Chapter 35 #2
"Okay," I say quietly, heading for the door. "I'll just..."
"Laine."
I turn back, hoping the moment of connection isn't completely lost.
"Thanks," Blake says. "For asking about the work. Most people don't... they don't really understand it."
"It's beautiful work. You should be proud of it."
Blake nods, but the walls are back up. His lips press together and he sighs. "Reid's lucky to have you."
The way he says it is final, like he's closing a door. I want to ask what I did to make him shut down so suddenly, but his body language is clear. The conversation is over.
And finally, finally, I smarten up and stop pushing. "I'll see you inside," I say.
"Yeah. See you."
Walking back to the house, I can't shake it. For a few minutes there, Blake and I were actually connecting. Talking like two people who genuinely liked each other. Then suddenly it shifted, and he couldn't get rid of me fast enough.
The same pattern, over and over. Warm one minute, distant the next. But this time it felt more personal. More desperate.
I've been hit on in a dozen countries by guys who didn't even speak my language. I know what interest looks like — the way someone keeps finding your eyes, inventing reasons to brush against you, that jittery energy radiating off them like heat from pavement.
Blake's not doing any of that. If anything, he's doing the opposite. Pulling away. Cutting conversations short. Looking at me like I'm a splinter he can't quite dig out.
It's not attraction. I thought it was, for a minute. But no, it's something else. Something I don’t understand.
So why can't I stop thinking about it?
I'm back in the kitchen, chopping onions for the sauce, when Reid's truck rumbles into the driveway. His keys hit the counter a minute later, that familiar clatter of metal on granite, and I smile before I can stop myself.
"It smells amazing in here," Reid says, wrapping his arms around me from behind and pressing a kiss to my neck.
"Just getting started." I lean back against his chest, letting myself enjoy the solid warmth of him. "How was your shift?"
"Long. Boring. Standard Tuesday." His hands settle on my hips as he peers over my shoulder at the cutting board. This position is getting so familiar, so comfortable. "You're early."
"Thought I'd get a head start on dinner." I turn in his arms, studying his face. He looks tired, but there's that easy smile I love. "I went out to the workshop. Talked to Blake for a few minutes."
"Yeah? How'd that go?"
Reid's tone is carefully casual, but the hope is right there in his eyes. He's been trying so hard to bridge whatever gap exists between Blake and me, convinced that if we just spend enough time together, everything will sort itself out.
"Good," I say, which isn't exactly a lie. "He showed me the mantel he's working on. It's incredible—the detail, the craftsmanship. I can see why his work is in demand."
Reid's whole face lights up. "He's amazing at what he does. When we first moved in together, I thought he was crazy for taking on these massive restoration projects, but seeing the finished pieces..." He shakes his head. "Pure art."
I nod. I'm thinking about the way Blake's face changed when he was explaining his process.
How his voice went quiet when he talked about the original craftsmen, like he owed them something.
For those few minutes, I got it. The person Reid keeps telling me about—passionate, talented, completely lost in his work. I saw him.
Then he shifted, and those walls slammed back up.
"Is he joining us for dinner?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
Reid glances toward the back door. "I can go check. He's been eating in the workshop a lot lately."
"Actually, let me." The words come out before I can stop them. "I'll just pop out and ask."
Reid raises an eyebrow but doesn't object. "Okay. I'll get the water going for pasta."
I walk back across the yard, rehearsing what I'll say. I’ll be casual and friendly. Just an invitation to dinner. Nothing complicated.
The workshop door is still propped open, and Blake is back at his workbench, tools scattered around the mantel piece.
"Blake?" I call from the doorway.
He looks up with a resigned, nearly eye-rolling expression. That doesn't feel good.
"Dinner's almost ready," I say. "Reid and I were hoping you'd join us."
Blake sets down his chisel and wipes his hands on the rag again. "Thanks, but I'm good."
"Come on. It's just pasta. Nothing fancy."
"Laine." His voice is gentle but firm. "I appreciate the invitation, but I'm not really feeling like being the third wheel tonight."
I hold on to the doorframe. "You wouldn't be a third wheel. We want you there." But he's right. He would be the third wheel. It's inevitable. He's always going to be on the outside, and there's nothing we can do about it.
Blake stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, I'm a grown man. I can feed myself when I'm hungry. You two don't need to worry about including me in your date nights."
"It's not a date night. It's just dinner."
"Right." Blake's smile is thin. "Just dinner with the happy couple while the roommate sits there watching you two make eyes at each other."
Heat flushes my cheeks. I feel like a jerk pushing this. But if we don't spend more time together, we can't build a better relationship. It's a catch-22, whatever that actually means. "Blake, that's not—"
"It's fine, Laine. Really." He takes a step toward me, and suddenly I'm very aware of how small the workshop feels, how close we're standing. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I just think it's better if I stay out here tonight."
He reaches out to guide me toward the door, his hand wrapping around my elbow.
The contact is brief, gentle, but it sends an electric jolt through me that I absolutely do not understand.
Blake's fingers are warm and calloused from his work, and for just a second, he hesitates, his thumb brushing against my skin.
Our eyes meet, and that charged and confusing feeling that makes my breath catch is there.
