Chapter 8
Tracy
Idrum my fingernails against the dashboard as I watch Blake and the surveyor have a nice little chit chat without me.
It’s taking everything in me not to storm out of the truck and join in their conversation, but I’m kind of afraid Blake actually would leave me stranded out here, so I refrain.
Ten minutes later, he returns to the truck and starts heading down the road again.
“So, that’s it? We’re leaving already?” I ask. He did not drag me all the way out here so I could watch him have a conversation with the surveyor from inside his truck.
“No,” he replies, and I notice the way his jaw clenches, like he’s annoyed with all my questions. “We’re going to check out the shoreline. That was the main reason I came out here.”
“What did you talk to the surveyor about, then?”
He glances over at me before turning off the paved road, onto a narrow dirt trail, and opening both our windows. “Asked him how the wife and kids were.”
“Seriously? That’s it?” Huh, he can be civil. Who would have thought?
The truck starts to jostle as the trail gets rougher, and I pull my hair back into a low ponytail to keep it from swinging in front of my face. It’s not long before we’re bouncing over large holes and branches, the trail now barely a path.
“That’s it,” he says. “Ethan knows what he’s doing. I don’t need to babysit him while he works.”
“Then why did you bring me with if you’re just going on a little off-roading adventure?” This is starting to feel like a waste of time. Although his casual clothes make a lot more sense now.
“To show you that real estate isn’t just unlocking doors.” He shifts the truck into four-wheel drive as the path slowly disappears and the ground becomes muddier. He leans out of his window, maneuvering around a log.
We go over a particularly rough bump, and I grab the handle above my head to hold me steady. “You do a lot of these kinds of adventures as a realtor?”
Blake focuses on the terrain ahead, picking out his driving line carefully as he says, “The first house I ever showed to a client had a sewage back up in the yard, and we didn’t realize it until we’d started walking through it because the grass was so tall.”
“Gross.”
“You have no idea. I had to throw away that pair of shoes.” We hit another bump, and I brace a hand against the dash.
Blake seems unphased though as he continues, “I had another house I showed—a two-million dollar, brand new build—and the pipes under the second-floor bathroom broke. By the time I got there to show it, it had been leaking for weeks, the ceiling caving in in some spots. And the fucking builder put the main water shut off in the crawl space, so I was under the damn house in my suit turning the water off.”
“Okay, I get it. Expect the unexpected and maybe keep an extra set of clothes in my car,” I tell him, though I’m a little nervous that I don’t have a second set of clothes right now, and my brand new heels are about to be the price of this little lesson.
“But that still doesn’t explain why you brought me here.
” It’s not like I’m going to be out scouting land to build on. At least, I don’t think so.
“Maybe I just like your company,” he says flatly.
“Oh, ha ha,” I sass back.
He pulls over, turning off the truck. “Or maybe this is payback for the pain in the ass you’ve been already.”
“There it is.” I grin at him. “Finally, a bit of honesty.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “Does nothing rattle you?”
“Yes, some things do,” I admit. “I just refuse to let it show.”
“Well, I hope you keep that up. Let’s go.” He reaches into the back seat, pulls out some kind of big rubber boots that he slides over his sneakers, then gets out of the truck. I hear the immediate squish of his shoes landing in mud.
He has to be out of his damn mind if he thinks I’m getting out of this truck in Louboutin pumps and a white jumpsuit.
Pushing my door open just enough to stand on the running board, I yell after him, “Do you really expect me to get out of this truck in heels?”
He comes to my door, pulling it open wide, and almost pulling me into the mud in the process. “What’s the matter, Tracy? Feeling rattled?” He cocks a brow at me.
If I were a dog, I’d be growling at him right now. Heck, I’d probably even bite him right on the ass, so I could show him what a real pain in the ass is.
Instead, I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and step down into that damn mud. If he’s trying to get me to quit, to make me crack, he’s going to have to try harder.
My heels sink all the way in immediately and I lose my balance, tumbling forward and right toward a big muddy puddle. But before I can land face first in the mess in front of me, hands are grabbing my waist and preventing me from falling.
Blake hauls me back into his chest, and I try to ignore the feel of it at my back, the weight of his arm clamped around my waist, the roughness of his hand gripping my upper arm.
I take just a second to lean back into him, to regain my balance and pull my feet out of my sunken heels, and then I whirl on him.
