Something presses into my chest when I wake up, confused and struggling to breathe deeply. I lift my head and realize my silly cat is curled into a ball, using me as her pillow. Between her and dreaming of all the ways today could go wrong, I didn't sleep well.
I carefully shift the fuzzball out of the way, and she immediately headbutts me for attention as I sit up. Pulling her back into my lap, I scratch her neck, making her arch her back so I can reach that area too. She purrs so loud, she sounds like a little lawn mower, stretching and extending her claws in satisfaction.
I still need to name her, but nothing comes to mind. Until I get to know her personality better, I decide to hold off. Besides, my head is pulsing with hundreds of tiny hammers, limiting my creativity to Shithead, and she's too sweet for that.
Yawning, I reach for my phone to check my notifications, and there's a text from Blake. 'Good morning sunshine. Sleep well?'
I check the time and realize he sent it three hours ago. What kind of person wakes up at the buttcrack of dawn on a Saturday? This day is sacred; there are rules about sleeping in long after breakfast ends, and Blake went and broke them—probably to go to the gym and do butt clenches, or whatever it is buff men do.
'Sure,' I type, hovering my phone over the send button before deleting it. If a person asks how you are, you always say you're fine, even if the world just ended. It's something people say to be polite—they don't really want to hear how dear Aunt Sally died or how your dog was run over. With a sigh, I say, 'Well enough. How about you?'
When he doesn't respond right away, I put my phone back on my nightstand, suddenly imagining weird butt-clenching poses, and I can't decide if I should laugh or bury my face in my hands with a groan.
This is also conveniently the time Dad knocks on my partially open door. He's already dressed for the day in jeans, tan hiking boots, and an old faded shirt with that ugly wide brimmed adventure hat of his. His mouth curves into a smile beneath his gray beard. "Hey, Kelly. I'm doing my exploring hobby today, but wanted to see you before I left. Do you need anything when I get back?"
I shake my head, grateful all the same. "I'm fine. Have a good time and bring water."
He turns with a wave, calling over his shoulder on his way through the hallway. "I always do. Text me if you need me."
I won't, but it's nice that he thinks of me. When Carmen died, Dad was so lost—there was a time he kind of wasted away as he secluded himself from the world. My stepmom kept him firmly on the straight and narrow, didn't put up with his crap, and was probably the first woman he'd ever been faithful to. He'd grown up a lot with her, and I worried for awhile he'd regress or worse—I'd lose him too.
This hobby is good for him, and it keeps him busy. He has friends, a strong YouTube following, and endless deserts and mountains to explore. He doesn't need to worry about me holding him back.
The ignition turns outside with a loud rumble, and soon, it echoes down the street. I finish dressing and sit down at my desk as my phone buzzes again.
'I slept well, thank you. Did you have anywhere in particular you want to go for lunch?'
I think about it. There really isn't much I can eat, but he's going through the trouble, so I rack my brain for something suitable, but simple. Vegan options are ridiculously expensive thanks to trendy hipsters, and I don't want Blake spending a lot of money on me. Unfortunately, nothing comes to mind, and I sigh.
'I should probably tell you now that I have a dozen different food allergies. It might be safer to have coffee.'
Dots flash across the bottom of the screen. I wonder if he believes me or if he thinks I'm blowing him off with an excuse.
'Send me a list of your allergies. I'm sure I can find something.'
I laugh. He's tenacious; I'll give him that. 'That list is pretty long.'
'Hit me with it,' he dares. I can practically visualize the smirk on his face with him thinking, 'challenge accepted.'
'Wheat, milk, egg, apple, beef, soy, peanut...' I stop to remember the rest. Half the foods, I never really ate before I found out I was allergic to them, so it's hard to remember. 'carrot, melon, strawberry, tomato...kiwi...' What was the last one? I know I'm forgetting something big in there. Then it hits me. 'pork,' I finish, pressing send.
Silence. Maybe I broke him.
Then, 'I guess the better question is what CAN you eat?'
I laugh. That does kind of put a damper on things, but it's fun to see him care enough to try. 'Poultry, fish, and rice? Ironically, I'm not allergic to shellfish.'
