Blake shifted, his shoulders tensing, eyes darting to me in quick glances.
“So,” he said, “do you want to stop at a coffee shop before I drop you off?”
I raised my eyebrows, realizing he was referring tothe talk.
“Now?”
“We agreed to go once you were discharged.”
My phone buzzed for the fourth time in an hour. The bride’s name flashed across my screen.
“I didn’t mean the literalmomentof being discharged,” I clarified, staring at the wedding disaster emails that kept coming in. “And I should probably rain-check that.”
“But you said?—”
“I know.” I rubbed my temple, already feeling the pressure of missed appointments mounting. “And we need to have this conversation. But I’ve got a panicking bride, and I already missed her meeting yesterday. I need to deal with this crisis, and when you and I talk …” I met his eyes. “I want to actually talk. No distractions, no checking my phone every two minutes because work is imploding.”
Right on cue, my phone lit up again.
“Shelly. Yes, I’m looking into the catering issue right now …”
The bride’s voice trembled through the speaker, panic evident in every syllable as she explained how the caterer was suddenly balking at her menu requests.
“I’ll pull up the contract right now. Don’t worry; he put this in writing. He can’t change it, and we won’t let him.”
Her grateful sniffles filled the line before she hung up.
Blake’s jaw tightened. “Just over twenty-four hours ago,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet, “your heart stopped beating. And now you’re jumping back into work like?—”
“Like I’m running a business that could make or break my entire future,” I cut in. “This client could change everything for me, Blake. Everything.”
My small business—the one I’d dreamed of since I was a girl and confidently rambled about to Blake, his eyes actually sparking with interest—was on the brink of bankruptcy. That’s right. Despite my business skills and meticulous planning, I’d managed to start, run, and drive a business into the ground in less than two years. Currently, I was giving it CPR, and if it died, I’d have to say goodbye to a dream I’d had my whole life. And worse, suffer the massive financial strain of those loans for years to come. Future Tessa would probably be living off ramen noodles well into her fifties.
But this client—this one could change everything. A high-end client, with an influencer list that could bring in years of brides waiting around the block, trying to book me. I would not fail. Period.
Blake’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed whatever lecture was brewing, until, finally, he parallel parked in front of my rented townhouse.
That’s when it hit me.
“How do you know where I live?” I’d moved here after we’d stopped talking.
Blake unfastened his seat belt with deliberate slowness. “Ryker gave your address to me when you moved in.”
“What? Why?”
With casual elegance, Blake slid out of his luxury sedan, came around, and opened my door with old-world charm that felt dangerous in its familiarity.
“Because I asked him for it,” he said simply, extending his hand.
See? This was exactly what I didn’t want: him to look at me like I was too weak to stand on my own. I shifted out of the way and stood up of my own accord, dodging his hand altogether.
And now, I had to act like I didn’t notice his handsome, knowing smirk.
On the sidewalk, Blake’s broad frame seemed to curve toward me like a protective wall, his shoulders angling to shield me from the street. When he looked down at me, the height difference between us had never felt more electric.
“Again, why? Why did you want my address?”
“The day we stopped talking.” His voice softened. “I made two promises to myself: I’d respect your space, and I’d always know where to find you if you needed me. Ryker’s been helping with the second part.”
