Damn dress. Damn camisole. The way he's looking at me makes me feel exposed. But it's not my breasts that are exposed. It's something else. Something I can't cover quite so easily.
I play with my silverware, unwrapping it from its paper napkin. "It's a funeral not a party."
"Meryl would have wanted it to feel like a party," he says.
The guy behind the counter, well, in front of our table now, interrupts us. "What can I get you?"
"Coffee," Blake says. "And the tilapia special." He looks at me. "Best tilapia anywhere."
The guy nods as if to say damn straight.
"I'm sold." I hand the guy my menu. "And an iced tea."
"You got it." The guy makes eye contact with Blake. "I'm so sorry about Meryl."
"Thank you," Blake says.
"She was a great woman."
"She was," Blake says.
The guy walks away, shaking his head like he can't stand how unfair life is. Get in line, buddy.
I fold my napkin into a triangle. "She was a great woman."
Blake smiles. Really smiles. Figures the guy picks his mother's funeral to break out the cheer. No, it's not that kind of expression. It's like the memory of Meryl makes him happy.
It makes me happy, too. It hurts like hell that she's gone. It's been three years since my parents died, and that still hurts.
But there's more than just pain. There are so many great memories. For the last three years, I've been pushing both aside. I can't do that anymore. I need to feel it, all of it, even if it hurts as much as it feels good.
Blake's fingers brush my palm. "You okay?"
"I will be." I pull my hands into my lap. "I'm sorry you lost her."
"Me too."
He drifts into thought about something. About his mom, probably. I play with the hem of my dress to keep my attention here. This might be the last time I ever see Blake. I'm going to remember it.
"Stay with me tonight," he says. "I'm going back to the penthouse after the memorial."
He says it so evenly. No clue of his intentions in his voice. There's something on his face. In his eyes. A hint of vulnerability.
I hold his gaze. It's like he's looking deep inside me. Usually, that makes me feel off center. Picked apart. But not today. It feels okay. It feels right.
It feels like he really sees me. Kat. Not super girlfriend, but the girl under the makeup and the highlights and the fancy clothes.
I stare back, trying to find the man under the expensive suit and the expression of steel. There are hints of it. He's hurting, and not just over his mom.
For once, I recognize his expression. He's lonely.
I take a deep breath, weighing my options. "I'll be okay."
His façade cracks. It's the smallest crack, but it's all over his face.
He looks to the table for a moment. "I know you will. But I want you there."
"Oh." My heart races. He must mean for sex or something like that. He couldn't mean that his affection for me would actually comfort him at a time like that.
"I don't want to be alone." He bites his lip, shakes his head, brings his gaze to meet mine. "Fuck that. I'd rather be alone than with anyone else." He presses his palm against the table. "I want to be with you tonight."
Oh my. I take a deep breath, trying not to give any of my feelings away. "You mean for—" I swallow hard. No sense in being shy now. "—sex? or for something else?"
"Whatever you want." He presses his lips together. "As long as I can spend tonight with you."
Tonight. Ugly little word, isn't it? So close to what I want to hear.
I adjust my dress. Something to keep my mind occupied for a moment. I should hold strong to the whole breaking up with him thing. Even if we weren't technically together.
But he's hurting so much. His mom died a few days ago. This must be a special circumstance. I can make an exception.
Truth be told, I want the comfort, too. I want to be around him, too.
"Okay," I say.
He lets out a tiny little sigh of relief. "Thank you."
"But it doesn't mean anything. We're not together."
He nods. His expression stays soft.
"Here ya' go." The waiter drops off our drinks. "Sugar's at the end of the table." He turns back and he's gone.
I take a long sip of my iced tea. What a pleasant distraction from this conversation, from wondering what the hell Blake's request means. There's no sense in trying to figure out his intentions. Blake may be softening. He may have affection for me. But that's not a relationship, and it's not enough.
