Chapter 8 #2
With that last napkin-dab, the final dregs of his limited patience drained away.
He threw his hands in the air. “I swear to Christ, Dearborn, I’ll reach down to your fucking vocal chords and rip the goddamn words—”
“As I was saying: If all that close proximity changed your mind, I wouldn’t weep,” she finally concluded. “Also, side note:
Your hand is too big to fit down my throat.”
He had to close his eyes for a moment.
No more talk about big things fitting down her throat. Jesus H. Christ.
“Even if it did fit, I wouldn’t be able to speak intelligibly around the obstruction.” Classic Dearborn. Calmly discussing
logistics while his brain and libido both exploded. “Your threat is both impractical and self-defeating, Dean.”
He didn’t trust himself to say a single word. Just sat there and ate his damn food. When she figured out he wasn’t going to
reply, Molly did the same.
The silence wasn’t weird, though. Not awkward. She clearly thought she’d won their most recent skirmish. Smiled while she
ate. And he might be lust-stricken and impatient, but the woman of his fantasies was an arm’s length away, happily downing
food he’d prepared for her and hoping her nearness would seduce him. Under the circumstances, it was hard to feel sorry for
himself. Especially when he showed her the pavlova he’d made earlier, and her pale blue eyes lit with pleasure.
Her voice was hushed when she spoke. “Holy crap, Karl.”
Hard to preen without dropping a cake stand, but he damn well managed.
“Pavlova topped with shaved plums, orange-rosemary syrup, and vanilla-bean whipped cream.” Another of Charlotte’s ideas. Kid
had a good feel for flavor and ingredient combinations. “Eat it and fucking weep, Dearborn.”
He set the footed stand in front of her.
“Only you, Dean.” She shook her head. “Only you could make the presentation of a gorgeous dessert sound menacing.”
“You’re welcome.” Grumpy at the thought of what came next, he stomped around his desk and dropped back into his chair. “Now
stop bitching and shove the pavlova down your piehole, woman. I’ll explain our plans while we eat.”
“At least my throat can actually accommodate a pavlova,” she murmured. “As opposed to your hand.”
He didn’t even recognize the sound he made at that. Something between a growl and a groan. “Are you doing this shit on purpose,
Dearborn?”
She didn’t answer. Merely gazed serenely at him while he fumed. Which was answer enough, he guessed. When she gestured toward
the knife, asking mutely if he wanted to serve the dessert, he offered her his own gesture. With both middle fingers.
“I’d be more than happy to, Karl, but you won’t let me.” She cut herself a slab of the dessert, her lips curved in that smug
smile he hated but also really fucking loved. “If we aren’t spending the day in bed, what are our plans for the afternoon? Nothing too strenuous, I hope, since I intend to eat more than my share of this pavlova. It
looks ridiculously good.”
Dearborn sparked a million different emotions in him, all at once. Always had. In this moment alone, there was pride. Frustration. Joy. Lust. Amusement.
And above all else: He felt alive. No one else on this godforsaken planet had ever made him feel more alert and electric with possibility. The sensation might agitate him, but he wouldn’t lie to himself.
It exhilarated him too.
He couldn’t get enough of it. Couldn’t get enough of her. Didn’t think he ever would. But sappy declarations would have to
wait until she trusted him. Which wouldn’t happen until he actually got this stupid damn show on the road.
Quickly, he mowed down his pavlova—perfect; Charlotte deserved a damn raise—then pushed his plate aside.
“Here’s the plan: I’m gonna blindfold you,” he announced without preamble.
She choked on her mouthful of meringue. He had to sprint around his desk to thump her back. Once she could breathe easily
again, he shoved her soda bottle in her hand and retreated.
Ears flaming hot, he muttered an apology and tried a second time. “Blindfolded trust walk outside. I’ll stand behind you.
Give you directions.”
Her brows drew together. “To where?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” The spot in the Mayor’s Mansion gardens where he’d nearly kissed her, hopefully. He’d drive
them to the historic area before blindfolding her. “Ready?”
“I don’t think I am.” Those sharp eyes narrowed on him. “Karl, where are you getting your trust-building ideas?”
“Dentist’s office.”
He’d gone back on Friday and—with the permission of the gorgon at the front desk—taken home the magazine where he’d first
read about trust falls.
She blinked at him for a moment. “You asked your dentist? Or your hygienist?”
“Hell, no.” Discussing his plaque levels was as intimate as he cared to get. “Waiting room magazine had an article about trust
building.”
“I . . . see,” she said slowly.
