Page 180 of What We Break
Blake laughs, but it's not a happy sound. "Right. Yourself."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it." He starts gathering plates, and his movements quick, like the faster he goes, the faster he can get away from me. This man is terrible for my ego. "Reid will be back in a minute."
"Blake." I don't take my eyes off of him. "Did I do something wrong?"
He stops. His hands grip the edge of a plate, knuckles going white against the ceramic.
"You didn't do anything wrong." His voice is rough. "You're perfect. That's the problem."
I have absolutely no idea what to do with that. Because what do you do when someone says you're the problem and it sounds like a confession? When the words land so gently but still leave a mark?
So I don't move. And he doesn't look up. The silence between us is so heavy.
"Perfect?" I really don't like his tone. The way he says perfect, like it's some crime. Why am I dissecting everything he says? And why amI letting him get to me? "I'm not perfect, Blake. I leave my dishes in the sink for days. I'm useless before my second coffee—ask anyone I've ever worked with. I once held a grudge against a woman in a hostel for six weeks because she borrowed my shampoo without asking."
I step closer, irritation overriding my usual caution.
"So whatever you think you're seeing? That's not it. I'm just a person trying to figure out how to fit into your best friend's life without making everything harder. I'm just trying to know you."
Blake's jaw tightens, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"That's not what I meant," he says.
"Then what did you mean?"
He doesn't answer. We're standing too close now. His shoulders are bunched up around his ears. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
"Blake—"
The front door bangs open.
"Found them!" Reid's voice carries from the hallway. "You're not going to believe this thing?—"
Blake steps back. The mask slides into place so fast it's like watching a door slam shut.
By the time Reid walks into the kitchen, Blake is at the sink rinsing dishes, shoulders relaxed, expression easy. Like nothing happened.
Like I imagined the whole thing.
But my skin feels too tight. There's a hum in my chest that won't quiet down.
And I can't stop seeing the way Blake's eyes dropped to my mouth.
36
BLAKE
The chisel slips for the third time tonight.
I set it down before I do real damage, pressing my palms flat against the workbench.
Focus. It's just wood. It's just work.
But my mind won't stay on the acanthus leaves I'm supposed to be carving. It keeps sliding back to a few hours ago. The kitchen. Laine's eyes flashing when she pushed back on me.
"I'm not perfect, Blake. I leave my dishes in the sink for days."