I'm going to be with someone who is madly, passionately in love with me. Not just someone who finds me pleasant company.
Blake stirs his coffee even though he's drinking it black. He takes a small sip, his eyes focused on me. My face flushes. Great, back to feeling undone by his stare. And I thought I was making progress.
Fine. I'll tell him about the promise I made to Meryl. That should free me of any last hints of deception.
One more sip. For good luck. I pull my cardigan closed, but it does nothing to cover my chest. Damn V-neck.
I meet Blake's gaze. "I promised Meryl something that first morning."
"Did you offer or did she ask?"
"She asked."
"Of course she did." A laugh escapes his lips. He shakes his head like he can't believe how ridiculous she was. "You don't have to honor it."
"You don't know what it is."
"Still."
"I want to." Deep breath. "I promised her to give you another chance. One date."
Something flashes on his face. Concern. He shifts back slightly. Wraps his fingers around his coffee. "I hope this doesn't count."
I shake my head. "Would be awfully tacky to do it the day of her funeral."
"She would have liked that."
"She would have liked it if I married you without a prenup, divorced you, and got half your shit."
He laughs again. A big laugh where his lips curl into a smile. He throws his head back. Slaps his hands against his thighs.
Oh, that laugh. Still the best thing I ever heard.
"No," Blake says. "She would have loved it."
"Did you tell her about our deal?"
"You did."
My chest tightens. How the hell does he know that?
"It's okay," he says. "In the end, it was for the best. She died thinking someone cared about me. That's what I wanted."
"Right. Of course." I bury my attention in my iced tea. Cared. I cared about him. If that's the story he wants to tell himself, fine. "What exactly did you tell her?"
He makes eye contact. "That I cared about you and wanted you to be happy."
There's that word again. Cared. God, what an ugly word. So much worse than tonight. So much worse than any other word in the English language.
"Tomorrow," he says. "For our date. We can start in the morning." He watches me closely. "If your schedule permits."
"Tomorrow is fine." I'll get to see how much he cares about me. It's a struggle, but I manage not to roll my eyes or bite my tongue.
The waiter drops off our dinners, and Blake shifts the conversation to my college applications. My portfolio is finished. I've sent off three applications, but I still have another three to go.
And, now, because of Meryl, I can pick the best school that accepts me, even if it costs a fortune.
All without Blake's money.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Blake's apartment feels so different than it did last time. I'm struck with the strange sensation that this is the last time I'll ever see it. That this is the last time I'll really see him.
One chance. That's all I promised, and that's all I'm offering. Any more would be agonizing.
"There are clothes in the spare room if you'd like to change," he says. "They're yours."
More clothes Ashleigh picked out. The whole dresser in the sex room is filled with them. They are technically mine, though I can't imagine asking to
take them with me. I might as well write this is the last time we're going to see each other in big letters on the windows.
"I'm okay for now," I say.
"You hungry?"
"A little."
He fixes something in the kitchen. I wander around the sparse living room. This one, huge room must be a thousand square feet. God, this place must cost a fortune. It's an awful lot to give up for a little thing like love, but there isn’t a hint of doubt in my mind. Gorgeous apartments are nothing compared to that perfect, safe feeling of someone's arms around you.
Damn, look at me, waxing poetic. My gaze darts to the bookshelf. Must be something here to hold my attention. I scan a row of science fiction books. I'm not well versed in the subject, but I recognize a few names: Isaac Asimov, Douglass Adams, Ray Bradbury.
The second shelf is different. It's packed with graphic novels straight off a best of list: Blankets, Fun House, Smile, Blue is the Warmest Color.
Blake's attention is devoted to pouring drinks. There's something different about him today. Almost something open.
He turns to me. "Those are for you."
Damn mind reader. I nod like I'm utterly unaffected by this. Guy bought me some books. A nice gesture, but it's not like he wrote I love you, Kat in them. I check the front and back covers just to be sure. There are twenty books here and not a single declaration of love, well, not by Blake, at least.
