Chapter 11 Blake
BLAKE
It’s nearly eleven when Cal pulls into the driveway after his shift at the bar. I’d been tempted to go and check the place out—maybe keep him company—but I quickly doused that thought.
We live together.
Cal would probably need space not more time.
“Hey,” he says, his voice weary as he pushes open then closes the door behind him. “Do you— Is that blanket new?”
The question is said with narrowed eyes as his gaze scans over the blanket in my lap.
I picked it up today while I was out. Seriously, every couch should come with an oversized blanket.
Looking down at the Aztec pattern in brown, teal, and cream, I shrug.
It’s not overly bright and matches the room well enough.
And I like it.
Dropping my paperback into my lap, I prop my arm on the back of the couch and stare at him. “It is.”
“Why? Is that a gift? We talked about gifts and—”
“It’s not a gift; it’s a mutually beneficial, and practical, living room item.”
He scowls and then drags his hands down his face. “Sorry. I’m just…” He stops and looks away. “Do you want to go for a drive?”
“Okay.” My response is quiet, not wanting to disturb whatever he’s working through in his mind. Unfolding myself from the couch, I fold the blanket and smirk as the corner of his eye twitches when I drape it over the back.
But it only lasts a second before he’s taking me in.
Am I underdressed?
I look down, remembering I’d traded out my usual attire for athletic shorts and a crew neck sweatshirt.
“Is this okay?” I ask, motioning down my body, my dick taking notice as Cal’s dark blue eyes heat as they rake over me.
“You’re perfect.”
I think he meant to say it’s perfect but he doesn’t correct himself and neither do I. Not wanting to break the spell, I swallow hard and move across the room, slipping my sneakers on before grabbing my wallet and phone from the counter.
“Do you need anything?”
Cal stares at me so long I think I might break. I want to yell fuck it and pull him into my arms and kiss the hell out of him.
Make him admit he wants this as badly as I do.
Make him beg and so much more.
“No.”
He turns on his heels and twists the doorknob, his body tense as he walks outside again. Locking the door behind us, I follow him to the car and climb into the passenger seat.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it’s not a pristine tan interior with the faint smell of vanilla permeating the air.
It doesn’t seem like the time for questions, so I stay silent as the car purrs to life, the radio set to some alternative rock station as Cal backs out of the driveway. We drive like that for a while, one hand resting in his lap and the other on the wheel as he relaxes into the seat.
I have no idea where we’re going and I’m not sure he does either, and for the first time I realize that’s fine with me. So much of my time is scheduled—even my free time has to be penciled into my calendar.
Ellison used to make fun of me for it but it’s the only way I can survive.
I’m not naturally outgoing, and more times than not I think people have an angle, making it impossible for me to just be in the moment.
But Blackstone Falls isn’t like that.
Cal isn’t like that.
“There’s a diner I found that’s open twenty-four hours,” he says, glancing at me then back at the road. “I thought we could grab something to go and then I can show you one of my favorite spots.”
“That sounds great.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah.” I chuckle, intertwining my fingers and resting them in my lap. “I was just thinking how I’d never do this on my own.”
“Do what?”
“Leave the house at eleven at night to go somewhere.”
“There’s no nightlife in Savannah?”
“There is; I just hate it.”
Cal laughs softly, the sound masculine and throaty and fuck do I like that.
“I don’t like traditional nightlife—clubs and bars or whatever—but I love this.
There’s a lot of places where it feels like you can just be swallowed up by the night sky, the stars and constellations making a perfectly painted canvas. ”
It might very well be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.
Cal experienced an incredible loss, but he still manages to find so much beauty in the world. It’s remarkable.
Admirable.
But I’m not sure I’m allowed to say that.
“I love the way you see things,” comes out instead, and I hold my breath as I wait for him to respond. “It’s a compliment,” I tell him when he doesn’t.
“Sorry,” he says wryly, “I don’t take compliments well.”
“Most people don’t.”
“Do you?” I open my mouth and then close it, turning my head to look out the window. “You probably do because you get them all the time.”
The statement isn’t exactly accusatory, but it’s uncomfortable and makes me feel like I should have just lied and picked one way or the other instead of letting him fill in the blanks.
“How did you find this diner?”
“Blake. I didn’t mean—”
“What?”
“Your knuckles are white,” he says pointedly and he’s right. It’s a nervous habit and I clear my throat and unclench my hands, flexing my fingers until the blood flow returns. “You’re a great cook. And you’re incredibly observant and thoughtful.”
“I’m not fishing for compliments, Cal,” I respond, a little gruffer than I mean to.
“I know, but I think I should have said something sooner.”
“You don’t have to say anything at all,” I tell him as we pull into the parking lot of a very retro diner. It looks out of place with its shiny silver and red exterior in the middle of this darkened stretch in Tennessee, but maybe that’s the point.
A beacon in the night for the lost souls traveling this road.
“Stop that,” Cal snaps as he throws the car in park, his eyebrows drawn together. He looks pissed but I have no clue why.
“What?”
“Doing”—he motions toward me with a dramatic flair—“whatever that is.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I don’t just mean right now but in general, and the realization makes me so damn tired.
“You’re fucking great, okay? Stop acting like you’re not.” The exclamation is so unexpected I’m stunned for a second before I bark out a laugh. His lips twist up in annoyance, and because I can’t stop myself, I reach over and cup his cheek, bringing his face to mine.
“Don’t overthink this,” I murmur against his lips as I kiss him. It’s supposed to be a quick acknowledgment of thanks.
Appreciation.
But then he tilts his head, his tongue tracing across the seam of my lips until they open. He kisses me the same way he talks about the sky.
Sensual.
Romantic.
It’s a slow kind of seduction, like an evocative piece of music, and all I want is more.
“Fuck,” Cal pants, “why are you so good at that?”
“That was all you.”
He chuckles and I grin, the moment lighter and easier to manage as he pulls back to meet my gaze.
“Now you’re definitely fishing.”
“Cal?”
“Hmm?”
“Get inside before I kiss you again.”