Chapter 6 Blake
Blake
Ipoke my head into her room, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
She’s standing in front of the window, backlit by the sun shining in.
Afternoon light pours around her, turning the edges of her into something soft and hazy, like she’s been edited with a “dream sequence” filter.
Her blonde hair falls over her shoulders like liquid gold, catching the light in strands that make my fingers itch to see what it feels like.
She’s wearing a sundress looking thing that shows every delicious curve to the best possible advantage.
The top hugs her perky tits with a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage in between, the fabric pulls just tight enough that my imagination does zero heavy lifting.
The skirt flares over her hips and thighs, flirty and soft, and I suddenly understand why men in old movies walk into rooms and drop their briefcases.
My dick stirs in my jeans like it has a mind of its own.
Cool. Great. Very helpful, buddy.
For a beat, she doesn’t look at me, just shifts her weight from one foot to the other. There’s something so unguarded about the way she’s standing there—shoulders relaxed, a tiny smile playing on her lips—that it hits me square in the chest.
She’s so picture-perfect pretty I forget what I came in here for.
“Hey,” she says, sounding almost shy, which is hilarious because I’m the one having a crisis over here.
I clear my throat, trying to drag my eyes up from the dangerous territory of her neckline. “Wow,” I manage. “You look great.”
Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she’s resisting the urge to fidget. “Yeah?” She looks down at herself, smoothing an invisible wrinkle over her stomach, then back up at me. There’s this flicker in her eyes—hope, disbelief, fear of being humored—that makes my chest tighten.
“Really good,” I say, and I make sure it comes out steady. Real. Not just something a nice guy says to his roommate on the way out the door. She’s knock-the-air-out-of-my-lungs stunning.
Darby smiles, and it’s like someone flips a switch inside the room. I do the same, unable to stop myself. If there was any doubt before, it’s gone now: I’m so far gone for this woman it’s not even funny.
“What’s up?” she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The move draws my eye to the line of her neck, to the delicate little pulse point just under her jaw, and this time I let myself go there. My brain takes detailed notes it absolutely does not need.
“Oh. Yeah.” I run my hand through my hair, trying to remember why I came in here in the first place. Right. Plan. Words. Focus, idiot. “I was thinking of leaving a little early for our date. Take my Harley, Jenny, for a ride around the bay. You up for that?”
“Is this a date?” she asks, looking down at her feet so I can’t read her expression.
“A friendly date,” I hedge. It feels like walking a tightrope. I want to be honest; to say yes, it’s a date for me, it’s always a date when it’s you. But she’s still raw from the last guy who promised her things. I’m not about to push her into something she’s not ready to name.
She looks up, her expression a combination of dread and excitement flickers across her face in equal parts, like two emotions fighting it out in real time.
I see the part that wants to say yes, to lean into this, to pretend we’re just two people with uncomplicated histories.
I also see the part that remembers her ex’s couch, his closed bedroom door, the harsh words that broke her.
“I’m a safe driver, I swear,” I add quickly. It’s easier to joke about the bike than the fact that I’m asking for more of her. “But if you’re more comfortable taking the truck, we can. Loki could come then, which I’m sure would make him happy.”
“No.” A big smile splits her face, bright and unguarded. “I’m good on a bike. No offense to Loki.”
Something in my chest loosens. “Great,” I say in relief, my smile matching hers. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.” There’s a little spark in her voice that wasn’t there a minute ago, and I want to protect it, pocket it, frame it—anything to keep it from going out.
I hold out my hand toward her. “Shall we?”
She grasps my hand in hers, and a jolt of excitement surges through me at her touch. Her palm is smaller than mine, warm, a little bit damp with nerves. My fingers close around hers before I can talk myself out of it.
Calm down, Blake.
If I get this worked up about holding her hand, what the fuck am I going to do when she’s got her arms around my waist and her legs are straddling my hips from the back of my bike?
When there’s no polite distance, no safe space, just the heat of her front pressed all along my back and the rumble of the engine beneath us?
Loki trails us, nails clicking on the floor, until he realizes we’re heading toward the outside world.
He detours to his bed with a dramatic sigh, like he can’t believe we’d dare leave him behind.
I console him with a new squeaky toy he’ll have destroyed before we reach the end of the block, then lead Darby out to the garage.
I’m hyperaware of every brush of her shoulder against my arm, every breath she takes.
“That’s a gorgeous bike,” Darby enthuses.
Jenny sits there gleaming in the filtered light, all curves and chrome, a black-and-red Harley Davidson Road Glide CVO.
I’ve had her a little over a year, and she was a splurge—one of those post-Taylor if I’m going to be alone, I’m at least going to enjoy my toys decisions.
Hearing Darby admire her does something weird to me. Like two separate parts of my life—solitary, post-breakup Blake and this new version that includes her—are colliding.
“You’re smart to compliment her at the start,” I tell Darby with a hint of a smile, reaching for the side compartment where I keep the spare helmet.
She looks at me, puzzled, head tipping slightly.
“She’s never had to share me with another woman,” I say as I unlock my helmet and hand the other one to her. “Try not to make her jealous.”