'Interesting. Text me your address, and I'll have everything figured out by noon. See you soon, gorgeous. ;)'
Gorgeous? He's blind. After sending the information, I set the phone back down and stare at my computer screen, wondering if I should write something new or keep querying. I'm not in a Wattpad mood today, but I'm itching to work on a project.
As I lean back in my chair, my cat paws at my leg for attention, mewling pathetically. But when I look at her, she reminds me so much of Puss In Boots with those cute little eyes of hers.
"You're so demanding,"" I coo, bringing her into my lap, where she starts kneading her claws into my stomach. I unhook her nails from my clothes and lift her up to face her. "So what should I write about today?"
"Meow."
"Good talk." I look around for inspiration until my eyes land on a picture of me and Val together after college. We're wearing our graduation robes, arms slung over each other's shoulders while Dad and Carmen stand behind the camera. They took us out for an expensive dinner that night too celebrate, accepting Val as their own. We've never been apart since.
With her in mind, I open a new document. There aren't too many books that focus on adult friendships, but even if it doesn't see the light of day, at least I can share it with her. Maybe I should make my characters younger, where they meet in college or something. It would be the perfect coming of age story.
I'm well into my zone, word vomiting everything into the first chapter when my phone alerts me to a new message. 'OMW now. See you soon.'
I check the time at the bottom of the screen and curse. I should have been ready twenty minutes ago, and now I have less than ten minutes to make myself presentable. Closing out the document, I run to the bathroom to brush my teeth, toss my hair into a messy bun, and agonize over whether this outfit is okay. Val would tell me to wear something else besides this spaghetti-strap shirt, so I rush back into my room for a mid length black pinstripe shirt that hangs off the shoulder, a pair of skinny capris, and black sandals.
I don't have time for makeup, but maybe Blake won't mind? It's just lunch. It's not like I'm going somewhere fancy.
An engine hums outside, and my phone buzzes. Peeking through my window, my mouth falls open. A blue Dodge Charger is sitting in my driveway, and I can't help but think of how out of place it is in my neighborhood, where everyone drives old beat cars or trucks.
I inhale a deep breath and count to five. Just lunch, I tell myself. Not a date. Leaving my courage somewhere upstairs, I open the metal storm door and try not to cringe at the loud creak. Again, I feel self-conscious at this old neighborhood. I love this house, along with all of my neighbors, but would Blake judge me for living in the ghetto? He and his car are just so...shiny.
With my purse clutched tight to my chest like a shield, I stand awkwardly in front of the car, where Blake waves from the driver's seat. When he gets out, warmth spreads between my thighs. Today, he's in cargo shorts and a black t-shirt, and his shoulders ripple beneath the fabric. His calf muscles are ridiculously toned, making me feel like a flabby granny. Or a twig. Or something that doesn't come with bulk.
His smile is genuine as he approaches me and stops just short, appraising me with his blue eyes. His mouths curves a little higher at the sides. "You look good."
He's been saying this lately, but I don't know. When paired next to any other woman, men tend to miss me completely. Biting my lip, I stare at my toes to hide the blush settling into my cheeks.
Placing his hand on my elbow, he leads me to the car and opens the door. Pine settles into my nose as I slide into the leather seat and buckle my seatbelt. I've never been inside a high-end car before, and I'm dazzled by all the different screens, knobs, and doodads in the front.
When Blake gets back into the car, he takes my hand into his and smiles. "You look nervous."
Well, yeah! As Brett painfully reminded me last night, Blake is so far out of my league, I'm not even in the Minors. I feel like I'm in T-Ball or Little Leagues next to him. But when he looks at me and sends warmth through his hands, an electric charge zips through me, making me melt into a gooey little puddle.
"A little," I admit quietly.
"Don't be," he says, giving my hand a hard squeeze. "I promise I don't bite."
Mm, bite... I wouldn't mind that in the right setting. The thought sends my sensitive areas into overdrive while my nipples harden, despite the 117° temperature.
I immediately cross my legs, hoping he doesn't realize what's going through my mind right now. I don't want to be that girl he has sex with just because he pities me or thinks I'm desperate.
"So, where are we going?" My words sound more like a singing frog than a person, and I clear my throat to try again. "Did you rise to the challenge?"
