Page 27 of Drive Me Crazy
“I’m no Michael Phelps!” I yell when I come up for air. “Don’t drown me.”
We’re face-to-face, our bobbing heads inches apart.Don’t look at his lips, don’t look at lips.He’s too sexy, I’m too tipsy, and we’re a little too close. If I wasn’t already wet, looking at Blake’s white dress shirt clinging to his muscles as water drips down his exposed skin would’ve done the trick.
“Are there any sports you’re good at?”
“First of all, it’s rude to assume I’m not athletic,” I chastisehim. “Second of all, I won a hot-dog-eating competition when I was seven, so I have a trophy with my name on it.”
He chuckles before disappearing into the dark blue water. My brain catches up to my body and I flutter kick my way back to the boat with Blake following closely behind. I’m desperate to change out of the shirt that’s glued to my body like a second skin and am grateful to find his steward left out towels and dry clothes for us. The sweats and shirt arewaytoo big on me, but I like baggy clothes. They’re comfortable, and after the grossly inappropriate comments on my figure at my last job … it’s a protective layer. The shirt smells like Blake—masculine and delicious.
“Do I look like a trash panda?” I point to my face. Mascara is definitely smudged under my eyes. Blake’s forehead creases as he frowns in confusion.
“Trash panda is another name for a raccoon,” I explain exasperatedly.
He lets out a low, gravelly laugh that vibrates through his chest as the two of us settle onto the sleek leather couch in his boat’s salon. A variety of food and drinks sit neatly on the coffee table in front of us, and I waste no time ripping open the bag of Tostitos. The corners of Blake’s mouth tug up. He can’t seem to get over how much I love snacks.
Theo’s been calling Blake nonstop since we stepped onto the boat and Blake’s ignored him each and every time. After call number twenty, I insist he answer his phone. What if Theo’s in danger or something? Turns out the only thing in danger is our eardrums. The music’s deafeningly loud. Blake cringes at the sound too, holding his phone away from him.
“Where the fuck are you?” Theo shouts.
“Out on the boat. What’s up?”
“Well, you need to come back.” He’s almost impossible to understand thanks to the vodka slurring his speech. “Amelie’s here. And she’s horny for you, Hollis.”
Well,that was crystal clear. I quickly slap my hand over my mouth.
“Josie should start a ‘Horny for Hollis’ trend on Instagram,” I joke quietly so only Blake can hear.
He rolls his eyes at me. “Go enjoy the party, Theo. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I tuck my knees up under me as Blake attempts to get off the phone. There’s no stopping Theo once he has an audience, but he’s not making much sense. When he finally cuts Theo off by unceremoniously hitting “end” and then turning off his phone, Blake presses his thumbs into his temples.
“Christ,” he mutters to himself.
Keeping my eyes trained on the floral arrangement opposite the couch, I work up the nerve to ask, “So why did you leave the party? Since Amelie’s so horny for you and all.”
Amelie’s probably blond and tall and has massive mango boobs. I bet she’s on the Peloton leaderboard and shops exclusively at Whole Foods, or whatever the European equivalent is, and eats only vegan, gluten-free, and keto foods. And I’m sure she can separate sex from feelings and have fun, casual one-night stands. She’s the worst and I hate her.
“Amelie is bat-shit crazy. Restraining order level,” Blake admits with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m not sure why Theo selectively forgets that part.”
My face manages to stay neutral, not giving away that I’m extremely happy Amelie is a psycho stalker instead of an Instagram baddie.
“So you left because … ”
He can’t avoid my question that easily. And I won’t let him get away with answering it with another question again.
“The party’s the same every year. Not missing much.” He shrugs before winking. “And I wanted to make sure you weren’t stealing from me.”
“Yeah,because I definitely want to steal your weird blue painting, Blake.”
He has a massive piece of so-called “art” that’s literally just a canvas painted blue. That’s it. I can finger paint something more artistically creative. He mumbles that it’s an original Rodolfo. No idea who that is, but it probably cost him more than this boat did. Maybe I’ll paint a canvas red and claim it’s a Rodolfo, too. Highly doubt he’d know the difference.
“Why’d you decide to dance in my kitchen instead of surrounding yourself with celebs?”
“I was planning on going,” I admit, “but saw on social media that some old work colleagues were there.”
I’m in such a better spot than I was a few months ago, but the thought of running into someone from PlayMedia brought on a fresh wave of emotion I wasn’t expecting. Hence chugging wine straight from the bottle and having a solo dance party. Josie offered to keep me company, but I told her to enjoy herself. At least one of us should stay in case Harry Styles does show up to the party; there was a rumor floating around.
“You don’t have to tell me anything, but I’m here if you want to talk,” Blake says softly.
