Drop Dead Gorgeous(65)
Waiting for Sebastian for days, waiting for Blake for weeks, waiting for sex for . . . well, let’s just say way too long . . . and I’m done with all of it.
I came to Blake’s after we left the dog park, ready to research some more, but we haven’t found the smoking gun of a possible poison and the proof we need. But if I’m honest with myself, the bigger mystery isn’t how Richard Horne died but why in the world a man like Blake Hale wants me.
But he does.
I can feel it as we talk about stupid factoids, play a game we’ve dubbed ‘Did You Know?’ that allows us to show off our useless trivia knowledge, consider and reject murderous methodologies Yvette might’ve used, and simply exist . . . together.
It feels right. I don’t trust it, or I don’t want to trust it because the one sure thing about trust is that it’s always broken, but somehow, Blake makes me . . . believe.
Sitting in Blake’s living room, Chunky passed out asleep with his nose in his once-again empty bowl and Blake relaxing beside me with an arm thrown casually over the back of the couch, I make a decision I hope I don’t regret. I scan for wood to touch and see the sign I’m looking for.
Blake said he put things all over for me to always have something to fulfill my superstition, and I believed him, but seeing it with my own two eyes is a very different thing. There . . . not just the wood coffee table, but the stack of wood and marble coasters on the end table by the chair. Those weren’t there last time I was here. I get up to check the kitchen.
Assuming my destination, Blake says, “Bathroom’s the second door on the left.”
I’ll take the opening, but first . . . In the kitchen, I see new wooden spoons in the utensil canister and a butcher block cutting board set out on the island.
Down the short hall to the bathroom, I quickly pee and wash my hands before staring at myself in the mirror.
“You can do this, Zoey Walker,” I whisper to my reflection. I’ve never been good at pep talks. The best I can usually offer is a hard-edged ‘at least no one died this time’, but I want to have different expectations.
I want to trust, I want to be a person who believes in silver linings and positivity despite my wealth of experience to the contrary. I shake my head, loosening the hold painful memories have on me, and point at myself in the mirror, firmly telling my reflection, “Holly is fine. Jacob is fine. Blake is fine. It’s okay to want this. It’s okay to need this. Nothing bad will happen.”
I can hear the lie in my own words. I correct myself, searching for truth and not wishes. “You’re already too deep in this, in him. Might as well . . .”
It’s all I’ve got, pitiful as it may be. I shrug, my eyes wide and showing the fear I feel inside. The reality is, I’m already involved with Blake, and if my curse is going to strike, there’s nothing I can do to stop it now.
“He’s not-scared enough for the both of us,” I remind myself, having repeated Blake’s words so often they’ve become almost a mantra of hope. While I don’t think anyone’s going to call me Pep Talk Queen anytime soon, they’re enough to bolster my hopes. Especially with the cherry-topper of Blake’s faith that it’ll be okay.
I sigh and close my eyes for a long moment. When I open them, the first thing I see is a tall, skinny wood vase on the counter, tucked in behind two smaller glass ones that hold cotton balls and Q-tips. Looking around, I find several other examples—wood framed art on the wall, a wood-handled brush hanging in the shower, and the wood vanity, of course.
Maybe those were all there before, or maybe Blake sees me, understands me, and doesn’t think I’m weird or should change.
Maybe he likes me not despite my weirdness but because of it?
I open the door and should turn right, back to the living room where he’s waiting. I go left instead and find myself in the doorway of Blake’s bedroom. The bed is neatly made with a navy and green plaid duvet, white pillows laid out at the head. It’s not fussy, just tidy—like the man.
On the nightstand, I see a poseable wooden figure; on the other, a stack of books and a set of small wooden boxes. I feel him behind me before he says anything, and I breathe in strength and exhale fear. His fingers trace down my arm to my hand, which he takes in his. “Zoey?”
The name I’ve heard hundreds of times, but the question in it is anything but easy. I’m not simple, but he’s taken the time to figure out my layers, fighting through the nonsensical labyrinth that is my head, willing to wait for me while somehow simultaneously making me believe in possibilities.
He’s given me . . . hope. And for a woman who doesn’t have that, it’s a precious gift. I let my head fall back to his shoulder, and his hands caress back up my arms, raising gooseflesh in their wake.
“You really put wood everywhere. For me.” No question, just truth.
“I did,” he agrees easily, never conceiving that I might’ve thought he was lying or exaggerating. But that’s what people do.
It’s not what Blake Hale does.
It’s not who he is.
“There was already a lot in here with the furniture, but I added a few little things by the bed, and in the other rooms. Amy and I went shopping. She helped me pick out things because I can’t decorate for shit. My plan was to put wood slices everywhere, but she told me I should be more ‘adult’ about it.”