Page 34 of Trusting Blake
I melt even now just thinking about his low, husky tones with his captivating Southern twang. I like Blake’s voice when he talks, but I like it even more when he sings.
He turns to me, a prompting smirk on his face. “Whataboutmy voice?”
“It. . .” I try, but any elegant words to describe the way Blake’s voice makes me feel evade me. So I resort to my usual blushing instead. “I can’t say it.”
“Do I sing that bad?”
“No! Your voice. . . It gives me butterflies.” I close my eyes, embarrassed to have said it out loud, then find the courage to peek at him.
Blake flashes me a smug, cocky grin and steps closer, eyes smoldering. “Butterflies, huh?”
“Don’t!” I groan playfully, and then before I can stop myself, I’ve slapped my wet sponge against his chest. The shy smile is instantly wiped from my face and I gasp, my free hand moving to cover my mouth in surprise at my lack of judgment. “Oops.”
Blake parts his lips and stares down at the damp stain in the center of his T-shirt. He’s quiet for a moment, unmoving, and then he abruptly springs into action. He throws his sponge to the ground and sprints over to the faucet, turning on the water and snatching the hose from the ground.
“No!” I shriek, diving behind the rear of the truck.
But any attempt to hide is futile. Blake catches me around the other side, points the hose in my direction, and fires a cold stream of water straight at me. I hurl my sponge at him as I run, zipping back and forth across the driveway as he chases me, soaking every inch of me. My hair sticks to my cheeks, my sneakers squelch, but in between my infuriatingly girly screams, I hear laughter. Blake’s laughter,mylaughter.
“Cliché, Blake!Cliché!” I yell, and then I grab a bucket of soapy water and throw it over him.
We both stop, drenched. The heart of a country song beats through the air.
Blake drops the hose and shakes his hair out, water spraying everywhere, and then runs his hands through the damp, tousled mess. I wring out the hem of my shirt.
“Hey, can you expect anything other than cliché from a Tennessee kid who dreams of being a country star?” Blake says, breathless.
His smile mirrors mine, and we gaze across at each other as water drips from our clothes, and I’m thinking that now is the perfect moment to close the gap between us and kiss him—
“Lacey,” he says.
I blink.
Blake leans into his truck to shut off his music, then walks past me to the foot of the driveway. I turn to find him approaching Lacey, who seems to have appeared out of thin air. I notice a swanky Range Rover parked behind Barney’s truck. When didthatshow up? Blake and I must have been more caught up in our water fight than I realized.
“Lace,” Blake says again, and I can’t help but recoil slightly at the familiarity between them. “What are you doing here?”
“What a welcome for your dinner guest,” Lacey says with an eye roll. She’s all cutesy, her hair curled at the ends and lips shining with gloss, her hands folded sweetly in front of her. “Your mom invited me! Didn’t she tell you?”
“No,” Blake admits, but then laughs. “Sorry, come on in. Avoid the. . . puddles.”
Lacey stealthily pivots around the pools of water on the drive – the hose is still running – and as she passes me, she looks me up and down. “Hey, Mila. Are you staying for dinner too?”
“I don’t think so—” I glance, unsure, at Blake.
“Oh, Mila,” another voice appears breezily.
I tear my eyes from Lacey and lock them on LeAnne as she emerges from the front door, which increases my irritation tenfold. Why does every good moment have to be ruined? First by Lacey, and now by LeAnne. She strides down the path from the porch, towels in her arms, which makes me wonder. . . Has she been watching Blake and me? Did she know I was here the whole time?
“I would ask you to stay, Mila, but Lacey is a friend of the family, and we are having a long overdue get-together. I hope you understand,” she says, then pulls Lacey into a one-armed hug and cheerfully exclaims, “Hey, honey!”
The whole scenario is making me feel small and insignificant, especially when LeAnne won’t even make eye contact with me. She pulls back from Lacey and throws a towel at Blake. “Get inside and shower before dinner. Dress nice since we have a guest tonight.”
Blake flips the towel over his shoulder. “Yeah, great that you’re here, Lacey. But, Mom. . . Can’t Mila stay too?”
“I’m sorry, there simply aren’t enough chicken breasts to go around! Maybe another time,” LeAnne replies with a fake smile. She angles toward me and holds out the other towel, her dark eyes full of an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on. “Mila, dry yourself off. I called Sheri, and she’s already on her way to get you.”
“I’ll go halves with mine,” Blake tries, but LeAnne holds her hand up to silence him.
