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But now, sitting in the parking lot outside the office of Blake Hale, Insurance Specialist for Everlife, I’m having second thoughts. And third, fourth, and fifth ones too. It doesn’t help that his office looks nice, the two-story professional building wrapped in white stucco and green-tinged one-way glass, with a pretty copper archway over the main entrance and beautiful landscaping.
Looking up Blake’s work address hadn’t prepared me for this. And yes, I’m showing up to his office unannounced, something I would usually never do, but he’s done it twice now, so turnabout is fair play.
You want to see him in his element.
I do, curious about what a Blake Hale space looks like. Is it generic, full of abstract art that won’t offend and seats that don’t invite lingering?
Or deeply personal, with family photos and mementos?
Curiosity killed the cat, my conscience warns. Then I’m not the cat, he is, I answer myself, repeating the reminder that I shouldn’t get too close . . . for Blake’s protection.
My phone dings in the cupholder, and I pick it up, half praying for a DB that I’ll have to go handle so I can leave.
Nope, it’s Blake. I can see you sitting in the car. You coming in or what?
“No,” I gasp, pulling the phone to my chest so I can pretend I didn’t read what I just read.
It doesn’t work.
Especially when I look up and see Blake standing in an open second-floor window. Even at this angle, I can see that he’s got on slacks, a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a smirk of a smile that says ‘gotcha’.
I text back, I haven’t decided yet, and you’re rushing me.
Blake looks at his hand, then to me again. What’re the pros and cons?
Straight to the point comparison. I like it.
Pros—I have information for you. I want to see you because I had a shitty day. You look good in that shirt.
I hit send before I can delete all that because I really should’ve left it at bullet point one. Blake though laughs happily and types back quickly.
You know I’m a sucker for new info, you tease. I’m sorry you had a shitty day, but full confession, I like that you came to see me to make it less shitty. I look good in everything.
I can’t help it, the cockiness in the last sentence makes me grin. It’s just so Blake. No pressure to sway me to come in, no ‘you’re being silly’ comments. He’s just making me smile, letting me know I’m safe without going over the top on it.
I swallow and type again. Cons—I hate that I came here after thinking about your smile almost all day. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I’m scared.
Blake’s smile dims, and he looks out at me with a more serious look before replying. I’m not-scared enough for the both of us. Now come up before I have to go down there and carry you up to my office.
I look up, and he’s serious. His hands are on his window frame, not quite leaning out of the window but clearly focused on me. He looks like he’s contemplating simply walking through the glass to get to me, which is both sinfully sexy and scary.
“You’re on the second floor!” I yell, but he can’t hear me. Still, he waves me in, and I can see the doubt, the uncertainty of whether I’m actually going to get out of the car.
Am I?
He’s not-scared enough for the both of us. It’d take a lot of not-scared to balance out the fear I’m feeling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the toxicology report and make my decision. Not for the reason I should—my own burgeoning hope or Blake’s obvious interest—but for Richard Horne. I open the door and go inside, taking the escalator upstairs, where I see Blake already waiting for me at the doorway to his office.
“Well played,” I tease as he smiles. “I thought you’d have to carry me up real stairs. But an escalator? Well played, Mr. Hale, very well played.”
“Hey,” he says, coming toward me as though we didn’t just have an entire text conversation just to get me out of the car, as though that’s perfectly normal. “I try.” There’s a spark in his eye, and I wonder if he’s remembering carrying me into my house the way I am. Casual as can be, he says, “You’re the best surprise I’ve had all day. To be fair, you’re the only surprise I’ve had, unless you count the chocolate chips in my cookie at lunch turning out to be raisins.”
“You don’t like raisins?” I ask, numbly following his conversational option that doesn’t include my being oddly reluctant to come in moments ago.
Blake smiles, shaking his head. “More about anticipation than liking. Raisins are fine, but not when I’m expecting ooey, gooey, melty chocolate and instead get chewy, wrinkled, dried fruit.”
