Page 61 of No More Bad Boys
She gives me a quick wink as she slides out of the booth.
“Drive careful,” Blake says. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Oh yes. Call me. I want to hear all thenews,” she replies, giving me the go-ahead-and-do-it look before turning to walk away.
“What was that about?” Blake asks, watching her leave and wearing a baffled expression.
“Um, I guess she was making a joke about news people?” I suggest lamely, though I know exactly to what she was referring.
Now that we’re alone, any sort of chit-chat or small talk I might have normally been able to come up with has evaporated.
My entire brain is consumed with the idea of telling Blake I love him.
I think about just blurting it out, but that seems wrong, too unromantic.
Maybe I should wait until we’re making love later and tell him during? Or right after?I don’t know.
I’ve never said it when I actually knew what I was talking about. The weak feeling I had for Tyler didn’t even come close to this. This time it’sreal, and I want to do it right, but I don’t know how.
I’ve also gone into a mini-panic wondering what I’ll do if he doesn’t say it back. He will, won’t he?
He loves me, too.
Whitney said he does, and she knows her brother better than anyone. Besides, I believe it’s true. It’s there when he looks at me, when he touches me.
I can do this.Some risks are worth taking.
I turn toward Blake in the booth, so I can see his face straight-on and he can see mine. “I need to tell you something.”
At first he freezes. Okay, probably not the best way to start—Kenley says guys usually freak out when they hear the dreaded words, “we need to talk.”
Then he lets out a breath and says, “I need to tell you something, too. I’ve been wanting to tell you. I really should have earlier, but I’ve been afraid of how you would react.”
My heart rate ratchets up to match the beat of the pop tune now playing through the bar.
This is it. A moment I’ll remember forever—we’re both going to say those three crucial words.
Should I let him go first, or should I?
Afraid I’ll lose my nerve and mildly concerned about his troubled expression, I take the initiative.
“Blake—I… I love you.”
For a moment, his face clears into a look of blank shock, and then it melts into an expression I can only describe as one-hundred-percent-reciprocal-love.
But he doesn’t say it.
What he says is, “Wow. Thank you.”
Thank you?Thank you?
Oh godohgodohgod. He doesn’t love me. I’m overwhelmed with the desire to slink beneath our booth and belly-crawl across the sticky pub floor straight to the exit door.
Then he grabs my hand on the tabletop and brings it to his smiling lips. “I love you, too. That wasn’t what I was going to tell you tonight, because I wasn’t sure if I should say it yet. But I do. I really do love you.”
And life is good again.
My heart can re-start, my belly can un-freeze. I can go on breathing in and out.
