Chapter 26 #2
His laugh vibrates against my neck. "Blake's cooking."
"Don't care about Blake's cooking either."
Reid's hand slides down past my waistband, fingers finding exactly where I need them. I gasp, grab his shoulders.
"That's not fair," I manage.
"What's not fair?"
"You can't just—" His fingers move, and the rest of that sentence dies somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
My head falls back against the mirror. I'm already so wound up from the tire, from Blake's hands on mine, from watching him work in the cold, from the drawer — and now Reid's touching me like he's got some kind of map to every nerve ending I own and I'm thinking about pulling him into that guest room and forgetting dinner entirely—
"HEY!" Blake's voice booms up the stairs. "I'd appreciate a little help down here!"
Reid freezes. The sound that comes out of me is half laugh, half whimper.
"Ignore him," I whisper.
"FOOD'S GETTING COLD!"
Reid's forehead drops to my shoulder. "He's not going to stop."
"I hate him."
"No you don't."
"I hate him right now."
Reid pulls his hand back slowly, and I want to scream. He kisses my forehead, my nose, my mouth — soft, apologetic, promising.
"Later?" he murmurs.
"You promise?"
"I promise."
He unlocks the door and slips out, and I'm left gripping the edge of the sink like it's the only thing keeping me upright. Which, honestly, it might be.
Later. He said later. I can survive dinner. I've waited this long. What's a few more hours?
I splash cold water on my face and look at myself in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Hair a disaster. Eyes that belong to a woman who just got thoroughly wound up and then left standing in a bathroom alone. Because that's exactly what happened.
I fix my hair, straighten my sweater, and head downstairs.
The kitchen smells incredible — garlic and herbs and something roasting. Blake's at the stove, sleeves pushed up, a towel slung over one shoulder.
Reid is standing in front of the upper cabinets. He reaches for the handle, pauses, and then yanks the door open while simultaneously leaping backward like it might explode.
Nothing happens. Just neatly stacked plates.
He lets out a heavy breath, steps forward again, and grabs three of them.
"You know," I say, leaning against the doorframe, fighting back my laughter. "If you live in fear, Margaret wins."
Reid spins around, the plates clattering slightly in his grip. "Margaret is a demon from the seventh circle of hell and you two are sociopaths for bringing her into my home."
Blake doesn't look up from the stove. "It's just a doll." I catch his grin and it makes me laugh too.
"You're in on it too, asshole. I'm not talking to you." Reid glares at Blake's back, then looks at me. "Three times, Laine. Three times in four days. The shower. The microwave. And my pillow. Who puts a haunted Victorian child under the covers like she's taking a nap?"
"She gets tired," I point out.
"She has no soul!" he shrieks, making me cackle.
Blake glances up, grinning. Those dark eyes track over my face — my still-flushed cheeks, my hastily-fixed hair — and his mouth twitches.
"You look a little warm."
I feel my cheeks get hotter. "It's warm upstairs."
"Uh-huh." He turns back to the stove, stirring something. "Warm. That why your hair's different than when you got here?"
"My hair is fine."
"It's not."
Reid makes a strangled sound into the cabinet he's reaching into.
"Blake." I try for warning, but it comes out breathless.
He sets down the spoon. Turns to face me fully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Completely at ease. That half-smile playing on his mouth like he's got all the time in the world.
"Just making an observation." His eyes drift over me, slow and deliberate. "You look like you started something and didn't get to finish."
Reid laughs out loud. He doesn't even try to hide it.
I should be embarrassed. I am embarrassed. But something else is building underneath it — something hot and reckless that's been simmering for the last few weeks. Maybe longer.
"You know what, Blake?"
He raises an eyebrow, still smirking.
I close the distance between us. Get right up in his space — close enough to smell the garlic on his hands, the wood smoke on his shirt. He goes still. The smirk falters.
"If you ever want to get the chance to mess me up a little," I say, low enough that Reid has to lean in to hear, "you'll stop teasing me right this minute."
The kitchen goes quiet.
Blake's eyes darken. The smirk dissolves into something hungrier. Something that makes the air between us feel combustible. Behind me, I hear Reid's sharp intake of breath.
Blake holds my gaze. Long. Unhurried. Then he uncrosses his arms. Reaches past me for the serving spoon. Sets it down on the counter. Slowly. Deliberately. Never breaking eye contact.
"Yes, ma'am."
Low. Dark. A rumble I feel in my sternum.
My whole body goes hot. My knees actually wobble. Reid makes a sound behind me that might be a laugh or might be something else entirely.
Blake's mouth curves — not the smirk. Something slower. Heavier. A promise he fully intends to keep.
I am in so much trouble this weekend.
I can't freaking wait.