Page 49 of No More Bad Boys
A twinge of foreboding twists in my gut. I hate secrets, and this guy seems to have a lot of them.
He relieves her of stove-duty, stirring the dish. “Hope you like Italian. It’s Chicken Saltimbocca.”
“I’ve never had that before, but it smells great.”
“We have a salad too. Wait—you probably already ate, didn’t you?”
“No. I mean yes—but it was a while ago—and my date was pretty strenuous. I worked up an appetite.”
Blake’s eyes widen then narrow, and a line forms between his brows, but he says nothing, just turns back to the stove and adds some chopped fresh herbs to the dish he’s cooking.
Even if supper hadn’t been three hours ago, I’d still want a bite of this. The food smells nearly as appetizing as Blake looks, and that’s saying a lot.
Now that I have a chance to observe him through un-panicked eyes, I’m realizing he’s not dressed for a dinner date.
His dark t-shirt is paired with black track pants, loose through the thighs and calves, though they do hug his hips and bottom quite nicely.
His feet are bare and… really nice. I’ve never really liked feet, but his are cute, in a big, size thirteen kind of way, lightly tanned with white square nails.
Blake glances up and notices me looking him over then looks down at himself. “Yeah, I’m pretty wet I guess. So are you. I’m gonna change.”
He turns off the heat and slides the pan to the side, away from the hot eye. “I’ll get you something to put on, too. All my stuff will be huge on you, but at least it’ll be dry.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have any extra clothes with me,” says Whitney.
Okay, so she doesn’t live here.
“No, I’m fine in this.”
My wet t-shirt is plastered to me, revealing the dark sports bra underneath. My black skort isn’t transparent, but it’s pretty drenched as well.
A shiver goes through my body, revealing my lie.
Blake shakes his head, coming around the counter and looking me up and down. “At least let me throw your shirt in the dryer. It’ll be ready by the time dinner’s finished.”
“I’ll help her,” Whitney volunteers and hops off the bar stool. “Come with me, Cadence.”
She leads me down the hallway to what I assume is Blake’s bedroom.
Glancing up from the dresser drawer she’s rummaging through, she asks, “So you went out with a friend tonight? What’d y’all do?”
It’s not exactly the third-degree, but I do sense that Whitney’s doing her brother’s dirty work, trying to figure out the nature of my relationship with Troy and what we did tonight that was sostrenuous.
Looking back on it, that was a poor choice of words. No wonder she’s curious.
“We went rock-climbing.”
Her face lights up, and a bit of tension leaves the room.
“Fun! I used to do cool stuff like that before… well, it’s been awhile. You’re making me jealous.”
“Me, too,” Blake mutters from behind me. I turn to see him standing in the doorway, holding the frame on either side, watching us.
Louder, he says, “Find something?”
Whitney pulls a large Kennesaw State t-shirt from the drawer and holds it up. “This good?”
“It’s really not necessary…” I start to protest.
