy: You’re adorable when you use all caps. VERY POWERFUL.
Blake: I’m FaceTiming you tonight at 6:01 and I expect a detailed visual tour of the bed.
Izzy: I’m FaceTiming YOU tonight at 6:01 and I expect a detailed visual tour of your ass.
I quickly fired off a follow-up text.
Izzy: NOT LITERALLY. “Your ass” as in a “your mom” joke. You get it, right? If you moon me via FaceTime I shall report you to the FCC.
Blake: I don’t think you need that coffee.
Izzy: You’re not the boss of me.
Blake: I am literally the boss of you.
Izzy: I don’t think I need this coffee. I have to get to work.
Blake: Have a good day, Iz.
Nicknamification, in my opinion, was the absolute sexiest. Call Isabella Shay by her last name, or Iz, for the love of God, and she melted like a pat of butter on a pile of hot potatoes. I let out a dreamy sigh in response to his Iz before responding with You, too, Boss .
···
“I still don’t understand why it’s ten o’clock there, and the plastic is still on,” Blake said. “What are you waiting for—are you a night owl?”
I was definitely not a night owl, and I was getting very sleepy on his big, comfy couch with his cats snuggled in a pile against me, but I just hadn’t been able to bring myself to unwrap his new bed yet. It just seemed…obtrusive. He should be the one to pull off that protective plastic, not me. “No, but I’m far too comfy on this sofa to get up. And these guys might revolt if I do.”
“Traitorous little shits.” He made a face at me—we’d been FaceTiming for exactly one hour and forty-two minutes—and leaned his head back on the headboard. “It has to be hot as hell in there if you’re still running the fireplace and the boys are on you.”
“Nah—I’ve got the patio slider open,” I said, wishing our call wouldn’t have to end soon. Because in addition to the fact that he was pretty much my favorite person in the world to talk to right now, I was kind of enjoying the view.
Yes, he was handsome; the man had a face that inspired erotic letters to the editor. It was late, and the only other person in the office was the ultrahot billionaire CEO. But I found myself marginally obsessed with the fact that when put-together VP Blake wasn’t working, he was kind of a mess. His hair was always tousled, like he’d forgotten it existed once he removed his tie, and the man seemed to live in faded T-shirts and hoodies.
It was such a contradiction, like beefy Superman being a nerdy reporter, that I felt kind of lucky that I got to see the laid-back side of him.
I suspected not many people did.
Or maybe I just hoped that not many people did.
He narrowed his eyes and said, “You’re seriously opening the windows and running the heat at the same time?”
“I just love the sound of the city, but hate being cold,” I said, shrugging and looking over at the windows. There was something about the lights and the downtown sounds that made me never want to go home.
Well, that and the fact that his apartment was straight-up ridiculous.
For starters, he had an obscenely huge bathtub, as well as a shower that was the size of my entire bathroom. As if that weren’t enough, there were built-in Bluetooth stereo speakers wired throughout the place, so I could turn on my favorite playlist and have it stream across every single square foot of that dreamboat apartment.
Monstrously large TV, world’s cutest cats, a massive kitchen; why would I ever want to leave? Instead of vacating when Blake returned, I might just barricade myself inside of sexy number 964. Surely I could get in an extra twelve to fourteen hours of luxuriating before the SWAT team finally kicked down that beautiful door and pulled my ass out.
“It’s genius, if you think about it,” I said, snuggling under the blanket as the autumn breeze blew through the apartment. “By the way, I forgot to tell you—your brother and his wife were here when I got home from work.”
I’d been fumbling for the keys in the hallway when the door swung open. I’d nearly jumped out of my skin, but Jason and Kylie were so warm and friendly that we’d ended up chatting in the hall for like thirty minutes.
Which was weird, because I usually didn’t know how to talk to strangers.
But they were just so real.
I was a little envious of how close they all seemed. I pretty much only talked to Alex a few times a year, and even then, it didn’t feel like we really knew each other as anything more than acquaintances.
Blake and his brothers, though, seemed to know every single thing about each other.
“They were?” He looked surprised. “I’m so sorry, Iz. Sometimes they swing by to use the building’s indoor pool, but usually they let me know first.”
“No, no,” I said, regretting saying anything because he looked so apologetic. “It was no big deal at all. Apparently you’ve been holding one of Jason’s trophies hostage, and he wanted to grab it while you were gone.”
“Fucking loser,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. “It’s not his. It’s the traveling fantasy football trophy that I won last year, but he still can’t accept it.”
“According to him, there was a little controversy with the finish.”
“He’s a sore loser—that’s the only controversy.”
He started telling me about the trade dispute, but I could see he was tired. Whatever he was working on in Boston was confidential—he wasn’t able to share anything with me—and important, so I knew I should probably let him go so he could sleep.
“Listen, I’m going to go flood your bathroom by overfilling that decadent tub, so I have to go. Are you planning on text bombing me all day tomorrow, too, or was today just a onetime annoying event?”
Please say yes. We’d spent the entire day in a meaningless text thread of sarcasm and meme besting, and it had been amazing.
He sat up in the bed and leaned closer to the phone so his face filled the entire screen, and said, “If I stop now, you might get the wrong idea and think I’m being nice to you. And we can’t have that, can we?”
I tried to play it cool but failed miserably. I was beaming into the phone when I said, “God, no, that would be the worst .”