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Our bedroom.
It would have seemed weird, even impossible to think something like that just a few days ago, let alone picture a man like Blake running his hands through my hair.
My comment’s designed to warn him off. Caution him against thinking everything’s so new and fantastic. Knowing what a pain in the ass my hair is to deal with on my own.
But he only smiles harder to himself, looking at me in the mirror and stroking out any tangles so gently, and like such a boss I almost ask him if he’s a qualified hairdresser on top of everything else.
I don’t though. I know it would only give him a big head. Make him want to play with my hair all the time.
“And will you let me play with your hair?” I tease him. “Maybe let me shave you?” I coo, secretly wanting to get my fingers in that cleft in his stubbled chin.
Something about it drives me to distraction every time I even think about it.
He frowns in the mirror at me, asking if I don’t like him touching my hair.
Knowing that he knows exactly the effect he’s having on me.
“You can shave me with a safety razor,” he says finally. “I don’t even feel safe with those other kinds. Used to have a barber who used a straight razor. But never again,” he says with a grimace.
“What happened?” I ask, gasping in shock, already hoping he was okay.
“Oh, nothing. He was a master at it, but when he retired he left the business to his son who was more skilled at chopping meat than shaving a gentleman the old fashioned way.”
I laugh a little at the mental image. Picturing Blake a century or more ago, foamed up with soap and being shaved like they used to.
“I didn’t know they still did that,” I admit, shuddering with fear at the female version of the same type of shave.
Being shaved down there, or anywhere for that matter with one of those things? No thanks.
“It’s a lost art like I said. But you can use the baby razor, anytime,” he smiles again, giving me a little wink. Making me feel like a million dollars just by looking at me.
The suite comes with a full personal care kit for each guest, male and female, so I have a new brush and more stuff than I’d ever even buy myself.
“All this comes with the suite?” I ask, noting the brand names inside the case.
“Oh that stuff, yep,” Blake says casually, talking down the men’s stuff they usually give him.
“You always stay in the presidential suite?” I ask, making him laugh again.
“No, but I usually have one of the better rooms. With what they charge...” he starts, but I can tell he’s stopping himself from saying anything about money for my benefit.
I know he can afford it and so does he.
He doesn’t want me to feel more awkward than I already do about the suite, the clothes. Dinner, about everything so far.
“We’ll be home soon anyway. Tonight if you’d prefer it?” he asks, and I feel a new thrill in my chest.
Something I never really thought about, Blake’s real home.
“You do have a home then?” I ask, feeling stupid for asking but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“I do, but you and your dad have reminded me I need to maybe spend less time there and locked away at work and more out and about in the world.”
“How could I possibly make you realize that?” I ask.
“Because wherever I am with you is always better, always special,” he says without having to think, and he kisses the top of my wet hair asking how I finish it off.
“I just let it dry,” I tell him with a shrug.
“Ah, well that’s easily fixed,” he murmurs, looking a little disappointed but contenting himself to wait for it to dry.
“So where is home for Blake Mason?” I ask, dying to know now.
“I hope it’ll be our home too,” he says before explaining he has several.
“Or is it too soon for that kind of talk?” he asks, concerned about even saying it.
I shake my head, letting him know I feel the same way he does.
“Wherever you go, I’ll go,” I tell him truthfully.
“Then we can head back tonight. I don’t mind hotels, but there’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed.”
With years away at college and the memory of my lumpy old mattress at my dad’s, I can’t wait to see just where Blake sleeps.
Can’t wait to make it our bed.
Our home.
Us.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two weeks later…
Krystal
“You’re not still crossing that thing off are you?” Blake asks me, creasing his mouth in mild annoyance that I’d even be counting the days.
I’ve taken my dad to task and using one of Blake’s seemingly endless supplies of calendars from his office supplies, I’m marking off each day together we have with a bold red X.