It would be tacky to steal these. Especially after inheriting enough money to buy tens of thousands of books.
Really, I'd rather Blake have them. Something for him to enjoy. Something to make him think of me if this goes down in flames. Hell, it's more likely to go down with a pathetic whimper. Something awful like I care about you.
Suddenly, my black dress feels awkward. This relationship is one thing I'm not mourning. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. This chance should be my chance, too. I'm going to enjoy it, even if it's my last twenty-four hours with Blake.
"Excuse me," I say. I go to the sex room—I'm sure Blake calls it his spare room, but let's get real—and change into a tank top, pajama bottoms, and a hoodie. The opposite of sexy, though the tank is cut pretty low. It would be easy for him to pull it to my stomach and run his fingers over my chest.
Not. Going. There.
In the living room, Blake is on the couch. He's in his pajamas, too—a t-shirt and loose, plaid pants. Drinks are on the coffee table. Dessert, too. Berries and dark chocolate. The memorial was an orgy of casseroles—every neighbor in a three-block radius stopped by to offer their condolences and their food.
The warmth of his body hits me the second I slip onto the couch. I move closer, until the outsides of our thighs are pressed against each other. My eyelids press together, and I allow myself a minute to pretend this is more than a night of comfort.
His fingers trail over my back, pressing the soft cotton of my hoodie against my skin. He nestles his head into the crook of my neck. He slides his arms around my waist and squeezes me.
Holy hell. Flutters build in my body. My muscles go weak. Breathe, dammit. It's just a hug, just an embrace, just comfort.
I focus my attention on the flat screen TV. The thing must have cost thousands of dollars. It's that almost black color most screens are. A blank slate. It's nothing, utterly useless without electricity, utterly useless unless it's turned on.
"Thank you," Blake whispers.
Oh my. Lack of electricity is certain not a problem for me. My body is humming like a damn power line. Blake has never thanked me for anything. He's not that kind of guy.
Breathe, dammit. I clear my throat. "For what?"
"For being here."
"Sure." I shrug my shoulders to break his grip and slide a few inches towards the other side of the couch. This is way too much to take. Way, way too much.
The guy can't keep acting like we're boyfriend/girlfriend. Like there's some remote chance I'll get something better than I care about you.
I down half my gin and tonic in one sip. Sweet with that hint of pine. I follow with a handful of berries. They're tart and juicy.
"Kat."
I stuff another handful of berries in my mouth. No biggie. Just eating a snack. Not at all trying to avoid conversation or anything.
"You want to talk about something." He says it like a statement, not a question.
I swallow. "No thanks. Maybe we could watch a movie."
He turns to me and runs his fingertips over my chin, tilting me so we're eye to eye. "Tell me what's going on."
"Let's watch a movie," I say. "I'm not in the mood to talk."
He studies my expression. Eventually, he nods like he finds this acceptable. "Anything you want."
"It's a little silly," I say.
"Same thing you said about your favorite book." He brushes the hair from my eyes. "Why are you embarrassed by the things you love?"
"I'm not embarrassed by them." I play with the zipper of my hoodie. "It's more that it's personal."
Blake stares at me with that same intense look. Great, I'm all exposed again. My cheeks flush. He can see through me, to all these things I never share with anyone. It's scary—he might run away—but it's thrilling, too.
"The Matrix," I say.
He shakes his head. "You do realize who you're talking to?"
"Yes, I do realize you own a technology company, and you think you're a nerd. But that isn't what's personal. I don't really care about the movie that much." I finish the last half of my drink and shake the glass so the ice clinks. "It was the thing Lizzy and I watched when she got out of the hospital. We must have watched the whole trilogy twenty times. She loves those fucking movies. Any movie where robots try to enslave humanity, she's all over it. Battlestar Galactica is her favorite show by quite a measure."
"What about you?" he asks.
