“Though you definitely did that too.”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from commenting.” His smile turned sheepish. “We can change anything you don’t like.”
“Blake, this is …” My eyes burned as I struggled to find words big enough. “No one has ever done anything like this for me.”
“It was one phone call, Cupcake.” But the way he said my nickname—soft and intimate—made it feel like so much more. “I just wanted you to have a space where you could work comfortably. You can have clients come here for meetings, use the chef for dinner presentations. Consider it your headquarters.”
I blinked rapidly, fighting back tears that threatened to expose just how much this meant to me. When he’d offered to let me stay here, I hadn’t expected this level of thoughtfulness. Hadn’t expected him to seem so … happy about my presence. Like having me here wasn’t just convenient, but celebrated.
Which was incredibly flattering and dangerously complicated. Because now, every smirk, every laugh, every heated look was making it harder to remember why we’d always kept that line drawn between us.
And somehow, I had a feeling that line was about to become very, very blurry.
32
TESSA
I woke to the smell of fresh coffee and … were those pancakes?
My stomach went from zero to hangry in approximately point-three seconds. I launched myself out of bed, made a quick pit stop in my private bathroom to ensure I looked less walking zombie and more functioning human, then ventured into the hallway.
And there it was again—that one mysteriously closed door in a sea of open ones. Even Blake’s bedroom door stood wide open, his bed already military precise in its making. Of course it was. The man probably saved three lives before I hit my first snooze button.
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I stopped dead in my tracks. A woman I’d never seen before stood at the stove, humming.
For a second, I froze, a dark, terrible feeling snaking through my chest.
Who was this woman in Blake’s private residence? I thought he said he didn’t let many people here, so was this woman special? She moved around the space like she freaking belonged here.
“Good morning, Tessa,” she sang out as if we were old friends. “Dr. Morrison was very specific about your favorites.”
She slid three perfect pancakes onto a pristine white plate, creating what could only be described as breakfast art—golden syrup cascading just so, fresh berries arranged with gorgeous precision, and a butter pat melting into a perfect golden pool.
“You’re Blake’s chef,” I breathed, relief washing over me.
Wait, did I just use the wordrelief? Why did that word invade my psyche?
“Indeed. I’m Maria. And let me tell you, making something other than egg whites and organic protein shakes is a delightful change of pace.”
She placed the plate—my own personal carbohydrate heaven—at the breakfast bar.
“Dr. Morrison thought you’d be more comfortable here than the formal dining room. But if you’d prefer?—”
“This is perfect,” I assured her, climbing onto a stool.
And that’s when the universe decided to test my ability to maintain basic motor functions. Blake strode in, wearing nothing but workout shorts, his tattooed torso glistening with sweat that—you guessed it—made his muscles look even more impossibly sculpted.
“Morning,” he said, still catching his breath. “Sleep well?”
My brain chose that exact moment to go on strike. Complete system shutdown. My mouth forgot how to work on account of the eye candy in front of me, and Blake’s brows furrowed as he pressed his palms against the opposite side of the breakfast bar, concern flickering across his ripped abs.
Okay, fine, concern couldn’t technically be on his abs, but those abs. Look at them—all ready for a photo shoot.
“What’s wrong?”
I blinked rapidly, trying to reboot my brain. “Oh … nothing … just … you’re here, not at work, and working out, and … I have pancakes.”
Good God. Was that the same brain that graduated college with allA’s?
