Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
I stand completely still, like my legs have forgotten how to work while he and Dad start talking, already laughing about the basketball game on the television. I place the flowers on the bar and focus on arranging them, needing the distraction. When I glance up again, Blade’s still smiling, easy and completely comfortable. Somehow, that makes my chest ache in the best way.
I grab the food bags, pretending to study the containers. One’s from The Rice Wagon—Dad’s favorite—though it’s usually too pricey for me. The other’s from Brio Grille, the fancy Italian place I only visit when I’m celebrating something big.
“Blade? Were you planning on feeding fifty people?” I call out.
He laughs. “Nope. Just you, me, and your dad. Figured leftovers means you don’t have to cook tomorrow.”
My heart flip-flops so hard I swear I feel it in my throat. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And thoughtful,” he adds with a wink. “Usdi, there’s enough of everything. We can just fill plates with what we like—except for you.”
“Except for me?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I asked Ayita what your favorite meal out was. She let it slip you’re in love with Brio’s lobster and shrimp fettuccine. So that’s yours.”
I stare at him. “Blade …”
He grins, turning to my father. “What’ll you have to drink, Mr. Davis? I’ll get it while Livy fixes your plate.”
“I saw that Rice Wagon bag,” Dad says, pressing the button to lift his chair. “This old dog can still get around. Livy made it easy for me, put the bar at the perfect height. I can roll my chair right up to it.”
I can’t help but smile. I’d saved and saved to knock that wall out and add the breakfast bar so he could pull up in his chair and eat comfortably. Seeing him proud of it makes every penny worth it.
I set out plates and utensils, and soon we’re all seated—me on the kitchen side, the two of them opposite of me. Dad’s bragging about the food and convincing Blade to try the pork skewers, and Blade’s playing along, laughing, his deep voice blending perfectly with Dad’s lighter one. Then Dad jokes, “That’ll put some hair on your chest, son,” and Blade bursts out laughing.
When his eyes lift to mine, he catches me smiling. He winks. I sigh softly, warmth spreading through me. I’m in trouble. But tonight, I don’t care. For just a little while, I want to pretend I’m a woman who can have a man like Blade in her life—without fear, without consequences.
Just for a little while.
8 BLADE
I stretch out on Olivia’s couch, one arm draped along the back cushion, my boots off and my shirt sleeves rolled up. The movie—Remember the Titans—is paused on the screen, frozen mid-scene. The house smells like coffee, sugar, and something softer—maybe her shampoo. The scent calms me more than I’d ever admit out loud.
It’s a small place, but nice. The kind of nice that doesn’t try too hard—cool blues and grays on the walls, light wood floors, and a breakfast bar that divides the kitchen from the living room. Everything’s clean and simple, no clutter, no chaos. Just peace. Just like her.
I hear her voice down the hall, low and tender as she settles her dad in for the night. That voice could soothe damn near anything broken in a man. The light from her father’s room clicks off, and she walks back in. Her hair’s a little messy, her sweater hanging loose on one shoulder. She looks soft, tired, and perfect. She glances at her father’s empty recliner.
“Livy,” I warn, eyes narrowing, “if you go sit in that chair and make me get up, I promise you—I’ll come over there, spank your ass, then bring you right back here to finish this movie in my arms.”
Her lips curve into a slow smile. “You look comfortable. I don’t want to disturb you.”
“If you’re not in my arms, I’ll be disturbed as hell.”
“You’re lying down,” she teases. “I prefer sitting up.”
“Fine,” I say, smirking. “Then, you can come sit with my head in your lap.”
“What if I don’t want your head in my lap?”
“I’ve got ways to make you like it,” I purr.
“I doubt it,” she says proving she’s way too innocent for the likes of me.
“I could bury my head between your thighs and—”
She cuts me off with a laugh. “Stop!” she says. “You’re horrible, but for some reason, I’ll lay down with you.”
That laugh. Damn. I shift, lifting my arm so she can slide in against me. “Come here, woman.”
She does. She fits perfectly against me, her back against my chest, my arm across her waist. I restart the movie but turn the sound down low so that we can still talk. Immediately, her warmth seeps into me, and for a while we just watch in silence.
“This part always makes me sad,” she whispers. On the screen, the star quarterback’s car gets into a horrendous crash—the screech of tires, shattering glass all echo, despite the volume being lower. I feel her flinch in my arms and immediately lean down to kiss the top of her head. “Life can change so quickly,” she says, her voice quiet, breaking a little. “You think you’ve got time, and then … you don’t.”