Then Blake drops his hand and steps back, his jaw tightening.
"Go have dinner with Reid," he says quietly. "I'll see you both later."
He moves to close the workshop door. Not quite pushing me out, but the message is clear enough.
And then I'm standing on the other side of it, staring at weathered wood, my elbow still warm where his hand was.
What the hell was that?
I walk back to the house on unsteady legs, my mind racing. Blake's touch, the look in his eyes, the way he'd said Reid's name—like it was a reminder to both of us.
A reminder of what?
"How'd it go?" Reid asks when I return to the kitchen.
"He really doesn't want to join us," I say, forcing my voice to sound normal. "Said he wasn't feeling like being a third wheel tonight."
Reid frowns, stirring the pasta with more force than necessary. "Damn it. I was hoping after you two talked earlier..."
"It's okay. He seemed pretty set on staying in the workshop."
But I'm rattled. Not just by Blake staying behind, but by that moment at the door. His hand on my arm and the way my skin kept humming after he pulled away. The way he looked at me like he was physically holding himself back.
Like there was something he wanted to say but couldn't.
"I'll talk to him later," Reid says, turning back to the stove. "Let him know how important it is that he joins us sometimes. We're going to be family, you know? All three of us."
Three days later, I'm back at Reid's house for dinner, watching what feels like a performance.
Blake is making an effort. A visible, almost painful effort that makes me wonder what exactly Reid said to him.
"Laine's making that pasta sauce you like," Reid tells Blake as we're setting the table.
"Great." Blake's smile seems genuine enough. "The one with the secret ingredient, right?"
"Dark chocolate," I confirm, pleased that he remembered.
"Right. The one you learned when you were a kid." Blake nods.
The words are right. The tone is right. But his eyes aren't playing along — there's something held back behind them, almost careful. His shoulders stay squared under his shirt like he's braced. He's hitting every mark, saying every right thing, and none of it lands the way it should.
Reid beams at both of us, clearly thrilled that we're getting along. How does he not see what's happening here? How is he this oblivious? "See? I knew you two would hit it off if you gave it a chance."
Dinner is more of the same. Blake asks polite questions about my work, compliments the food, laughs at Reid's stories. All the right notes, none of the music.
Then Reid launches into a story about a call last week, and I glance over at Blake.
He's not looking at Reid.
He's looking at me.
Not coldly. Not with that guarded distance I've gotten used to. Something raw. Unfinished.
Then he realizes I've caught him, and it's gone. He turns back to Reid, asks a question about the patient, and the moment evaporates.
I pick up my fork. My hand isn't quite steady.
"Hey, I forgot—I've got those photos in my truck," Reid says, pushing back from the table. "The new cardiac monitor. You've got to see this thing, Blake. Be right back."
The moment the door closes behind him, the air in the room changes.
Blake's smile doesn't disappear completely, but it shifts, turning achy.
"You don't have to try so hard," he says quietly, not looking at me.
"What do you mean?"
"This." He gestures vaguely. "The cooking, the questions about my work, the whole... domestic thing."
There's no malice in his voice. If anything, it sounds raw.
"I'm not trying. I'm just being myself." Lies. I am trying. I am putting on a bit of a show, but it's his fault. His fakeness is making me nervous.
Blake laughs, but it's not a happy sound. "Right. Yourself."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it." He starts gathering plates, and his movements quick, like the faster he goes, the faster he can get away from me. This man is terrible for my ego. "Reid will be back in a minute."
"Blake." I don't take my eyes off of him. "Did I do something wrong?"
He stops. His hands grip the edge of a plate, knuckles going white against the ceramic.
"You didn't do anything wrong." His voice is rough. "You're perfect. That's the problem."
I have absolutely no idea what to do with that. Because what do you do when someone says you're the problem and it sounds like a confession? When the words land so gently but still leave a mark?
So I don't move. And he doesn't look up. The silence between us is so heavy.
"Perfect?" I really don't like his tone.
The way he says perfect, like it's some crime.
Why am I dissecting everything he says? And why am I letting him get to me?
"I'm not perfect, Blake. I leave my dishes in the sink for days.
I'm useless before my second coffee—ask anyone I've ever worked with.
I once held a grudge against a woman in a hostel for six weeks because she borrowed my shampoo without asking. "
I step closer, irritation overriding my usual caution.
"So whatever you think you're seeing? That's not it. I'm just a person trying to figure out how to fit into your best friend's life without making everything harder. I'm just trying to know you."
Blake's jaw tightens, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"That's not what I meant," he says.
"Then what did you mean?"
He doesn't answer. We're standing too close now. His shoulders are bunched up around his ears. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
"Blake—"
The front door bangs open.
"Found them!" Reid's voice carries from the hallway. "You're not going to believe this thing—"
Blake steps back. The mask slides into place so fast it's like watching a door slam shut.
By the time Reid walks into the kitchen, Blake is at the sink rinsing dishes, shoulders relaxed, expression easy. Like nothing happened.
Like I imagined the whole thing.
But my skin feels too tight. There's a hum in my chest that won't quiet down.
And I can't stop seeing the way Blake's eyes dropped to my mouth.