Chapter 13
Tracy
Blake stands at our booth in jeans and a snug, black t-shirt revealing those gorgeous, tan forearms. He must have changed after his dinner meeting.
I’ve started noticing little things about him—how he’s kind of rough around the edges—like he’s spent years doing manual labor and would rather be anywhere than a corporate office.
His forearms have thick cords of muscle, but not bulging like someone who hits the gym every day, instead honed from years of hard work.
His hands are rough and calloused. His hair, though styled when he has a meeting, is otherwise always pushed back from his forehead like an afterthought.
And while he has an air of total confidence about him, he’s noticeably more relaxed and comfortable when he’s not in a suit.
I’m guessing he probably worked for his brother’s construction company before he got into real estate. And I don’t know why, but the thought of him, all sweaty under the sun building things, is incredibly sexy.
Not that I’ve been studying him. Or thinking of him being sweaty.
“How’d the meeting go?” Whitney asks, barely able to hide the smirk on her face as she looks at me but directs her question at her brother.
The little witch knew he was coming.
I glare back at her. Apparently, both Frenshaw siblings are out to make my life miserable.
“Fine. They committed to the rezoning,” Blake says, then slides into the booth on my side.
I scoot over toward the wall. When his leg presses against mine, I scoot some more, only for him to follow.
What is he doing?
And of course, Whitney watches the scuffle with a glint to her eye.
Ignoring the heat of his jeans pressed against my bare thigh, I ask him, “So, being nice to them worked, didn’t it?”
Connor comes by with our two tequila shots, and Blake nods, grabbing one and raising it in my direction as he says, “To Tracy. How I ever made a deal happen prior to her brilliance is a mystery.”
He takes the shot.
Whitney takes the other.
I fume. Asshole.
But I don’t let my irritation show, instead saying, “You don’t have to be bitter about it. I know it must be hard for you to have little old me giving you advice, but it’s clear I’m the best decision you could have made for your business. One week in and look at the impact I’ve already made.”
Blake shifts in his seat to look at me, dumbfounded that I’m actually trying to take credit for getting the zoning changed. Whitney leans forward against the table, eyes eagerly darting between the two of us like she’s watching the finals at Wimbledon.
Before Blake can come up with some smart remark, Connor is back at our booth. “For you, ma’am.” He slides a shot in front of me. “From the guy at the end of the bar.” He tilts his head toward the long side of the bar.
I lean forward to peer around Blake and make eye contact with an attractive dirty blonde. He grins at me and raises his glass, so I flash him a smile and a wink before throwing back the shot. It’s something fruity and sweet and goes down smooth.
So much for not mixing any more alcohol.
Blake’s hand lands on my upper thigh and squeezes. I have to fight not to flinch from the surprise contact as I set my shot glass down on the table. My skin tingles under his touch, sending sparks straight to my bloodstream.
His jaw is clenched, his mouth in a grim line, but he looks straight ahead at Whitney and asks, “Is there a reason you decided to invite Tracy to our favorite spot?” His possessive grip on my thigh betrays the annoyance in his voice.
Is he jealous? That someone bought me a drink? The idea sends a thrill through me, even though it shouldn’t.
“She’s the one who invited me out for drinks,” Whitney says, leaning back and shrugging.
“And you two could have gone anywhere else.” Blake’s fingertips dig into my leg.
His face is collected again, the tension in his jaw gone and instead replaced with the cool indifference he’s had all week, but his fingers are going to leave marks on my skin with the way he’s gripping me under the table.
I grab his wrist, discreetly trying to pry his hand away without tipping off Whitney. It doesn’t work, his grip only increasing before finally letting up. He doesn’t remove his hand, though.
“Oh, get over it, B,” Whitney says with a roll of her eyes. She excuses herself, heading to the bathroom and leaving Blake and me alone in our silent battle.
“Stop touching me,” I hiss as soon as she’s out of earshot. I grab onto one of his fingers, and this time successfully remove his hand from my thigh. He’s got quite impressive finger strength, though.
“Am I rattling you again, sweetheart?” he asks, turning in his seat so his body is angled toward me.
“Please,” I intone, crossing my legs. “Like I said before, I can’t be rattled by something that hasn’t proven itself.”
He leans forward, his body moving close enough to mine that I can feel the heat radiating off him. His lips ghost the shell of my ear as he murmurs, “I thought of you, you know.”
I lean back, eyes wide. “Wh-what?”
“In the shower.” His hand comes up, grabbing my throat and pulling me back toward him. His lips hover over my neck as he says, “I couldn’t help myself, thinking about how much I’d like to get you dirty again.”
My pulse hammers, and butterflies erupt in my stomach. His masculine scent and the feel of his calloused hand wrapped around my throat have my head turning fuzzy.
“Would you let me, Trace?” He softly presses his lips to my neck, right above where his thumb rests. “Would you let me turn you into a filthy girl just so I could clean you up again?”
A small, involuntary moan escapes my mouth and he lets me go, breaking all contact and scooting away from me to the edge of the booth seat.
“Just like I thought.” He smirks at me. “Rattled.”
My cheeks heat, and the butterflies I had seconds ago vanish, instead replaced with anger that I let him get to me again.
