Page 24 of What We Break
The way he talks about Blake. It's not just fondness. There's a whole other frequency underneath it, something warm and lived-in and — yeah.
Huh.
I file that away. Not sure what folder it goes in yet. Maybe the one I keep losing behind the mental filing cabinet.
"What does Blake do?"
"Architectural restoration. He's really good at it — gets clients from all over the country shipping him pieces to work on."
"That sounds really cool. Like, from old buildings and stuff?"
"Fireplace mantels, door trim and those chandelier medallion thingys, mostly. Intricate woodwork and historic details that need repair or recreation." Reid leans forward, waving his hands, the tiredness falling off him. He'sexcited."Right now he's working on this mantel from an 1887 mansion in Boston. The thing looks like something fromBeetlejuice."
"Wow. That's like... art, almost."
"It really is. Blake gets obsessed with getting every detail historically accurate. He'll spend hours researching the original construction methods." Reid's waving fork nearly takes out the salt shaker. "I'm talkinghours, Laine. I'll come home and he's surrounded by like fifteenbooks and hasn't eaten since Tuesday. I have to physically drag food into his workshop or the man would just dissolve."
The exasperation is layered over something deeper, more protective — it reminds me of how my mom talks about my dad.Can you believe this man? Can you believe I chose this impossible, wonderful person?
Is it a little weird that he's talking about his best friend-slash-roommate like that? Yeah. But it's also kind of adorable.
"Sounds like you two balance each other out. You may be the least grumpy person I've ever met."
His nose wrinkles with his wide grin. "Aw, Laine. It's like youseeme." He presses his palms to his chest, sighing dramatically. Then shakes it off. "We do balance each other out. He keeps me from getting too in my head, and I keep him from working himself to death."
The waitress appears with our food — a stack of pancakes so high it actually wobbles as she carries it, and what looks like a mound of bacon on a plate shaped a lot like a beehive.
"Oh my goodness," I say, staring at my plate. "This is insane."
"Yep," he says with a happy cackle. "You'll take half of it home."
Half? No chance. My stomach would have to strech to double to fit that. But I'm sure going to try. I cut into the pancakes and take a bite.
Oh.
Fluffy and sweet and buttery and — I close my eyes and actually groan, which is mortifying, but I can't help it. These pancakes are a religious experience.
"Told you," Reid says, looking smug.
"Don't talk to me. I'm having a moment."
"Take your time. I'll wait."
I take three more bites before I can form words. "Okay. You were right. I doubted the pancakes, and I was wrong."
"I forgive you. But only because you made that sound."
"What sound?"
"That little groan thing. When you took the first bite." He's grinning. "Very flattering."
Oh God. Heat crawls up my neck. "That was involuntary."
"Even better."
I throw a sugar packet at him. He catches it without looking. Of course he does.
"What about you?" he asks, mercifully moving on. "Are you making friends in Oregon?"
