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The man is humming as he heats up my dinner and takes care of me.
What planet is he from?
I’m the caretaker—for Jacob, for my grandparents, for the whole damn county, even if they don’t realize it—but here Blake is, taking care of me when he barely even knows me.
Reflexively, I snuggle down into my pillows a bit more, intrigued to see how this goes. A moment later, Blake reappears in the doorway, nearly filling up the whole thing, and holding one of my small mixing bowls heaped full of steaming spaghetti. “There was only one meatball, but there’s plenty of meat sauce.”
“It’s fine,” I say, and he hands it over into my outstretched hands.
The first bite is that amazing level of deliciousness I always think I must’ve imagined. I’d love to say Gia’s culinary talents are wasted on us out here in the sticks, but her place does well and everyone loves her pizza, so I guess that’s enough for Gia. I take another bite and groan, “So good. Thank you.”
Grandma would be proud that I remembered some of the manners she taught me. Blake grins in surprise, warming me as much as the spaghetti. “You’re welcome.”
He disappears for a moment, coming back with his own bowl, and sits down on the bed next to my knee, close but not too close, with both feet on the floor. That’s reasonable, right? Respectable even.
So why am I disappointed that he didn’t climb right in with me?
No, Zoey. Stop that right now.
Blake takes a cautious bite of his small plate of spaghetti and his eyes widen in surprise. “Damn, that is good!”
“Yeah, we might not have fancy restaurants out here, but Gia’s restaurant serves some good food,” I reply, probably a bit more sharply than I intended. He shoots me a questioning look with that one brow arching dramatically, and I sigh.
Fine, that was a bit judgy and bitchy when he was making polite conversation, not comparing our country food places to the city’s fancy ones. I’m just sensitive because I’m waiting for the trailer park questions.
They always come.
“We’ll have to go there sometime.”
His response is not what I expected, but also, it somehow is. He’s not letting me hide behind defensive barbs and preconceived notions and is instead inserting himself right into my day and my future with no question.
“Maybe,” I concede half-heartedly. Gia would probably freak out if I walked through her door but at the same time be so gobsmacked that I was bringing a date, she’d be on the phone with the entire county in minutes.
Blake smiles as though I agreed to a marriage proposal, not a possible future dinner date.
Wait . . . was I just thinking about a date?
Oh, shit. I did just agree to preplanned dinner and drinks. He said that’s the benchmark that makes it a real date, and I don’t do those. But damn if I’m going to take it back right now.
Still, old habits die hard.
“Are you allergic to anything? Garlic, shellfish, gluten? Penicillin?” I ask desperately, looking for a way out.
Blake shakes his head slowly. “Nope, told you. Nothing at all, not even peanut butter,” he answers, following my train of thought easily and remembering Michael Wilson’s allergic reaction. He sets his plate of half-eaten spaghetti on my nightstand and then takes mine to do the same. “No drug allergies. No sky diving, bungee jumping, or scuba diving. Risky behaviors can increase your life insurance premiums by up to fifty percent.”
His fist dents the bed as he leans over me, and I yearn for actual contact.
Why is safety talk so damn sexy? It makes no sense whatsoever, but the heat building between my thighs disagrees. What’s next? If he quotes actuarial tables, will I have an orgasm?
Ridiculous, but also, currently not outside the realm of possibility.
“I drive one of the safest cars on the market and have never had a speeding ticket. I have an annual physical, and my blood work says I’m one hundred percent healthy. I work out and eat well.” His breath is warm on my lips, a moment of anticipation where I could stop this.
“Have you had a tetanus shot?” I whisper. “Diphtheria? Chicken pox?”
The very corners of his lips quirk, so amused by my worries. “All vaccines are up to date. Including my annual flu shot.”
His palm cups my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, and I lean into his touch. When was the last time I let someone get this close to me? Not emotionally, but just . . . physically.
Carnally.
It’s been long enough that I don’t remember . . . no, wait. That’s not true.
I did have that one night with that guy at the Medical Examiners and Coroners convention. The one who smelled like formaldehyde even though we’d been there for three days of lectures and demonstrations.
