Page 48 of No More Bad Boys
He moves past her and steps out onto the front walk. The raindrops start painting a Jackson Pollock on his dark t-shirt. He studies me, taking in my wet hair, my athletic wear and shoes.
“Cadence—I can’t believe you’re here. I thought you had a date tonight.”
It’s a wonder I can respond without stammering. “Yes. I do—did. But it’s done. And I thought… but of courseyouhave a date, and I’m just going to… finish my run now.”
I turn away and start to sprint toward the street.God, what was I thinking?
Strong fingers clamp on my shoulder. Blake pulls me around to face him. “Hey—wait. Stop. Where are you going? It’s pouring. Come inside.”
“No thanks. I really have to go.”
“What are you talking about, crazy girl? You just got here. I’ve been telling Whitney how brilliant you are, and now here you are running at night in a storm.”
His hand slides down my shoulder and arm to clasp my cold fingers. “Don’t make a liar out of me—come on. You’re just in time to eat.”
Whitney? Is that the woman who answered the door? And he told her about me?
I let Blake tug me inside. I’m trembling, either from nerves or my drenched hair and clothing. Probably both.
The inside of his home is warm, in more ways than one. Yes, the temperature feels good on my chilled skin, but the décor is homey. Definitely not bachelor-esque.
A large brown leather sectional anchors the living room. Two overstuffed chairs flank a nice stone fireplace.
With its earthy tones and substantial furniture, the place feels masculine, but there are nice comfortable touches, like pillar candles on the mantle, a soft-looking oatmeal-colored throw blanket over one chair arm, and pretty drapes that coordinate with the throw pillows on the sofa and chairs.
It looks like acouplelives here.
“Your place is really nice.”
Blake smiles down at me as he leads me into the kitchen.
“You like it? I’ll tell my sister. She picked out everything for me. Hey Whit—you’ve got another fan. Whitney’s a decorator,” he explains, nodding toward the gorgeous woman now stirring whatever’s on the stove as we enter the room.
Sister.I can’t stop a huge smile from emerging.
She reaches across the counter. “Cadence, I’m so happy to meet you. Blake’s told me a lot about you.”
Her tone hints that whatever Blake told her, she approves.
I take her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” I don’t say that Blake’s told me nothing about her or any other member of his family.
Does he have more siblings? Does Whitney live here with him? If so, the evening’s going to turn out a lot differently than I hoped.
“I hope this stuff’s not burned,” she says to Blake. “He’s the chef in the family, not me. I can’t even cook crackers and peanut butter.”
“But you don’t have to cook crack—” I stop and laugh as I get her joke.
“Ugh—crackers and peanut butter. Don’t remind me,” Blake says, and Whitney snickers.
Seeing my obvious confusion, she begins to explain, “When Blake and I were growing up, our mom—”
“Whitney.”
In response to his censoring tone, she edits her tale, turning it into a short story. “We just ate a lot of peanut butter. That’s all.”
She gives him a wide-eyed what’s-your-problem look. He meets it with a quick head shake.
Clearly there’s something he doesn’t want me to know about their past or their mom. I don’t know—it’s strange.
