Blake: Tessa.
Blake: Tessa!
Blake: Fine. You win. You want to hear what I had to say OVER TEXT? I think someone might be trying to kill you.
46
TESSA
“You’re leaving.” Maria’s words were not a question, but rather a quiet acknowledgment, wrapped in disappointment. She set down the dinner plate she’d brought, the china making a delicate sound against the dresser’s top. Her gaze lingered on the suitcase I hadn’t bothered to unpack since last night’s argument with Blake.
Now, I was grateful I’d never unpacked because, holy hell, he was officially going off the deep end, suggesting someone was trying to end me. I mean, really? What true crime podcast had this man been bingeing? I was witnessing his rational thought crumble right in front of my eyes like a cookie left too long in hot coffee. Between my bleeding heart (which really needed to learn some boundaries) and his hemorrhaging paranoia (which needed serious medical attention), living together was definitely, absolutely, without a doubt the worst idea since that time I decided bangs would fix my life.
I smoothed a wrinkle from the blouse I was folding, buying time.
“It’s been wonderful, staying here. Thank you for everything, Maria.” My voice was steady, even if my hands weren’t.
“Tessa …” She twisted her apron between worried fingers. “I know it’s not my place, but?—”
“I have an important event to plan.” The words came out brittle as winter ice. “I’d be more comfortable working from my own home.” More comfortable away from him, away from the way my heart forgot its job description whenever he was near.
“Blake explained that you’re staying here to avoid your home.” Her voice was gentle, maternal.
I caught my reflection in the bedroom’s mirror with flushed cheeks, eyes too bright, looking every bit like a woman running away. “Turns out, I don’t think mold’s my issue after all.”
“No?” Maria stepped closer, concern etching deeper lines around her mouth. “What makes you say that?”
My gaze darted to the bedroom door, and I was grateful that Blake wouldn’t be back for hours. His shifts at the hospital regularly stretched to thirty hours or more, he’d said, so thankfully, I would be gone long before he returned, leaving nothing but empty rooms and the ghost of what could have been.
It was better this way. To leave the same way he’d left me this morning.
“The whole point of staying here was to eliminate variables that might be making me sick. But between us?” I folded the final shirt, placing it carefully on top of the others, as if organizing my clothes could somehow organize the chaos in my head. “If my home was the thing that made me ill, today wouldn’t have happened. Today, I felt worse than I have in months, and I’ve been sleeping here. So.” I shrugged, aiming for casual despite the tremor in my hands. “Can’t be from mold there.”
The ancient floorboard behind me creaked with that distinctive sound of weight settling onto wood, and the fine hairs at my nape rose in recognition. I didn’t need to turn to know it was him; my body had already betrayed me, every nerveending singing with awareness, the air growing heavier with his presence.
“You’ve been feeling sicker today?” His deep baritone voice rolled through the room like distant thunder before a storm.
My traitorous heart didn’t just flutter; it performed a full flip.
“I thought you’d still be at work,” I said, proud that my voice didn’t shake. Much.
“Left early.” He stepped into my bedroom, his eyes sweeping over me with that intensity that made me feel like I was the only patient, the only person, in his world. “Talk to me about your symptoms.”
Maria muttered something about checking on dinner and slipped out, leaving Blake and me alone. The air crackled with unspoken words and that damned electricity that always sparked between us.
“Same story, different day.” I latched my suitcase closed. “As promised, I’ll be at the lab in the morning. Now if you’ll excuse me?—”
“Tessa.” Just my name, but the way he said it made me pause. “We need to talk about this.”
“About what?” I tried to step around him, but suddenly, the room swayed treacherously, all those symptoms I’d been fighting rushing back at once: nausea, stomach cramps, and that terrifying shortness of breath.
His hands caught my upper arms, steadying me, and for one merciful moment, he said nothing, his gaze locked on mine.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m one of your patients.”