He shook his head, remembering the piece. “The dude who wrote the article was super into blindfolds. Blindfolded walks. Blindfolded
obstacle courses. Even blindfolded putt-putt, which sounds like an absolute nightmare.”
Her brows drew together. “What kind of magazine was it?”
“Corporations Today.” Though it should’ve been Generationally Wealthy Old White Guys in Suits and Somewhat Younger, Also White Tech Bros Pursuing Venture Capital and Placating
Shareholders at Any Cost Today instead. “Fortune 500 companies must be kinky as hell. Blindfolds up the fucking wazoo. Had no idea before I read the article.”
“So you’re using a guide to corporate trust building.” She sat back in her chair, lips pursed. “Not romantic or friend-oriented
trust building.”
“Only other guide I found was for established couples. Cosmo.” He scratched his bearded jaw. “Lots of blindfolds there too, actually.”
Fun, quick read. Although the position they’d recommended as particularly conducive for intimacy? He’d dislocate his damn hip.
He cleared his throat. “Not, uh . . . not stuff we can do yet. Didn’t have much of a choice, really. Either corporate trust
building or nothing.”
She exhaled slowly and said nothing.
“Article listed lots of large-group activities. I narrowed down the suggestions. Chose things that’d work for just the two of us.” He gestured to the table. “Already completed the first exercise without you even knowing. Eating together to build trust. Pretty slick, huh?”
Honestly, most things on the list? Weird and embarrassing—but also a breeze.
Of course he’d make sure she didn’t get hurt while blindfolded.
Of course he’d keep his word to her. Catch her, guide her, feed her, whatever.
That was the sort of task-oriented shit he excelled at.
Way easier than the more personally revealing activities on the list, which he’d ignored.
Building trust should take a week, max. He was a natural.
“Karl . . .” Leaning forward again, she set her elbows on the desk. Rubbed her face for a moment before dropping her hands.
“Lunch was amazing, and I appreciate all your . . . uh, in-depth corporate research. But here’s the thing: I already know
you won’t let me trip or fall. I’m not sure what a blindfolded trust walk would actually prove or how it would help.”
Her voice sounded incredibly tired. Also sincere.
Too bad he didn’t understand what the hell she was telling him. If she already knew he wouldn’t let her get injured on his
watch and he’d guide her safely to the finish line, wasn’t that trust?
Why were they even doing all this crap, then?
Unless . . .
Was the whole trust thing about honesty instead? Making sure he’d tell her the truth? Because if she wanted proof he couldn’t
lie for shit, the list had an exercise for that.
“Fine.” He slapped his hands on the table and stood, scanning the office for blank notepads and pens. “Two Truths and a Lie,
then. You done that before?”
“Of course. But . . .” The fingertips of one hand rubbed her temple.
“I already know you can’t lie worth a damn, Dean.
Your inability to tell a convincing falsehood is right up there with your inability to whisper.
Unless that’s changed over the years, there’s no point wasting our time to establish something I don’t even question. ”
Well, now he was completely lost. “Then what the hell do you . . .”
Aggrieved beyond words, he glowered at her and tugged roughly at his beard.
“Okay.” She laid her palms flat on the desk and met his eyes. “Here’s the thing, Karl. Making sure I’m not physically injured
isn’t enough to make me trust you. Not lying isn’t enough either. It helps, but . . .” Her huff of laughter was bitter as
pith. “My ex would keep me from falling when I lost my balance. One time, when a pan on the stove overheated and caught on
fire, he snatched my hands away before I got burned. And he never outright lied to me. That didn’t mean he was trustworthy.”
Her face was expressionless. Entirely calm.
Her eyes? Wounded and wary.
“What . . .” His hands curled into fists. “What did that bastard—”
“No.” That was all she said. All she needed to say.
He dropped it. Wasn’t going to be the asshole who forced her to discuss something she wanted to keep private. Something that
obviously hurt her.
But her reticence only proved what she’d already said. She didn’t trust him. Not fully. She’d shot down most of his trust-building
exercises, though, so how the hell was he supposed to prove himself to her?
He flopped into his office chair again. Groaned. Ripped spread fingers through his hair. Frantically racked his stupid goddamn brain.
“Hold on.” Across from him, her face brightened, and she straightened in her own chair. “I have an idea.”
The woman looked entirely too gleeful.
He eyed her suspiciously. “What?”
“I know exactly what we should do.” Slowly, she smiled at him. “It’ll show me what you’re like in a stressful situation you
didn’t plan for and can’t fully control. And you’re going to absolutely hate it.”
He groaned. He grumbled. He stomped.
But he followed her out the door anyway, because he’d follow her fucking anywhere.