Chapter 36 Blake
The crystal shop door chimed behind us, sunlight spilling across the pavement like someone had turned the world warm just for us. Dane carried the small paper bag with the smoky quartz inside—his fingers curled around the handle like it was something precious, something fragile, something mine.
We barely made it three steps before my phone buzzed again.
Dane’s jaw flexed. He didn’t say a word, but the air around him thickened—protective, possessive, aware.
“Penn,” he murmured.
“It’s fine,” I lied.
But the screen lit before I could turn it away.
Blake:
What the fuck are you doing? Answer me. You think you can run around town with some guy and I won’t find out? You’re still mine.
His words hit like claws.
Dane held out his hand, not grabbing, not demanding, just offering.
For a moment, I didn’t breathe.
Then I placed my phone in his palm.
He didn’t open it. He didn’t read it. He didn’t even hesitate.
He simply set the phone face down on the nearest table outside the café we’d wandered past…And then his hand came up—slow, deliberate—and his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth.
His knuckles traced my cheek. His eyes held mine like they were something he’d been starving for.
“Penn,” he said, voice rough silk. “You don’t belong to anyone who makes you smaller.”
The wind carried the warmth of coffee beans, sea salt, and the faint sweetness of someone’s pastry drifting past. The whole street blurred into nothing but him.
And then he stepped closer.
Close enough that the heat of him soaked into my skin.
Close enough that I could feel every unspoken word vibrating in his chest.
“You’re allowed to be happy,” he whispered. “With me. Without me. Anywhere. With anyone you choose.”
My heart stuttered. Because he meant it.
Because it wasn’t a claim. It was freedom disguised as desire.
Before I could speak, Peter pulled the sedan to the curb and opened the door like he already knew we needed a soft exit.
Dane guided me inside with a gentle touch at the small of my back.
My phone stayed on the table.
Peter retrieved it silently and handed it to Dane through the window. Dane didn’t even look at the screen, he just tucked it into his pocket, like he’d take the hits for me if he had to.
The door shut. The engine hummed. Heat pooled between us, all thigh-brushes and breathless tension.
Our hands kept grazing, little accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all. My pinky brushed his knuckle, his thumb skimmed the side of my palm, and every time, a spark zipped through me. Tiny. Electric. Addictive.
Then finally—finally—his fingers found mine.
Not fully intertwining. Not yet. Just the tips. Grazing. Testing. Like he was touching a memory and didn’t trust it to stay. I didn’t pull away.
He spoiled me after that—quietly, effortlessly, in ways that felt like he’d memorized every dream I’d buried.
And the rest of the day unfolded like honey dripping slowly.
Sunlight filtered through the car windows, dust motes swirling like tiny galaxies around us. Dane watched them, watched me watching them, and smirked like the whole universe was conspiring with him.
We wandered through old bookshops where cracked leather spines leaned tiredly against each other and the air smelled like forgotten decades. Dust drifted in lazy spirals as sunlight cut across aisles, the warmth catching the edges of my hair.
Dane watched me like he was storing the moment in his bloodstream.
His smile wasn’t the cocky, sharp one he gave the world. It was soft. Barely there. Almost shy.
And every time I lifted a book, his gaze went to my fingers, slow, thoughtful, like he wanted to kiss the ink off my skin.
We moved to antique stores, record shops, places filled with velvet chairs and ancient typewriters. My dream publishing house, alive in broken pieces of other eras.
We drove to office spaces “for fun,” or at least that’s what he pretended.
Tall windows. Exposed brick. Quiet corners begging for books and manuscripts. He saw the way my eyes lingered on a vintage publisher’s desk with brass handles, and whispered, “This suits you.”
Like he already pictured me there. Like he’d place the whole damn world at my feet if I asked.
Lunch on the waterfront tasted like laughter and something dangerously close to hope. He stole fries from my plate. I pretended to glare. He pretended not to like the way I looked at him when I did it.
Record shops. Random Street markets with hand-pressed flowers in tiny frames.
My fingers brushed his. His brushed back. A slow, deliberate choreography of almosts.
Then, in a quiet moment while I was comparing vinyl sleeves, he pulled Peter aside.
His voice low.
