Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“It must be nice to have such peace of mind. I always feel like I’m not quite where I belong,” Blake says and as he bites into his pastry, a crumb stays on the skin close to his lips like the palest of beauty spots. I lick my lips, tempted to kiss him when I remember our mouths pressing together in the shower. But I’m older, more experienced, and need to keep a lid on things until he’s ready, so I swipe the flake away with my thumb.
He’ll be where he belongs when he knows he’s mine, but I have to be patient.
Green eyes meet mine, deep and soulful. “Now that your grandfather is gone, do you have any family left?”
“No. My mother moved to Florida after leaving me and we don’t keep in touch. But I have friends, a lot of people know me from my shop, they just… they don’t know all of me. Not like you.” I lift his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles. “And I want to be known. I’ve never told anyone any of this. Maybe this is what I’ve been missing when I tried to date.”
Blake snorts but doesn’t pull away, and I don’t miss the color rising to his cheeks again when I keep my lips against his soft hand. “T-this isn’t a romcom. We’d need to hate each other first, and you’re acting like you’re already all-in.”
“Isn’t you hating me enough for our love to bloom?” I tease, but my shoulders fall. I struggle to keep a lid on my excitement when it comes to romance.
Blake licks his lips, startled by my question. Tiny spiders crawl up my arms as we watch one another in silence, assessing the strength of the energy sparking between us.
“I don’t hate you,” he says in the end. “I’m just confused, because you’re not what I expected.”
“In a good way?”
Blake laughs and rubs his face in a careless way I find adorable. “Yes. But I also know you’re a killer, so I keep expecting you to turn me into your new project.”
I let go of him, because I don’t want to smother Blake. “You’re safe with me, Cryptic Boy. After all, I need new podcast episodes.”
He laughs once more, and I freeze when his hand touches my thigh, only to immediately pull away, as if he remembered he’s not supposed to be this touchy-feely. “I don’t doubt you’ll give me plenty of material to work on. Now that I know you only kill bad people, I’m almost sorry I can’t do a countdown to the next victim each December.” He drinks the coffee, finishes his pastry, but then starts wiggling closer to the edge of the bed.
“We’ll have to wait with any podcasting until I’m sure the person who ordered the hit is dead. For now, let’s enjoy the day. I left you a selection of clothes here,” I point to a chair, “and I’ll wait for you in the living room.” The very idea that someone who wants my precious sweet potato dead is out there makes me want to rage, so I take a deep breath.
“Thank you. I won’t be long,” Blake says and stretches on the way to the bathroom as if to show off the shape of his shoulders.
I in turn, can’t wait to show him off to Owen.
Chapter 10
Blake
It’s a bit overwhelming to have the kind of morning I considered relegated to romantic movies. Sure, I was in chains when Nico first entered, but he brought me coffee, pastries, and even new clothes, which he must have bought for me, since there’s no way he owns anything my size.
Unless the garments belong to one of his past victims.
I grab the burgundy sweater with a Scandi pattern on the arms and chest, and sigh in relief when I find an intact label. It also says the piece is made of hundred percent wool, which starts a little fire inside me. It’s nice to know Nico remembered what I told him last night.
I’m tempted to have another pastry, but it would be a bit too indulgent on a normal day like this one, so I rush into the bathroom for a quick shower, and then pair the sweater with dark blue jeans that fit me perfectly. Despite Nico clearly having a taste for loud patterns and bright colors, he took care to pick out something I’d feel comfortable in, which is a rather new development in my life. I’ve been choosing my own clothes since I was thirteen.
Carl does sometimes offer me wearable gifts, but he never understood my taste. I didn’t have the heart to tell him, but I don’t think he notices that I never put on the belts with big, flashy buckles, or wear the uncomfortably large wristwatch he gave me for my last birthday. He doesn’t wear such things either, but I suppose he considers it a more youthful style, suitable for someone my age.