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“I think so,” I admit. “Or maybe not. I don’t know. All I know is that she’s no one, and what she said shouldn’t matter. They shouldn’t mean anything. But for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about Rachel, I can’t stop thinking about the past, and I can’t let go of her words. I should never have let you talk me into seeing her.”
Emma puts her hand on my arm and squeezes.
“It’s not a bad thing to face your past. Even without a fortune teller’s input. Maybe it was just time you do something about the things you’re trying so hard to ignore.”
I down almost all of my remaining smoothie.
“There’s a reason I’m trying to ignore it,” I say.
Emma thinks about it for a moment before she nods. “You’re right. What about you take this one step at a time? It’s like training.”
“What is?” I ask.
“Moving forward. You focus on one muscle group, one set of exercises, until you’re strong enough to deal with that. And only then do you move on to the next.”
I laugh. “Focusing on Rachel isn’t like focusing on a muscle group.”
“Oh, no… but focusing on Rachel might make you focus on a muscle group.” She winks at me and I grin at her.
“It’s not like that.”
But of course, it is. Because Rachel turns me on. Last night when I saw her, it took everything not to grab her and kiss her, to grind myself against her.
I kissed her hand like a fucking gentleman when the things I really want to do to her aren’t gentlemanly at all.
Chapter 8
Rachel
When I ride the elevator up to Blake’s penthouse apartment, my stomach is twisted in knots of nerves. I’m excited to see him again, but I scold myself for it. I’m not supposed to feel this way about him.
He’s a client.
He’s much older than I am.
He’s Blake Ford.
When the elevator doors slide open in his lobby, his front door is already open and he waits for me like he did last time. This time, he doesn’t look ready to run out for a meeting, and he doesn’t look pissed at me.
I’m on time; that helps a lot.
“Rachel,” he says.
I can’t get over how he says my name, as if it's something special.
“Hi,” I breathe and walk to him.
He reaches for me and touches my arm lightly before he gestures for me to come into his apartment.
“Coffee?” he offers.
I nod.
“Come with me,” he says and I follow him to the kitchen.
The kitchen looks like it belongs in a magazine, with marble countertops, not granite, and state-of-the-art appliances that gleam as if they’re brand new.
“Do you cook in this kitchen?” I blurt out before I can catch myself. “I mean… it looks soclean.”