Serious.
Planning.
When I re-joined them, Dane looked…different.
Determined.
Resolute.
Soft in the way dangerous men can be soft only once.
“You ready for the next surprise?” he asked.
“I don’t even know what the last one was.”
He grinned. “Good.”
By late afternoon, Peter turned down the road that curved toward the marina, the car rolling slowly as if even it understood the day was shifting into something sacred.
The world outside the tinted windows was gold.
Not yellow. Not bright. Gold, the kind that softens everything it touches. The kind that looks like a blessing laid over the sea.
Sunlight poured across the water in broad strokes, shimmering like liquid metal.
The breeze lifted strands of my hair from my cheeks.
Even through the closed windows, I could smell it salt, seaweed, damp ropes baking in the last heat of the day.
The scent triggered something in me, a memory I couldn’t place, a childhood feeling of standing barefoot on wet sand with my mother’s hand in mine, the waves kissing over my toes.
It made my throat tight.
And then I saw the yacht.
Long, sleek, white the kind of white that doesn’t exist in nature, only in dreams or expensive catalogues.
It rocked gently against the pier, the hull glinting like polished bone.
Lanterns had been strung along the railings, their soft amber glow already flickering in the thickening dusk.
Blankets, heavy, warm ones, were folded neatly in a basket.
Cushions waited on the deck lounge. Someone had arranged wine glasses and a small stack of plates wrapped in linen napkins.
It wasn’t just beautiful. It felt intentional. Like someone crafted this moment one heartbeat at a time.
The smell hit me before my feet even touched the wooden planks of the pier, salt, teak, warm metal cooling in the evening air, the faint sweetness of whatever dinner Peter had arranged. My tongue tasted the wind: cold, sharp, alive.
Something inside me went quiet.
Not empty. Just…still. Like the ocean had reached inside my chest, pressed a cool palm against my ribs, and whispered, breathe.
It smoothed the jagged edges Blake had carved into me. Softened the panic that lived beneath my skin. All of it. For one terrifying, peaceful second, I felt okay.
The skipper spotted us and nodded toward Dane with a grin he tried to hide. They knew each other. The kind of knowing that comes from more than business. Shared years, maybe. Shared secrets. That should’ve meant something to me, should’ve made me connect dots I’d never dared trace.
Maybe it did. Maybe I just wasn’t ready to see the picture.
Peter opened my door, and I stepped out onto the pier. The wood was warm from the day, the grooves worn, the air filled with the distant clang of metal rings tapping against dock posts. Somewhere a gull called, the sound echoing out over the waves.
Dane came around to my side, his hand hovering near my waist, not touching, not assuming, but ready. Always ready. The gesture made my heart twist in a way that felt both too much and exactly what I’d been starving for.
We stepped onto the yacht together.
The moment my foot crossed onto the deck, the world shifted.
The hum of the marina faded. The city noise dulled. Even the wind seemed to hush.
The yacht rocked gently beneath me, the sway slipping beneath my skin, making my body mimic the ocean without thinking. The lanterns flickered, the light brushing across my arms, giving my skin a soft, warm glow.
The wind caught my hair immediately playful, greedy, lifting it from my neck, brushing it across my lips. Cool salt spray kissed my jaw, little droplets sticking like glitter.
My heart softened.
Physically.
Literally.
Like it melted inside my chest and spilled warmth into places that had been frozen for months.
I blinked hard because beauty that pure always hurt a little.
And when I lifted my head, Dane was watching me.
Not casually.
Not politely.
Watching me like he was imprinting me into memory. Like he didn’t want to miss a single reaction, a single breath, a single flutter in my expression.
His eyes dragged slowly over my face, the kind of slow that feels like being touched without any skin meeting skin. His mouth parted a little, like he was about to say something, but got caught on the sight of me instead.
A breeze stirred between us, carrying the smell of the ocean and something else, the faint, clean scent of his cologne, mixed with warmth and something uniquely him.
The evening light hit his profile, carving shadows beneath his jaw, catching the edge of his lashes, turning his eyes into molten dark honey.
For a second, I wondered if he even remembered to breathe.
I hoped he didn’t.
Because I sure as hell forgot.