Page 19 of Drive Me Crazy
The laugh that comes out of Blake is loud and raw. It’s not helping me feel any less attracted to him. I debate drowning myself in the pool after that embarrassing admission.
“Yes.” I put my hand out, pretending to cover the lower half of his body as I glare at him. “In America, men tend to wear swim trunks that don’t reveal quite so much. They’re a bit more modest.”
“Last time I checked, you’re American and your bathing suit is anything but modest.” Blake has a sassy grin on his dumb, handsome face. “Some may even say distracting.”
I immediately cover myself with the folded-up towel I’ve been using as a pillow. I feel way too exposed in my bikini, even though it’s completely appropriate.
Maybe not for a nun, but the bottoms give my ass a decent amount of coverage and the top isn’t about to goGirls Gone Wildon me.
“It’snot my fault you’re so used to surrounding yourself with fake boobs that you find real ones distracting.”
Blake may be good at bantering, but I’m better. It’s my favorite sport and I always go for gold.
“I’ve seen the girls you hang out with, Blake,” I continue, a victorious smile painted on my lips. “There’s so much plastic in them that they’re unknowingly saving the ocean’s turtles.”
I have absolutely no problem with women doing what they want to look and feel their best. I’m all for it. But it’s nearly impossible tonottease Blake for having a type.
He mutters something under his breath while shaking his head at me. I comfortably settle back into the chair and return to my book. Blake doesn’t move, but he does put in his earbuds and close his eyes. It’s kind of sweet how he tries to hide a smile sometimes.
NINE
Blake
I’VE ALWAYS LIKED BEING ALONE. There are no variables I haven’t accounted for, nothing that can throw me off. I can depend on myself, and life is predictable. Ella staying with me in Monaco is a shock to my system. And to my house. Her shit is all over the place—a purse on the kitchen counter, a stray sweatshirt on the recliner, a book left open on the patio. Don’t even get me started on the strands of hair everywhere. It’s like having a goddamn shedding dog.
I’ve let Ella interview me every morning for the past week and although I hate to admit it, George was right when he said she’s the best person for the job. Her interview style suits me. She’s straightforward but respectful. She knows when to push and when to pull back. She makes it feel like a conversation instead of an interrogation.
I don’t like when she rolls her eyes or tells me to “try again” when I give her a short or half-assed answer. And I definitely don’t like when she bites her lip in concentration. It makes me want to push her up against a wall and kiss her until she can’t think straight. It also makes my pants uncomfortably tight, so my right hand has gotten a massive workout this past week.Especially when I saw her in a bikini the other day. Bloody fucking hell. I have no idea how I managed to hide the tent in my pants.
I’ve been spending my afternoons away from the house and yes, Ella. Taking my boat out, grabbing drinks with friends, going on insanely long runs. All because I don’t know what to do with someone in my space. Am I supposed to hang out with her? Pretend she’s not there and ignore her? Give her a tour of the town? Offer her snacks? Make sure the air conditioning temperature is to her liking? I fuck women; I don’t … cohabitate with them. I’m completely out of my element.
For the third afternoon in a row, I make my way down to the dock that houses Lucas’s pride and joy: his sailboat. He owns a place down the street from me—which has been very convenient this week—but spends more time out on the water than in his own bed.
“Ahoy, Hollis,” he calls out from the bow of the boat. It’s eighty degrees out, but he’s wearing a long-sleeved Under Armour shirt and holding a beer can in each hand.
“New tattoo,” he explains as if reading my mind. He’s annoyingly perceptive like that. He rolls up his sleeve to show me the latest addition. Right above the Roman numerals representing his parents’ anniversary date is his niece Madison’s name in cursive script.
“Looks good,” I comment. “Assuming you told her you weren’t flying in for her birthday?”
If I told Millie I was missing her birthday, I’d never hear the end of it. My sister would drive to my house in London and drag me by the ear to a princess-themed party. Lucas’s family lives in Boston and doesn’t have that same luxury.
“Yep.” He flicks up a brow. “I’d rather deal with my parents’ disapproving looks over FaceTime than in person.”
I take a moment to study my friend. “Listen, I know I’m not one to speak on family shit—”
“Thendon’t.” The sharpness of his voice surprises me, but I don’t mention it. Luc’s never pushed me to talk about what led to my “shit-show of shenanigans”—thank you for that lovely description, Ella—so I won’t push him either. I go to therapy; Lucas gets new tattoos. We all deal with our shit differently.
We spend the next few hours cruising along the shoreline, sipping on beers. Whereas Theo loves to fill any silence with mindless chatter, Lucas is happy to sit in comfortable quiet and leave me to my own thoughts. Unfortunately, my mind keeps circling back to the American journalist with an annoyingly cute dimple.Cute?
My stomach gives a curious twist at the memory of Ella trying to help me with my crossword the other morning. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Reading on my patio? Exercising in my at-home gym? On the phone with her friend Poppy? The most likely scenario is she’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, working. When I left for Lucas’s boat, she was making edits to a chapter called “The Art of Karting.”
Since I’ve started letting her interview me in-depth, she and George have made massive strides. The two of them work well together, bouncing ideas off one another, giving constructive criticism. Not that I’ve been eavesdropping on their calls, but Ella talks loudly and she wasn’t wearing headphones.Sue me. Both Keith and Marion praised my cooperation after George sent us a detailed chapter-by-chapter outline.
Turns out Ella spent her afternoon watching basketball. I got the cross-legged part right, though.
“Hey,” I say, settling on the couch next to her. “Who’s playing?”
“Utah Jazz versus the Lakers.” She briefly glances away from the TV to greet me with a smile before focusing back on the game.