The liquid courage must be starting to creep up, because I glare at him and seriously consider swinging my clutch at the side of his face. Or taking this salt shaker and pouring it into his eyeballs.
Whoa. You might be mad, Tracy, but you are not a psychopath.
No salt, then. But the clutch is still an option.
Who the hell does he think he is toying with me like that to begin with? It’s completely unprofessional. And why the hell do I keep letting him get to me? It’s completely humiliating.
“Do you guys want another beer?” Whitney asks, sliding back into her seat and interrupting our new silent battle. She looks between the two of us, no doubt taking in Blake’s shit-eating grin and my pissed off expression, then asks, “What did I miss?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I say, pulling the hair tie from my hair and letting the waves fall around my shoulders again. I tousle them, adding, “I was just telling Blake here how his mere presence makes me need a drink.”
Whitney snorts, and Blake—damn him—somehow smirks even more.
Fine. If he wants to play games tonight, we’ll play.
Grabbing the empty shot glass in front of me, I get the attention of the guy at the bar who bought it for me. I point to the empty glass and pout.
Not missing a beat, the dirty blonde grins and calls for the bartender, ordering me another. A minute later, Connor is back and sliding another shot in my direction.
“Dustin says if you want another, you have to come ask him for it in person next time,” Connor says as he grabs our empty glasses.
“Tell him I definitely will.” I pick up the shot glass, this time puckering my lips and throwing Dustin a kiss before tossing it back.
The sweet drink goes down smooth, and I know this is a dangerous game I’m playing—both with the easy to down shots Dustin is feeding me and with Blake.
I can feel Blake watching me, and when I look his way, his jaw is tense again. I wink at him, and he continues to glower.
Whitney chuckles from across the table. “I told you that you wouldn’t have to buy any drinks tonight. If you tug your top down a bit more, I bet we could get a round for the whole table.”
“Whit—” Blake starts, his voice low.
“Do it,” she says eagerly. “Let’s see how many drinks we can rack up tonight.”
I flash her a smile, then just to piss Blake off, tug at my top and let my chest spill out a bit more. My dress already had a low, square cut, but now the hem rests just above my nipples. The push-up bra I’m wearing makes me look like one of those burlesque girls about to burst out of a corset top.
“You should probably move to the other side of the table,” I tell Blake, giving him a small shove on the shoulder. The alcohol is definitely starting to set in now and make me brave. “Don’t want the men in here thinking I’m with you or we won’t get anymore drinks.”
His little neck grab before probably didn’t help, either.
“I’m quite comfortable where I am,” he says casually, but when he looks at me, I can see the heat sparking in those green eyes. I’m not quite sure if it’s anger or lust. Maybe both?
All I do know is that he is definitely jealous.
“Then let me out so I can go to the bathroom,” I say, pushing against him again.
He gets out of the booth, and I grab my clutch and slide out, careful to avoid his gaze as I head toward the bathroom. Once inside, I take a quick peek under the stall doors to make sure I’m in here alone, then lock the door.
Time to beat Blake at his own game.
My heart pounds, my hands shaking at what I’m about to do. It’s inappropriate and so, so wrong, but if Blake thinks he can taunt me the way he just did—the way he did in his truck—he’s going to find out real quick that two can play that game.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I pull the top of my dress down until my breasts pop out.
Reaching behind me, I unhook my bra and set it aside on the bathroom counter.
Goosebumps break out across my skin as I stand in front of the mirror, my breasts on full display, and my stomach flutters with nerves.
You can do this. You locked the door. No one’s coming in.
I can’t deny my stomach is also fluttering with desire because I’m about to send Blake a scandalous picture.
This is probably foolish. He could send the photo to anyone. But something tells me he won’t, maybe because of the jealous reaction he had to another man buying me a drink.
Holding my phone in front of me and off to the side, I pose in front of the large mirror, angling my body slightly sideways and sticking out my ass.
I use my free hand to hold my boobs together, my hand strategically placed to cover my nipples but leave the rest of my breasts visible.
Then, I throw my head back, close my eyes, part my lips as if moaning, and snap a few pictures.
I don’t even look at them right away, adrenaline coursing through my body and making the phone shake in my hand.
Setting it aside and taking a few deep breaths, I quickly dress and unlock the door, so as not to call attention to myself in here.
Only once my nerves have started to settle do I swipe through the pictures.
They look good. Really good. Sexy and just revealing enough to drive any man wild. The dim lighting in the bathroom gives the photos a seductive feel to them, as well, and I have to admit, I’m pretty impressed with my spur-of-the-moment bathroom photo shoot.
Picking the best photo, I shoot a quick text to Blake.
Me
For next time you think of me in the shower
I send one more text with the picture attached, then wait.
Both immediately change to read.
Grinning to myself, I leave the bathroom and head back to our booth. When Blake finally looks up from his phone, his eyes are dark, body tense, as he stares at me with a stony expression on his face.
Stopping at our booth, I bend down and whisper in his ear, “What’s the matter, Blake? Rattled?”
I don’t wait for a response, instead giving him a wink, then heading to the bar to ask Dustin for another shot.