Page 67 of Pity Present
“I don’t believe you.” I remind him, “You were very dismissive of me that night.”
His arms are still around me, and the heat of him is nearly my undoing. “I saved you from falling on your face.”
“That’s true,” I tell him, “but once we got into the car to come to the lodge, you barely looked at me.”
“I was in work mode.” He lowers his eyes to meet mine, and I’m immediately drawn into their green depths. “You know what they say, don’t you?”
“All work and no play makes Blake a dull boy?” I guess.
“I was thinking more along the lines of not playing around where you work, but I like yours better.” He runs his hands down my arms before gently caressing his fingertips across mine. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”
I would walk to Australia with this man. I’d walk to the moonwith him. But I can’t seem to open my mouth and tell him that, so I merely nod my head.
As we move toward the door, Trina stops us. “I saw that,” she announces.
My face heats up in what must be the mother of all blushes. “It seems that Blake might like me as more than a friend, after all,” I tell her.
Blake declares, “Faulty starter, my foot.”
Smiling, Trina tells him, “Remember, the thing with faulty starters is they can be fixed. Looks like you took yours to the shop.”
Car metaphors really aren’t my thing, but I think Trina nailed this one. I don’t know why Blake didn’t think he could date while getting tips for his coffee shop, but I’m glad he figured it out.
“I appreciate you asking me to join your event,” I tell Trina. “I have some ideas for you about the shop as well as some other things.”
“Let’s talk about that tomorrow,” she says. “For now, go and enjoy your night.”
Blake and I walk out of the ballroom hand in hand. He leads me toward the great room where there are two vacant chairs next to the fire. Once we’re situated, he says, “This is the most romantic environment I can imagine.”
I look around at the giant Christmas tree and the wreath hanging over the fireplace. There are six stockings suspended from the massive wooden hearth. “My sister teased me about coming here and meeting a lumberjack.”
“So that’s where the whole lumberjack thing came from. I must confess, I’m a little relieved that’s not your type.”
“Who says that’s not my type?” I bat my eyes flirtatiously at him.
“It had better not be.” He sounds jealous, and I love it.
“What do you think my type should be?”
He closes his eyes like he’s deep in thought before openingthem again. “I was thinking you need a guy who knows how to make a great cup of coffee.”
“Maybe one who writes dystopian love stories on the side.”
He looks briefly confused before saying, “I don’t think it matters what he does for a living so long as he’s sitting right here with you.”
Reaching out, I take Blake’s hand in mine. “Good thing the guy I’m sitting with does both.”
He hesitantly asks, “What if I’m not really writing a novel?”
“Why would you have said you were if you weren’t?”
“I told you before that my goal was to be here incognito.”
“By lying to people?”
“I like to think of it as more of an embellishment,” he says. “The truth is that I like to write but I haven’t done it a lot lately.”
“If you like to write, then you should write,” I tell him. “I’ve recently realized that life is too short not to follow your heart in all things.”
