Page 135 of What We Brave
"Uh-huh." He turns back to the stove, stirring something. "Warm. That why your hair's different than when you got here?"
"My hair is fine."
"It's not."
Reid makes a strangled sound into the cabinet he's reaching into.
"Blake." I try for warning, but it comes out breathless.
He sets down the spoon. Turns to face me fully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Completely at ease. That half-smile playing on his mouth like he's got all the time in the world.
"Just making an observation." His eyes drift over me, slow and deliberate. "You look like you started something and didn't get to finish."
Reid laughs out loud. He doesn't even try to hide it.
I should be embarrassed. Iamembarrassed. But something else is building underneath it — something hot and reckless that's been simmering for the last few weeks. Maybe longer.
"You know what, Blake?"
He raises an eyebrow, still smirking.
I close the distance between us. Get right up in his space — close enough to smell the garlic on his hands, the wood smoke on his shirt. He goes still. The smirk falters.
"If you ever want to get the chance to mess me up a little," I say, low enough that Reid has to lean in to hear, "you'll stop teasing me right this minute."
The kitchen goes quiet.
Blake's eyes darken. The smirk dissolves into something hungrier. Something that makes the air between us feel combustible. Behind me, I hear Reid's sharp intake of breath.
Blake holds my gaze. Long. Unhurried. Then he uncrosses his arms. Reaches past me for the serving spoon. Sets it down on the counter. Slowly. Deliberately. Never breaking eye contact.
"Yes, ma'am."
Low. Dark. A rumble I feel in my sternum.
My whole body goes hot. My knees actually wobble. Reid makes a sound behind me that might be a laugh or might be something else entirely.
Blake's mouth curves — not the smirk. Something slower. Heavier. A promise he fully intends to keep.
I am in so much trouble this weekend.
I can't freaking wait.
27
REID
The kitchen feels like Christmas morning if Christmas morning wanted to fuck.
I'm at the sink, rinsing the last of the dinner plates, but I'm not thinking about dishes. Not even a little. My hands are going through the motions — soap, scrub, rinse — while my attention is bolted to the two people behind me.
Laine is wiping down the table. Jerky strokes. Fast. She's wound so tight I can feel it from here, five feet away, like standing next to a transformer box humming at a frequency that makes your teeth itch.
And Blake.
Blake is leaning against the refrigerator, arms crossed, watching her. Not even trying to hide it. He's got this look on his face — dark, hungry, something I've never seen on him before. He wound her up on purpose. That "Yes, ma'am" bullshit was calculated, surgical, and now he's just standing there watching her come apart at the seams.
I shut off the faucet.
