Chapter Twenty-Two
Izzy
“Yeah, baby, right there,” I moaned.
“Shut up,” he grunted through gritted teeth.
“But, honey, the way your shirt is riding up so I can see your lower back is just working for me,” I said, really doing my best to sound disgusting. “I know I told you I’d stop, but it’s impossible for me to keep from losing my shit when you’re tossing all of this car repair porn in my face.”
“Has anyone ever told you,” Blake panted, obviously struggling to do something to the new alternator he was installing in my vehicle, “that you’re an obnoxious pain in the ass?”
“Oh, tons of people. All the time. But don’t change the subject.”
He laughed but kept working. “What exactly is the subject? Your idiocy?”
“How aesthetically pleasing this whole video chat is.” I looked at the FaceTime display and saw we’d been talking for almost two hours—basically the entire time he’d been working on my car.
It’d felt like five minutes.
I’d never in my entire life had as much fun as I had with him. It was like our brains were in sync. He always got my weird sense of humor and played with me in the most delightful way, which was probably what made our whole maybe-taking-this-to-the-next-level thing so petrifying. What if it ruined everything?
“I can’t tell you how glad I am that my work is getting you off,” he said, and my stomach dipped.
Somehow hearing him say getting you off was a turn-on.
But everything about him was a turn-on.
“Listen, I’ve got to go,” I said, clueless as to what I was going to wear to dinner. I wanted to look good, but not trying-too-hard good. “I’ve got a date tonight with a guy I met at Scooter’s, and I want plenty of time to get ready.”
“Is that right?” He looked away from my engine and directly into his phone, which he’d propped on top of his rolling toolbox. “Good-lookin’ fella?”
“You could say that,” I said, smiling like a lovesick teenager.
“Smart?” He set down his tool and wiped his hands on his thighs.
“Oh, not at all,” I teased, laughing when he gave me a shocked look. “He requested a physical challenge during Billboard Assholes, if you can believe that, and he also puts chia seeds in everything. I mean, who does that, right?”
“How the hell do you know about the chia seeds?” he asked, looking amused.
I shrugged. “When I took care of your cats, I couldn’t help but notice you had the industrial-size bag in your pantry.”
“You snooping little shit,” he said, picking up the phone so he could move it closer to his face. His eyes twinkled. “What else did you notice?”
“Okay, confession,” I said, but not feeling embarrassed at all. I never really did with him. “I did snoop, but like, quick glancing looks into drawers—I didn’t touch or rifle through anything.”
He didn’t look like he believed me. “What’s the coolest thing you found?”
I thought about that for a second before saying, “Your drawerful of glasses. I took a picture of myself in every single pair.”
“You’re the shittiest liar; you just said you didn’t touch anything.” His mouth slid into the teasing grin that I’d decided was my favorite of all his smiles. (The current top five were teasing grin, sexy smirk, sarcastic near smile, full-on sunshine, and you’re-an-idiot-but-it-amuses-me lip twitch.) He said, “And you wore my glasses, weirdo?”
“I didn’t wear them, I tried them on,” I clarified. “And who has eight pairs of glasses? I think you might be a sociopath.”
“I wear glasses every day, even if I wear contacts for a few hours, so eight pairs for three hundred and sixty-five days seems minimal to me.” He tilted his head and said, “If you ask me, the person with only one pair is the nutjob.”
“No need for name-calling, and no one asked you.”
“So what’s the least cool thing you found, then?”
“Aside from the buttload of chia?”
“How much chia constitutes a buttload, Shay?”
“Count the ones in your pantry and that’s the answer, Phillips.”
“Least cool thing. Go.”
“Okay, the thing I found troubling in your apartment was the geriatric sex book.”
He coughed out, “Excuse me?”
I grinned at his horror. “There’s a book in your hall closet that looks like it came out in the 1950s, and it’s called Delicious Sex . I mean, I’m all for honing your craft and reading all the resources, but I don’t think—”
“Holy shit—was it on the bottom of the closet, in that stack of books on the floor?” he asked, pressing his fingers to his temples.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, God. Those books belong to my grandparents.” He squinted at me, looking queasy. “There’s seriously a sex book in that stack?”
I started laughing. I’d been about to accuse him of lying, but he looked far too disgusted for me not to believe him. I said, “Not just a book about sex, but a book about delicious se—”
“Stop it.” He shook his head and pointed at me. “Your snooping has ruined Nana and Papa for me, you little shit.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna go now,” I said around a laugh. “See you at six?”