"And then some," he said with a grin, releasing my hand to start the car. A projection flashes on the screen, and I can't help but stare in awe at the speed, temperature, and gas monitor. Did the dealership throw in the kitchen sink too?
Following my gaze, he turned it off, saying, "2021 model. Just bought it last month."
Holy crap. The way he said it made the car seem like no big deal when in reality, this probably cost more than I'd make in a single decade. It was obscene, but I kept my features calm. It wasn't his fault he made money and I didn't, and I'd be shallow if I judged him for it.
The ride to the restaurant was quiet, with Blake driving and me fidgeting. We have nothing in common, yet he's taken some weird interest in me. He has every woman in the world to choose from—women who wear shoes with expensive names and everyday jewelry worth thousands of dollars. Their every day regimen makes them beautiful in their sleep, and they never have a strand of hair out of place. Yet Blake is taking me, a little street urchin, to lunch.
He pulls into a large plaza, where the word Ra Sushi prominently looms over the other buildings. This place is expensive—a small lunch for two is easily worth anywhere between $50-$80, and I open my mouth to protest when he stops me.
"You said you're not allergic to fish, so here we are." He jumps out of the car to run around the front and open the door before I can pick my jaw up from the floor. As I unsnap my seatbelt, his hand is back in mine, and a new smell overwhelms me—one of sandalwood and masculinity.
"Blake," I begin, unsure of how to articulate my words, "coffee would have been fine. This is..."
"It's just food," he said casually, leading me forward. "You need to eat, I'm hungry, and I promised you we'd talk. What better setting is there than lunch?"
It's impossible to argue with him, so I let him lead me across the parking lot, letting go of me long enough for us to don our masks, even though we'll be removing them in two minutes to eat anyway. His mask is plain black, while mine is blue with little foxes on the front. All I can say is at least it hides the blush still burning my face.
Inside, I bask in the freezing air conditioning overhead. Half the restaurant is closed while people sit apart from each other across tables and the bar. It's odd to see so few people or chairs upside down on the tables when restaurants used to be packed to the brim. For someone with social anxiety, this is almost perfect.
Blake pulls me along to the bar, where a waitress zooms to Blake's side with the speed of a cheetah. Even with her mask on, I can tell she's totally ogling him by the way she angles herself toward him while ignoring me altogether.
"Hi, I'm Iliana," she says in a high-pitched voice. "What can I get you to drink?"
Blake doesn't even look at the menu as he flashes her a dazzling smile, having removed his mask the moment we sat down. "I'll have a Blue Moon and a water please."
He turns to me, and Iliana grudgingly looks at me with a delicately arched eyebrow and eyes slightly narrowed. It's a look that tells me she'd crush me beneath her shoe.
It's almost impossible to find my voice, and I murmur, "May I have a hot sake and a water please?"
I hand her my ID, which she takes with a scowl, studying the picture for the longest time even though she didn't ask Blake for his. "You sure this isn't a fake?"
My face burns at the implication. It's not that I don't look young, but the fact that she's sneering while leaning over Blake bothers me. "No, it's not a fake," I say, clenching my fists in my lap.
"Well, you look too young," she says in a snide tone, keeping the ID in hand.
Blake's smile drops into a frown as he says, "She's definitely old enough. I was at her twenty-fourth birthday celebration last night."
Yikes. If I'm being honest with myself, Iliana is cute. She's nice and tiny with a few more curves than me, raven hair that's straighter than a pin, and clear skin. Yet, he seems to have no interest in her as he stares her down with an air of authority.
She breaks eye-contact first, slapping the ID on the counter with a curt, "I'll be right back."
Out of earshot, Blake slides the card back to me, shaking his head as he says, "That was rude. I'm of half a mind to request a different server before I post a review on Yelp."
"Please don't," I say, shoving my card back into my purse. The fire in his eyes makes me want to hide, and his wrath isn't even directed at me. "You're a good-looking man," I blurt out before I can stop myself. "People are gonna look."
His grin come back. "Did you look?"
Oh geez. I did and then some. Not that I'll tell him this, so I shrug with a mischievous smile. "A little. You have nice eyes."