Before I can give him a piece of my mind for this little excursion, he says, “Jesus, Tracy, I didn’t think you’d actually get out of the truck.” He rubs the back of his neck, his face apologetic.
The fire I had on the tip of my tongue to spit at him dies at the sight of that face. He looks down at my sunken shoes, and I glance down to find the bottom of my white jumpsuit soaked with muddy water. The brown icing on the cake of this shitty day.
Ignoring the tears swimming in my eyes for my poor shoes, I reach down and tug my now ruined Louboutin’s from the mud. I know they’re just shoes, but I saved years for them and only splurged because I passed my exam. Now that’s just money down the drain.
“Fuck.” He grabs my shoes from me and tosses them into the bed of his truck. “Don’t move.”
I’m about to protest, but when I go to lift my foot, it gets sucked right back down by the mud. “I don’t think I can.”
He looks at my feet and watches as they proceed to sink deeper into the mud the more I wiggle. “Just hold on a second.” He rushes to the tailgate and opens it.
But by this point, I’m starting to get worried because my feet are buried up to my ankles. My heart starts hammering and every nightmare I had as a child about quicksand pulling me under comes rushing to the forefront of my mind.
“Blake!” I shriek as he comes back over to me. “I can’t get out!” I tug up on my foot, only for it to sink in further when I set it back down. “Is this quicksand?”
He laughs, and it does nothing but piss me off. My new, expensive heels are ruined. My jumpsuit is ruined. And now I’m about to die via quicksand.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” I hiss. “This is your fault.”
“I didn’t push you into the mud, sweetheart. That was all you and your damn pigheadedness.”
“Oh, so now this is a lesson on being stubborn?” I snap.
I am so over this. Over him. Screw this guy. I’ll train with someone else. Someone who won’t take me off-roading and ruin thousand dollar heels.
“No,” he says. “But now I know what will rattle you.”
“Yes, you. You asshole.” I grab on to the open truck door and try to use it to help pry my feet free.
“You’re stubborn to a fault,” he says quietly. “And only someone equally stubborn will rattle you.”
“And apparently I’ve met my match in you.” Yanking hard and using the door to stabilize myself, I get my left foot out. Except, when I set it down, my right foot just sinks further.
“On the contrary,” he says, walking closer in his stupid rubber boots that don’t sink. “It appears I’ve met my match in you.”
He swoops down, picking me up under my knees and shoulders and somehow freeing me from the quicksand-like mud that was trying to devour me.
“Put me down.” I squirm in his arms. He carries me like I weigh nothing, his chest firm and solid against me, and I try my best not to notice that because I’m supposedly over him.
He ignores me and carries me to the rear of the truck, finally setting me down on the open tailgate. He disappears to go rummage in the back seat for a moment, then comes back with three bottles of water.
Without a word, he crouches before me and opens one of the bottles, pouring it over my foot and washing away the mud.
His fingers rub against my skin, working off any lingering flakes of dirt and debris, his calloused hands somehow gentle and soothing the entire time.
I almost moan when he puts a little pressure into the side of my foot and runs his thumb along the length.
My feet are so sore from my heels, his hands feel like heaven right now.
Once he finishes with my left foot, he does the other, repeating the process. I swear he drags it out longer than necessary, running his thumb along the sore arch of my foot over and over again.
Closing my eyes, I lean back on my elbows, relishing the feel of his thumbs. It’s almost sensual the way he drags them along my foot, and this is starting to feel a lot more like a foot massage than simply cleaning the mud off my feet.
Not that I’m complaining. But when I finally open my eyes to take a peek at him, I’m met with the sight of his head right between my legs from this vantage point. My stomach flips, and our eyes connect briefly before we both awkwardly glance away.
I quickly sit back up. The last thing I need to think about is his head between my legs.
But if his hands can work my feet so well, I wonder what his mouth could do…
“Wait here,” he says, standing abruptly and thankfully interrupting the fantasy I should not be having. “I’ll go check out the shoreline quick, and then we can head back.”
He doesn’t even give me a chance to respond before stalking away, as though he can’t get away from me fast enough.
Which is fine by me. The sight of him between my legs should not have caused the little flutter in my stomach that it did. He’s my boss—my mentor and superior—and the one person I should not get involved with personally.