Chapter 35
LAINE
Reid's truck isn't in the driveway when I pull up, but Blake's is parked beside the house. I check my phone. Reid said he'd be home by six, and it's only five-thirty.
I sit in my car for a moment, doing the breathing exercise Jamila taught me in yoga class.
In for four, hold for four, out for four.
The past month has been easy in a way I didn't expect — most of our time at my place, where I don't have to read Blake's face for weather reports.
But Reid told me Blake's been feeling shut out, and we agreed to show up more. Be around more.
So here I am. Showing up.
I can't blame him, really. He and Reid have years of history, years of being each other's person, and then I walked in and rearranged the furniture. That's a hard thing to adjust to. I get it.
And it's not fair to either of them — me hiding out in my own apartment like it's a fortress. I want a real life with Reid. I'm building one. That's not a someday thing anymore.
Which means Blake has to be part of it. And whatever my difficulties with the guy, I would never ask Reid to choose. Those two are family. I just need to figure out how to be in the room.
I need to figure him out.
I grab the grocery bag from the passenger seat—everything I need for the pasta dish Reid loves—and head toward the house. Blake's workshop light is on in the distance, faint music carrying across the yard. Maybe he'll stay out there and I can avoid being alone with him entirely.
I've got to stop being such a chicken.
The front door's unlocked, which still surprises me sometimes.
"There's nothing to steal," is all Reid said when I asked about it.
Either way, it's handy for me. I've already got a spare key to my place cut for Reid, but I haven't actually given it to him yet.
I trust him. He wouldn't misuse it. But it's another big step in a series of already big steps, and this one can wait a little while longer.
"Hello?" I set the groceries on the kitchen counter. "Blake? It's Laine."
No answer. Just like I expected.
I could wait inside for Reid. Start prepping dinner, make myself useful. But something pulls me toward the back door, toward the workshop. I'm curious about him. I'm also kind of afraid of what happens when I show up uninvited in his space.
There's that chicken thing again.
Okay. I'm doing this. I'm not going to hide in here.
The workshop door is propped open, and Blake's bent over a workbench, focused intently on something I can't see from the doorway. He's wearing an old t-shirt with holes in it, and there's dust in his dark hair. His hands move with precise, careful movements.
"Blake?" I call out over the music.
He looks up, startled, and for just a second his face is completely unguarded. Almost soft. Then he registers that it's me, and his expression shutters.
There it is. That look. Like he's disappointed it's me instead of Reid.
God, being disliked really sucks. It's not that I'm not used to it.
In some of the hospitals I worked at, the regular staff weren't particularly warm to me.
I understood it though. Travel nurses came in, did whatever grunt work was needed, and got paid more than they did.
That didn't feel personal.
This does.
"Laine." He straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag. "Reid's not here."
"I know. He said six, but I was early." Avoiding that intense gaze of his, I step into the workshop, looking around. It's bigger than I expected, with work tables covered in tools I don't recognize and pieces of wood in various states of restoration. "I hope you don't mind me bothering you."
"It's fine." Blake reaches over and turns down the music. "He should be back soon."
But he doesn't ask me to leave, and he looks less guarded than usual. I'll take it. Anything but that sneer of his.
"Is this the Charleston mantel?" I ask, moving closer to his workbench.
Blake blinks. "How did you know about that?"
"Reid mentioned it. Said you finished the Boston one and started something new." I peer at the intricate carving he's working on—some kind of floral pattern with leaves and vines. "This is incredible."
"It's slow going. The original carving was damaged, so I'm having to recreate sections from old photographs.
" That cold guarded tone disappears. Suddenly his voice is animated, warm.
"See this leaf pattern here? It was completely missing, but I found a picture of another mantel from the same craftsman, same period. "
Oh. This is the Blake Reid talks about. The one who gets excited about history and craftsmanship. Kind of a geek. It's pretty darn attractive if I'm honest.
He reaches for a tool on the upper shelf, and his shirt rides up. I catch a glimpse of his stomach—not the lean, runner's build Reid has. Compact muscle, the kind that comes from years of physical labor rather than gym routines. A scar curves along his hip, disappearing into his waistband.
