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One look at Krystal though and it’s the furthest thing from my mind.
I usher her in first, following close behind and leaning on the door to close it I take in the surroundings.
“Wow!” Krystal exclaims, not waiting to be told to make herself at home, she moves quickly from the entrance hall to the living room and through to the kitchen.
“This place is huge inside compared to ours, and so neat,” I hear her voice echoing back to me.
I spot a framed picture of a gangly middle aged man hugging an elderly woman on the wall, quickly snapping it up and putting it in a drawer on my way through to the sound of Krystal’s voice.
If that’s supposed to be me, I’m in trouble.
“How about some coffee?” I suggest, making my way through to the kitchen, finding her examining another similar photograph.
Turning to face me with an almost troubled, questioning look.
“Who’s this?” she asks.
Chapter Five
Krystal
I’m glad when Blake asks me in, wishing he’d read my mind.
Although I have to admit that just coffee isn’t exactly what I have in mind.
But there I go again. Sounding like some sort of seductress, some woman of experience.
The kind he’s probably used to.
In reality, I just crave him being close to me. He’s the only male I’ve ever met that actually wants to talk to me for being me, without judging me by how I look or what I’m interested in.
He makes me feel safe like I could tell him anything and he wouldn’t laugh.
I can’t say the same for him though.
He does seem a little guarded still. But it’s probably just jet lag.
Who the hell looks this good after a long-haul flight?
Blake Mason. That’s who.
He’d look good doing anything, anytime, anywhere.
I convince myself that’s the case, and making our way into his house I’m amazed at how similar our houses are on the outside, but how different they are inside.
Our place is the same size, but with a different floor plan, I guess.
And his place is clean.
Like, spotlessly clean.
We’re not slobs, but with dad away often and me at college. The place looks lived in.
Blake’s house looks brand new inside, with only some slight wear showing outside. Like every house on the street.
Bought off the plan and built in a month. They looked great for about a year, then started to look tired.
Not how real houses used to look like. When they built them to last.
I can’t help but help myself to look around. It reminds me of the show homes they used when they were selling the lots before the neighborhood was built all those years ago.
But something’s not right.
Apart from having a pool out back, which we don’t, I notice a few pictures here and there of some guy and what looks like his mom or grandma.
There’s one on the kitchen counter which I pick up and study as I hear Blake suggest we make some coffee.
“Who’s this?” I ask, holding up a small metallic frame.
“Sorry,” I tell him quickly, realizing how rude I’m being. “First I barge into your house and now I’m demanding to know who’s in your photos,” I tell him, apologizing again.
Feeling like I’m making more of a fool of myself every time I open my mouth around Blake, but he never seems to mind.
“It’s alright,” he says, shrugging it off and taking the photo from me, casually slipping it into a kitchen drawer.
“I’m only letting the place really, the owners are away for twelve months,” Blake explains.
“They left all their things here and I agreed not to put holes in the walls or hang my own pictures. It’s kind of homely, I guess.” He reasons to himself.
“Well, don’t let me put you off,” I tell him, still kicking myself. “It’s none of my business really. I’m sorry for intruding,” I add, really meaning it.
If my dad was here, he’d tell me off for being such a snoop.
Why should I care or need to know what pictures Blake has up?
Because I want to know everything about him is why. And I want him to tell me. To show me.
To be with me.
It’s about as much of a pipe dream as my job opportunity at the magazine he’s an editor for, but there is something in the way he looks at me.
And definitely something in his touch.
I watch him as he opens the double-sided refrigerator, making a sound of disapproval before opening some cupboards with the same reaction.
“It looks like I didn’t plan ahead too well for a homecoming,” he admits, forcing a smile.
“Not even any coffee?” I ask, solving the issue instantly. Literally.
“We’ve got instant coffee, and sugar and milk,” I offer, smiling at the thought of being so useful.
“Gimme a minute, I’ll be right back,” I tell him, not even giving him time to suggest anything else.
