Page 50 of Trusting Blake
“Because you keep insisting she’s just a friend, yet she comes by for dinner? Texts you?Flirtswith you?” I fold my arms, frustrated by the irritation flickering in Blake’s eyes. “A friend can do that, sure, but your ex? No. That’s too weird, Blake.”
“Mila, I’ve known the girl my whole life, and the only reason she still hangs around me is because her parents are close friends with my mom. You know that already; I’m not hiding anything,” he explains, then lets his weary sigh fill the air around us. “I didn’t say anything about her being my ex because we only dated for a short while, and it was never anything serious.”
“For you, maybe,” I mumble, wishing I could stop myself pushing him on this. “Lacey, however, she—”
“Mila, stop. I’m not doing this.” He grabs my bag and shoves it into my arms, then nudges his shoulder against me as he walks away. “Let’s just go home. We have parents waiting to yell at us.”
19
The two hundred miles between Memphis and Fairview seem to stretch on forever on the drive home. Blake and I aren’t talking much, at least not the way we usually talk. No teasing glances, no head-bopping to the latest country tunes. In fact, it’s the first time I’ve ever been in Blake’s truck with the music at a respectable volume. That’s how I know he’s lost deep in his own head. The trip had its fun moments, but it hardly turned out like I envisioned. And now my future with Blake seems much more uncertain.
By the time we roll up to the Harding Estate, the muscles in my neck are strained from napping against the window. I untangle myself from the seatbelt and sit up with a yawn. It’s just after noon and of course, there’s still a handful of stragglers pitched outside the gate. In a day or two, they will all surely have given up. Dad’s affair is no longer breaking news in the world of fame.
“Start opening the gate. I’ll drive you to the house,” Blake says in a subdued voice, pulling down his sun visor as we approach. I doubt he wants the paps to remember him from his lapse in self-control the other day.
I sluggishly fish the remote out of my bag and point it out the windshield, timing the opening perfectly just as the truck reaches the gate. We are on the other side, safe behind the ranch’s protective walls, before any of the paps can even pull the lens caps off their cameras. The gate closes automatically behind us, and the truck creeps nearer to the house, but I notice Sheri’s van is missing. Only the rented SUV is parked outside. Mom and Dad haven’t left the ranch since our trip to church.
The moment I allow myself to think of Mom and Dad, they appear at the front door with faces like thunder. They must have spotted Blake’s truck arriving. As they move outside, Mom presses her hands against the porch railing and stands rigid while Dad marches down the porch steps and stands threateningly at the foot of them, arms crossed, waiting.
Blake swallows hard and slowly brakes to a stop. We exchange a look of dread, then he says, “I guess I should meet your parents.”
Here goes nothing.
I swing my bag over my shoulder and hop out of the truck first, braced and ready for yet another episode ofMila Versus HerParents,but despite the fury on their faces, neither of them immediately says anything. Blake’s truck door thuds shut, and he moves around the hood to join me, then we make those dangerous few steps toward my father.
“Memphis,” Dad says in a steely voice. So, they got the note I left. “Memphis.”
Blake edges protectively in front of me. “I’m sorry, sir. Memphis was my idea.”
Dad isn’t wearing sunglasses today, despite the blinding sun shining down into his eyes, so it feels extra dramatic the way he slowly turns his attention to the boy by my side. “You’re brave coming onto this ranch, Blake.”
“I’m brave dating your daughter in the first place.”
I glance fiercely at Blake and purposely step on his foot. Is he serious? In what world is talking back to mydadever a good idea when he already disapproves of Blake as it is? Does this boyfriend of mine have a death wish?
A brief flash of curiosity crosses Dad’s face and he tips his head to the side inquisitively. “I assume your mom has told you about our history.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve known for a couple years,” Blake says, keeping his voice steady. “But that’s between you and my mom. It has nothing to do with me.”
Dad, in his best badass tone of voice he reserves only for on set, challenges, “So you aren’t dying to throw a punch at me like you did to one of those guys outside the other day?”
“No, sir.”
Dad drops his folded arms from his chest and places them on his hips instead, his eyebrows drawing together. “Why?”
“Because I know how it feels to have her stand in your way,” Blake says without missing a beat. He holds Dad’s gaze, completely unfazed by his superstar status. Neither of them is breaking eye contact, so I step forward.
“Blake wants to be a musician,” I tell Dad. “He plays guitar. He sings. He’s really, really good.”
“Huh,” is all Dad says. He looks Blake up and down with the most peculiar expression on his face.
“Mila, I want you to get in this house,” Mom orders from up on the porch, gesturing over the railing. “Blake, I think you should go home.”
“Yeah,” Dad agrees. “I’m sure your mom must be worried about you too.”
“She’s in Nashville for the weekend.” Blake shrugs. “I doubt she even knows I left.”
“Still. Go home,” Dad says. He takes my bag from my shoulder and throws it over his own, then gestures toward the house with a clipped nod. “Mila. Inside, please.”