I look away quickly. Too quickly.
He's Reid's best friend. His roommate. His family.
It's just a body. I see them every day, and it's always clinical.
Except this isn't the hospital. And my face feels warm. There's a weird feeling in my stomach that has no business being there.
Stop it, Laine.
I focus on the mantel carving instead. The intricate leaves. The careful restoration work. Anything but the man standing three feet away from me.
He's leaning closer to show me the detail, and I catch that scent that's uniquely Blake—sawdust and soap. Not the artificial woodsy smell from a bottle, but actually wood and trees. Like, full lumberjack. Not that I've ever smelled a lumberjack, but I imagine it's a lot like Blake.
Focus Laine. "The attention to detail is amazing," I say, looking back at the mantel. "How long does something like this take?"
"This piece? Probably a month, start to finish.
But it's not just the time—it's the research, understanding the original techniques, finding the right materials.
" Blake's face is more open than I've ever seen it, genuine enthusiasm replacing his usual guardedness.
"Most people want to rush the process, but you can't rush craftsmanship like this. "
"That's like nursing, in a way. People think it's just about following procedures, but there's so much intuition involved. You have to read patients, so you can figure out what they need even when they can't tell you."
Blake looks at me, the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. "I never thought about it that way, but you're right. There's an art to it."
We're standing close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough to notice the small scar on his jawline. For a moment, the usual tension between us is completely gone. We're just two people talking about work we care about.
This is nice. This is what I hoped it would be like when Reid asked me to try harder with Blake. Why can't it always be like this?
"Would you..." Blake starts, then stops, shaking his head. "Never mind."
"What?"
"I was going to ask if you wanted to see the before pictures, but you probably have better things to do than look at old mantel photos."
"Are you kidding? I'd love to see them."
Blake's smile is small but genuine as he pulls a folder from a drawer. The before photos are shocking—the mantel is barely recognizable as the same piece, covered in layers of paint, with chunks of carving missing entirely.
"My God," I breathe. "How did you even know where to start?"
"Very carefully." Blake grins, and it transforms his whole face. "And a lot of educated guessing."
He shows me more pictures—the painstaking process of paint removal, the detective work of figuring out original designs, the careful reconstruction of missing elements.
His hands move expressively as he explains, and I find myself riveted by the way his fingers trace the photos, the way his voice gets softer when he talks about particularly challenging sections. Passionate Blake is…compelling.
"You've been working really hard on this," I say, looking at the progression of photos. "Reid mentioned you've been putting in long hours."
Blake's expression shifts slightly, some of the openness disappearing. "Reid talks too much."
"He was worried about you."
"Reid worries too much too." Blake's voice is carefully neutral now, and I know I'm in the danger zone.
I should back off, and talk about something safe.
Let him tell me all about his work again.
I could listen to the low grumble of his voice for hours.
Yeah. That would definitely be the smart move.
"Someone should worry about you." Shoot. There goes smart.
Blake looks at me sharply, and I realize I've definitely crossed the line. The warmth in his expression is gone, replaced by something guarded and almost... panicked?
Crap. He looks like I pulled a knife on him. This was so not the plan.
"I'm fine," he says. "I don't need anyone worrying about me."
"I know you don't need it. I just meant..." I trail off, not sure how to explain that I care what happens to him without making it sound weird.
"Meant what?"
Blake is staring at me now, and there’s an intensity mixed with the guardedness that’s so confusing.
Why is he looking at me like that? Like I'm hurting him just by standing here? He is so confusing.
"Nothing. Sorry. I didn't mean to overstep."
For a long moment, we just stand there looking at each other. A weird crackle in the air I don't understand.
Okay, that’s a lie. Just a little one. Because I do understand it.
But I have no plans to examine it. That’s not a road I have any intention of traveling.
Then Blake's jaw tightens, and he steps back abruptly.
"You should go wait inside," he says, his voice rougher now. "Reid will be home soon."
The dismissal stings, especially after the past few minutes of easy conversation. "Blake, did I say something wrong?"
"No." But he won't look at me now. "I just have work to do."