Page 178 of What We Break
Reid's whole face lights up. "He's amazing at what he does. When we first moved in together, I thought he was crazy for taking on these massive restoration projects, but seeing the finished pieces..." He shakes his head. "Pure art."
I nod. I'm thinking about the way Blake's face changed when he was explaining his process. How his voice went quiet when he talked about the original craftsmen, like he owed them something. For those few minutes, I got it. The person Reid keeps telling me about—passionate, talented, completely lost in his work. I saw him.
Then he shifted, and those walls slammed back up.
"Is he joining us for dinner?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
Reid glances toward the back door. "I can go check. He's been eating in the workshop a lot lately."
"Actually, let me." The words come out before I can stop them. "I'll just pop out and ask."
Reid raises an eyebrow but doesn't object. "Okay. I'll get the water going for pasta."
I walk back across the yard, rehearsing what I'll say. I’ll be casual and friendly. Just an invitation to dinner. Nothing complicated.
The workshop door is still propped open, and Blake is back at his workbench, tools scattered around the mantel piece.
"Blake?" I call from the doorway.
He looks up with a resigned, nearly eye-rolling expression. That doesn't feel good.
"Dinner's almost ready," I say. "Reid and I were hoping you'd join us."
Blake sets down his chisel and wipes his hands on the rag again. "Thanks, but I'm good."
"Come on. It's just pasta. Nothing fancy."
"Laine." His voice is gentle but firm. "I appreciate the invitation, but I'm not really feeling like being the third wheel tonight."
I hold on to the doorframe. "You wouldn't be a third wheel. We want you there." But he's right. He would be the third wheel. It's inevitable. He's always going to be on the outside, and there's nothing we can do about it.
Blake stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, I'm a grown man. I can feed myself when I'm hungry. You two don't need to worry about including me in your date nights."
"It's not a date night. It's just dinner."
"Right." Blake's smile is thin. "Just dinner with the happy couplewhile the roommate sits there watching you two make eyes at each other."
Heat flushes my cheeks. I feel like a jerk pushing this. But if we don't spend more time together, we can't build a better relationship. It's a catch-22, whatever that actually means. "Blake, that's not?—"
"It's fine, Laine. Really." He takes a step toward me, and suddenly I'm very aware of how small the workshop feels, how close we're standing. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I just think it's better if I stay out here tonight."
He reaches out to guide me toward the door, his hand wrapping around my elbow. The contact is brief, gentle, but it sends an electric jolt through me that I absolutely do not understand. Blake's fingers are warm and calloused from his work, and for just a second, he hesitates, his thumb brushing against my skin.
Our eyes meet, and that charged and confusing feeling that makes my breath catch is there.
Then Blake drops his hand and steps back, his jaw tightening.
"Go have dinner with Reid," he says quietly. "I'll see you both later."
He moves to close the workshop door. Not quite pushing me out, but the message is clear enough.
And then I'm standing on the other side of it, staring at weathered wood, my elbow still warm where his hand was.
What the hell was that?
I walk back to the house on unsteady legs, my mind racing. Blake's touch, the look in his eyes, the way he'd said Reid's name—like it was a reminder to both of us.
A reminder of what?
