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He just shrugged, like it was nothing, and took another gulp of coffee. But I wasn’t convinced he was so blasé about it. I’d gotten the feeling that he liked her a lot.
“By the way, next time you stay over, could you make sure you close and lock the door before collapsing on my sofa?”
He frowned. “I did lock your door.”
“Well, it was open when I got here.”
His head jerked back. “Really? Huh. Sorry, Kenz. I could have sworn I closed and locked it.” He chugged back another mouthful of coffee. “Fuck, I need a shower. Do I have any spare clothes here?”
“In the closet from the last time you crashed here. Top shelf.”
“Awesome.” He disappeared into the bathroom, cup in hand. With a coffee and a bowl of cereal, I settled at the small breakfast bar and checked the emails on my phone as I ate. Nina Bowen’s email account had a few, but none were from Smith. I replied to each of the emails, typing—
A knock at the door made my brow pinch. Crossing to it, I looked through the peephole. My stomach plummeted. Shit. What the fuck was Blake doing here? And why did he have to come here when I looked an absolute mess? I had bedhead, no makeup, and looked half dead. Oh, the universe hated me.
With an inner curse, I opened the door and smiled wanly. “Morning.”
His eyes heated as they raked over me from head to toe. “Can I come in?”
“Well—”
He pushed his way inside, kicking the door shut behind him. And that was when Cade came walking out of my bedroom, freshly showered and slipping on his tee. Blake went rigid, and his glacier blue eyes iced-over. I winced. Naturally he’d assume that me and Cade had spent the night together—who wouldn’t? But then some of the tension slipped from Blake’s muscles, and I noticed he was looking at the pillow, blanket, and rumpled sofa.
Coming to a surprised halt, Cade blinked. “Blake.” His brow creased in confusion. “What brings you here?”
Blake planted his feet. “I need to talk to Kensey.”
Cade’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you want to give her shit about working at the bar?”
“No.”
Cade didn’t relax at that. If anything, he looked even more uneasy. “Then why?”
“That’s between me and Kensey.”
Oh, Cade didn’t like that. His brows lifted. “There’s a you and Kensey?” His focus shifted to me. “There’s a you and him?”
Rubbing at my nape, I said, “No. But there’s a you-need-to-get-to-work-before-your-dad-kicks-your-ass.”
“You’re trying to get rid of me? Nice.” He turned back to Blake. “Why are you here?”
“I told you, I need to talk to Kensey. In private. If she wants to later tell you what was said here, she will do. For now, I need to talk to her alone.”
For a few moments, Cade didn’t speak. His eyes cut to me. “You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him.
With a grunt, Cade slipped on his jacket, kissed my cheek, and then shot Blake a warning look before striding out of the apartment. Leaving me alone with Blake. Which wasn’t good. Not at all. And I felt my stomach roll.
My eyes were drawn to the mess Cade had made. I’d need to return the pillow and blanket to the closet. Of course, I’d have to wash the blanket first. After that, I’d need to plump the sofa cushions and—
“Does he do that a lot?” asked Blake.
Snapping out of my must-clean daze, I blinked. “Stay the night? Not really. Why are you here?”
His hand delved into his pocket. “I believe this is yours.” He dangled a familiar earring in front of me.
“Thanks.” I took it from him. “You didn’t need to deliver this so soon. In fact, you could have just handed it to me at the bar.”
“I could have,” he agreed, settling on a breakfast stool. “Any coffee?”
Knowing by the set of his jaw that he wasn’t going to budge, I poured him a coffee and set it on the counter in front of him. I didn’t take the stool beside him; it seemed safer to keep the breakfast bar between us.
He sipped from the cup and groaned. My stomach fluttered, because he’d made that same damn noise when he kissed me last night. It made no logical sense, but I was wildly turned on … and he hadn’t touched me. Hadn’t smiled or flirted or anything. Just looked right at me, and those smoldering eyes drew me in. Like fucking quicksand or something.
I wanted to slap myself. Really. It was truly fucking annoying.
He looked around. “This place is … tidy. I didn’t take you for a neat freak.”
“Hmm. Why are you here?”
“To negotiate.”
“Negotiate?” I echoed.
“Last night, you said, ‘It can’t happen.’ You’re not fighting me just to be stubborn or because I made a bad first impression. There’s something else. You’re going to tell me what it will take to make you stop fighting me. Then we’ll see what we can do about it.” He went back to sipping his coffee, and I just stared at him, not sure what bothered me more—that his tenacious streak seemed endless, or that a part of me liked his little declaration.
On the one hand, it was kind of flattering that he wasn’t letting this go. He knew the dark details of my family situation, but that didn’t appear to matter to him. On the other hand, though, it was also kind of sad. Why? Because this wasn’t about me as a person. He simply liked what he saw.
I sighed. “This is damn ridiculous, Mercier. You can’t be short of offers from women. Maybe you like the chase, I don’t know, but there’s nothing so special about me that you can’t let this go.”
“My name is Blake—use it. I don’t find fun in a chase. I like having what I want when I want it. Am I short of offers? No. Nobody with money ever is. But I’ve already told you, I want you. Now tell me what’s holding you back from me.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Well, it boils down to three things, really. One, I have too much self-respect to sleep with someone who has a piss-poor opinion of me. Two, I don’t know you, and I’m not interested in fucking a stranger. Three, you don’t want anything more from me than a quick jump—I don’t do one-night stands.” And there was something about him that set off my inner alarms.
He arched a brow. “You’ve never had a one-night stand?”
“I’ve had them. I promised myself I was done with them.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “I’ll address your points one at a time. Let’s start with number one. I don’t have a low opinion of you—I have a low opinion of the picture that Libby Williams painted. I’ve watched you. Talked to you. Asked others about you. A different picture has formed in my head, and I like it. I like it a lot.”
Oh. Well, then.
He leaned forward. “To be truthful, Kensey, you fucking fascinate me. Life dealt you shit cards, but you’re not bitter and you don’t walk around with a chip on your shoulder. You’ve stuck by a mother who made a series of bad choices that have affected you in tons of negative ways—another person in your position might have abandoned her long ago, and no one would have blamed you for that. Despite the relentless bullshit you’ve received from the Buchanan Brigade, you haven’t let them drive you out of Redwater or make you miserable.”