"I root for the robots." I set my glass on the table. Fine. I'll answer the question he was really asking. "It's not my favorite movie, but it's the most comforting thing I can watch. It feels like... like love."
There's something a little smug about his expression. He runs his hand through my hair and rests it on the back of my neck. With the other, he tilts my chin so we're face to face.
"Kat, you do realize, The Matrix is my favorite movie."
Figures I'd ramble incoherently when there was no need to convince him. I make eye contact with Blake, trying to figure out what's going on behind those pretty brown eyes.
The thing about watching a movie twenty times—you get a good sense of what it's really about. And The Matrix is not a movie about rebels fighting against a manufactured dream world. It's about love.
Love is the thing that saves the day.
Love is the thing that saves the world.
Love is the thing that matters.
Blake must realize that, but the question is—does he love the movie because of it, or in spite of it?
I take a deep breath, rubbing my chest in an attempt to ease the growing tension. I can't keep asking myself these questions. I can't keep wondering what he's thinking or feeling. This is a night of comfort. That's it.
No more time for this kind of thing. I brush off all my thoughts about the future. Tonight is just that—tonight. Only tonight.
"Shall we?" I ask.
He turns the TV on.
***
I fall asleep on the couch and wake up in Blake's bed. He's behind me, pressed against me, his arm resting on the curve of my waist. It's so different than last time I was with him. When I woke up alone, I felt cold and empty. Right now, my entire body is warm. The bed is warm. The world is warm.
My eyes flutter closed. One more minute to feel his arms around me. I do my best to slide off the bed without waking Blake. He looks so peaceful with his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. There's no telling what goes through that gorgeous head of his. What does the guy dream about?
I creep to the bathroom and brush my teeth. There's a sound in the bedroom. He must be awake. A soft knock on the do
or and Blake steps inside.
His eyes fix on me. "Good morning."
I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste. "Good morning."
He takes another step closer and slides his arms around me. It's been minutes since those arms were around me, but the embrace still fills me with the sweetest warmth. I bury my head in his chest and squeeze his waist. He runs a hand through my hair.
"Relax. I'll make breakfast," he says.
"Yourself?"
He nods as he reaches for his toothbrush. Quite the treat. Blake is cooking instead of spending money. I'm surprised he doesn't have an assistant who brings him breakfast and coffee in bed every morning.
No, he'd never share something that intimate. Those are the things he holds onto for dear, dear life.
I grab my sketchbook and a pen and sit on the couch. I draw a comic version of the funeral. It's a new habit—drawing comic versions of moments that beg me to capture them. Six panels for this, I think. The first is the closed casket. A little obvious, but a necessary starting point.
Blake kisses me hello on his way to the kitchen. I try to focus on my drawing. It's hard with desire whirring around my body.
The smell of coffee fills the room. That French roast with vanilla. The one he was drinking after the pool. I can't even smell vanilla without thinking about it.
Enough pretending. I drop my sketchbook, move to the counter, and watch Blake cook. A pan sizzles with oil and vegetables chopped into tiny, tiny bits. Red peppers, onions, tomatoes. All my favorites. He cracks eggs in a bowl, whisks them with a fork, and pours them onto the pan.
"You want coffee?" Blake asks.
"Yes, please."
He pours two mugs, hands one to me, and points to the cream and sugar that's already set up on the table.
I stir in plenty of each. It's damn good coffee, and it takes me right back to that night in his office after the rain. My breath hitches. My heart picks up. Beating just a little faster. I have a few moments here. It's a perfect opportunity to remember how good his body feels against mine.
"Here." Blake sets a plate in front of me. An omelet, avocado, two dozen raspberries.
I snap back to attention. The food looks and smells amazing. I pick up my fork and take a greedy bite. Fluffy eggs, and they taste damn fresh. I didn't even know eggs could taste fresh. The peppers have a tiny hint of crunch. The tomatoes are soft and a little bit sweet.
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