His mock rage slid into a soft smile. “See you at six.”
···
Blake: I can see you peeking through the blinds.
I smiled as I watched him walk up to the stoop, looking down at his phone. Stepping away from the window, I texted back: I was watching two squirrels get married, egomaniac .
Blake: Sure you were. Open the goddamn door.
I took a deep breath, ridiculously nervous. Just hours earlier, I’d been nervous to see him because I’d been embarrassed about kissing him. Now I was nervous because we were going on an actual date and would likely be doing even more kissing by the end of the night. I was tied up in anticipation and excitement and terror, because something about the night felt big.
I slid the phone into the pocket of my tweed skirt (a cute new skirt that perfectly matched my white ruffly pirate shirt with an open cardigan), crossed the living room, and pulled open the front door.
Blake stood there, looking beautiful, which was nothing new. Perfectly combed hair, knee-weakening cologne, and a V-neck sweater / button-down shirt combo that showcased the hell out of that mile-wide chest and spectacular pecs; the man could serve a look.
But those things were nothing— nothing —compared to the way he was looking at me. He looked the way I felt, like he was filled with anticipation and intensity, and that was enough to make me want to faint.
Especially when he was holding a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils.
And smelling like something I wanted to bite.
“Hi,” I said, feeling breathless and incapable of words.
He smiled and held out the flowers. “Hi.”
“I love daffodils. Did you know that?” I tried remembering if I’d ever told him that as I took them from him. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t know,” he said, his voice a little quieter than usual. “But you’re welcome. My mother always said that daffodils are like two flowers in one, so, uh, that’s why I chose them, I guess.”
I nodded. “Let me just put them in water,” I said, walking away from him and trying to find calm as I headed for the kitchen. “And then we can go.”
“Sure,” he said. He cleared his throat, and then he added, “I also have some other flowers that the florist talked me into. I, ah, I don’t think they’re really a thing for a dinner date, but she was kind of bossy and insisted you’d want them so I…”
And he just trailed off.
That made me stop in the kitchen doorway. I turned around, and Blake was still standing just inside the door, holding a…wrist corsage?
“Is that for me?” I asked.
He looked embarrassed and gave a little half shrug. “Yeah, but it’s totally fine if you don’t want it. The lady—”
“Oh, I want it.” I rushed back to him and looked down at the pretty yellow and white roses. I hadn’t gone to any formal dances in high school but had always wanted a corsage. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Really?” He looked down at me with wrinkled eyebrows. “Are you messing with me?”
“No,” I said, getting a little sidetracked by the curl of his black eyelashes. “I love it.”
“Well, let me put it on, then,” he said, his eyes on mine as he lifted my wrist with his free hand and attempted to slide on the corsage. But the elastic band got hung up on my ring, and then again on my pinkie finger.
I looked down and saw the tiniest shake in his hand.
“Are you… nervous ?” I asked, unable to believe it as I looked up at his face.
“No,” he said dismissively, and immediately followed it up with, “Actually yes. Fuck.”
That made me smile through my nerves. “Me, too.”
“It just feels important,” he said, looking down and straightening the flowers on my wrist. “Tonight, that is.”
I nodded. “Weird, right?”
He returned his gaze to my face. “Very.”
“But that’s dumb,” I said, my anxiety taking over. “Because it’s not.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” I said, rubbing my lips together. “You’re just feeding me so I don’t bite your arm off, and I just happened to wear makeup and a proper bra for the occasion. No bigs.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Proper bra?”
“An undergarment,” I explained, shifting my weight to one foot as my big mouth took over. “With wires inside of it to push the ladies up and make them more appealing to the male gaze.”
He looked like he wanted to smile. “And you don’t usually, um—”
“Yeah, no.” I waved a hand and said, “I don’t have a lot to work with upstairs, so I’m all about comfort. Sports bras and bralettes are my jam.”
Shut up, you idiot! I always rambled when I was nervous, but this was perhaps my first overshare of which foundation garments were my fucking jam.
Blake cleared his throat. “I see.”
“Oh, God, did I just ruin the illusion?” Why was my mouth so vomitous all the time? I said, “Was my admission akin to a man opening a date by sharing the details of his micro-penis? Should we just call it a night now, before you have to spend money on dinner when you know you don’t want micro-peen?”
“For fuck’s sake, Iz,” he said, half smiling with a confused crease in his eyebrows.