He scoffs, his expression telling me he knows I'm full of it, but he plays along anyway. "Ouch."
"Were you expecting me to swoon like the girls in those bad boy movies?" I bat my eyes dramatically and place the back of my hand over my forehead, giggling as I pretend to be one of those girls on Wattpad. "Oh, Blake, I only just met you, but your hot looks and tattoo are too much! We must be soulmates, so let's have sex on the first date, fight, and then live happily ever after while I become a secret underground streetfighter and you introduce me to your mafia family!"
His shoulders shake as he fights the laughter escaping his throat in small bursts. Clapping a hand over his mouth only makes him look like he's about to throw up, and finally, he dissolves into hisses. "Oh...my...God," he says between choking laughs, wiping tears from his face. "What the hell have you been watching?"
"Oh, well actually, I don't watch those kinds of movies, but Netflix has been making all these adaptations of bad boy books on a writing platform. They're really big."
Regaining his breath, he shakes his head. "No thank you. I blame Fifty Shades of Gray and Twilight. The men in both of those books are horribly abusive, yet these women are selling it to people, glorifying toxic relationships."
His smile leaves his face as he pauses to tilt his head. His eyes widen just slightly, and he murmurs the question, "Is that what you thought of me last night?"
I shake my head. I mean, I did kind of wonder, but he keeps exceeding my expectations. But I still can't help but wonder why he doesn't seem interested in relationships. He's nice, but if he's still single, I might be better trying my luck somewhere else.
"No. You're very nice."
"Then why did you think I was married?"
Ugh. That. If I hadn't been so nervous, I wouldn't have accused him so openly. "Okay, I might have looked you up on Instagram," I admit, staring at my hands. "I saw you with a woman with your last name and a giant ring on her hand."
"So you did look," he says, not hiding the grin. When I keep my gaze down, his hand slips into mine, linking our fingers together. "Kelly, look at me." I do, and he says, "That's my cousin, Nikki. She's getting married in the Fall. She's the closest thing I have to a little sister, and I definitely don't have a wife."
Well, that's a relief, even if the way he says it makes marriage sound like a four letter word. Since we're being honest, I ask the question burning on my tongue. "So how come you're single then?"
"Guess I haven't found the right girl," he says with a shrug, looking around the bar.
This is when I realize Iliana still hasn't brought us our drinks or asked to take our orders. As if on cue, she sets them down in front of us, giving me a wide berth as she approaches Blake with more caution. I can't help but admire her persistence.
"Are you ready to order?" she asks in a less cheerful tone.
Blake orders the most obnoxiously expensive rolls on the menu, as well as gyoza, spring rolls, and noodles. It's unbelievable to think he can pack all that down, but I suspect he's overcompensating for me ordering the cheapest roll on the menu with a bowl of miso soup.
Iliana disappears again, leaving us to continue our conversation. Given that his answer before was non-committal and he seems obsessed with buying too much food as well as focusing all of his attention on me, kind of bothers me. It's not that I don't like the attention, but Blake is... overwhelming. This meal will probably cost well over $100—money that would buy me barely enough groceries for a week, and that's assuming I limit myself to one or two meals a day.
Setting my soup spoon down, I ask, "So... What if you did find the right girl? I met a nurse at the hospital—she said you won't settle down."
Blake lets out a humorless laugh. "That must have been Ms Rose. I dated here and there while I did my residency, but my focus was my job. Too many women hear the word doctor, and they get dollar signs in their eyes. Besides, relationships are too messy sometimes. Once emotions get involved, feelings get hurt, and there's always one person who feels stronger about the other."
Sounds a lot along the lines of what Rose was telling me. It must be lonely for Blake to always wonder why a girl is interested in him. I nod and leave it alone. It's not like he sees me as anyone but a woman who rejected him anyway. He'll have his fun with me, get the infatuation out of his system, and move on to someone else, if not his job. Besides, it's obvious he doesn't want to tangle himself in emotions. If I got involved, I'd probably find myself attached, even going in with my eyes wide open.
I don't think I can open myself up to that sort of pain, so I change the subject, and we finish our lunch on less serious topics. After this, I'll go home, work on my book, and forget all about Blake Cole. I promised him one lunch; nothing else.