“Oh, my God, I did!”
“I don’t give a shit about your micro-penis, okay?” He grabbed the front of my cardigan with both hands and pulled me closer, frustration and amusement shining in his brown eyes. “I spend hours every day obsessing about all of you, every little bit.”
“You do?” I said, my voice barely there.
“Yes, I fucking do,” he said around an exhale. “So you can’t talk about your underthings without making me crazy. Without making me think about your skin and your body and the way you’d look in goddamn lace.”
Dear Lord . I felt winded, instantly rendered oxygen deficient by the forceful heat behind his words.
My hands rested on his chest. “How did you manage to call my bits little, tell me I have a micro-penis, yet still make me want to give you a standing ovation?”
“I’m a hell of a good presenter.”
“I’d say so,” I said. “No wonder they sent VP Blake to Boston to finish the merger.”
“Yeah.” He got a wrinkle between his eyebrows, like he was distracted by his thoughts, and he swallowed.
“I’m ready to be fed now,” I said, and that seemed to make him forget about work.
We left the apartment, and when Blake opened the door for me, I rolled my eyes. “I appreciate the chivalrous gesture, Phillips, but I promise you that I know how to open a car door.”
That made his mouth split into the full-on sunshine. “Praise Jesus. A woman who knows to pull the handle.”
His face was right there, right above mine, and I desperately wanted him to kiss me.
“By the way,” he said, lifting a finger and tracing my eyebrow with the softest touch. “It is killing me not to kiss you, but I don’t want to mess up your pretty red lipstick.”
“Please destroy it,” I blurted out. “Unless you’re chick—”
All ten of his fingers slid into my hair, and he kissed me like it actually had been killing him. I raised my hands to his hard jaw and kissed him back with everything I had, hoping to make him feel even half of what he delivered whenever his lips met mine.
Going up on my tiptoes, I pulled his head closer, taking the lead as I attempted to consume every addictive bite of Blake that I could get. He growled into my mouth, his fingers flexing, and the heat of it all made me burn.
Kissing Blake was so much more than just kissing, and I suspected nothing would ever compare. It was teeth and tongue and lips and breath, teasing and sliding and utter oral chaos—an onslaught, and hands down the most erotic activity I’d ever participated in.
Aside from sex itself.
“Get your ass in the car,” he said, his lips barely above mine, so close that I could still feel their impression, “before we get arrested.”
“Kissing isn’t illegal,” I whispered, rubbing my lips against his.
“But what your kisses make me want to do against the side of my car is.”
Blake
“So I was thinking,” Izzy said, and I could see in my periphery that she was turning toward me in the passenger seat.
“God help me.”
“On a normal first date, the two people get to know each other slowly. But since we already know each other, maybe we should do an information speed round.”
Her mind was always whirring. It was dizzying and fascinating, all at once. I said, “Please explain.”
“Okay, so usually there are things that people want to know but cannot ask. About exes, family stuff, how many babies the other wants—off-limits topics that make you sound crazy or desperate if you ask them, right?”
“Right…?”
“So how about, at dinner, we allow all questions. Because obviously if you ask me about an ex, I know you aren’t a potentially jealous psycho. And if I ask you if you want to get married someday, you know I’m not trying to tie you to the altar and baby you up.”
“I don’t think that expression is correct.”
“But you get me, right?”
“Sure.” I pulled up to the red light and looked over at Izzy.
She looked so incredible that I’d had to force myself to stop looking at her after every sentence we exchanged. If I didn’t make a conscious effort, I might never stop staring, and I’d never want her to think Date Izzy was any better than every other version.
Because Iz was the sexiest person I’d ever met—all the time. In her messy ponytails and smudged glasses, in her skirts and heels at work; I was painfully attracted to her, no matter what.
But it had way more to do with her brain and her heart than her appearance.
She was smart and funny, warm and sweet.
Every day—hell, every conversation— exposed me to more of the inner workings of her brain, and I was constantly blown away. She had her own brand of generosity that was all about kindness and acceptance, and I was starting to wonder how I was lucky enough to even know her, much less take her out to dinner.
But tonight—holy shit. Her long hair, that lipstick, those legs in that skirt; all of it together would tempt anyone with eyeballs. But combine it with the punch of her quiet perfume and the fact that she’d gotten dressed to go out with me , and I was fucking on edge.
“Okay,” she said, leaning forward to turn up the volume on the radio. “As soon as we order, it is on.”