Exposed : My Mountain Man Protector(43)

He squeezed my fingers and then ran his hand up my arm until it reached my head and stroked my hair.



“Blake,” I said, giggling, “The servers can still see.”



He leaned over, kissed me on the lips, and murmured in my ear, “Let them see.”



The rest of the meal was enjoyable. With no sight, the feel and smell and taste of the food and drink was intense. I savored each mouthful, and I would have bet that for once Blake and I were eating at the same slow pace.



Throughout the meal, Blake was doting and attentive, but he was also hiding something. I didn’t know how I sensed it, especially since I couldn’t even see him, but I did. There was something he was not saying. Something that was worrying him.



By the time we were out of there, we were well-fed and happy—relatively. During the drive back, there was still an undercurrent of tension in the car with us.



Finally, once we’d walked through the front door of our new house, I asked Blake outright: “What’s going on?”



“Nothing,” he said, patting my head. “Just work stuff.”



I could tell by his face that was not it, but I didn’t say anything. Sometimes you had to give people space to figure out things before they wanted to talk about it.



“By the way,” he said, “I booked breakfast for us tomorrow at Aspen Hickory House.”



“Really?” I asked, glancing at his face.



We hadn’t been there since our unfortunate blowup with Lila, whom I also hadn’t heard from since.



“Yeah. I’ve been craving some ribs,” Blake said casually, and I shrugged.



For breakfast seemed weird, but maybe then he would finally explain what had been going on.



“Okay.”



That night, Blake still wouldn’t admit it, but the nameless something was there with us. It was in our cuddling on the couch, in Blake’s long stares into nothingness. It fell asleep with us.



When I woke up, I was alone.



Beside me, the satin sheets had an indentation where Blake had been. I stared at the blue series of ripples with a coil of apprehension forming in my throat. Blake never left in the morning without getting in what he called his “morning Claire cuddle.” I got up, checked the bathroom, walked over to the hallway, and called his name.



The foyer echoed my voice back to me uselessly. I went back to our bedroom and peered out the window. The truck was gone. Blake was gone. He had left, without any mention of where he was going and why. What could have been going on? Weren’t we supposed to be having breakfast together?



The next hour was one long, apprehensive wait. I ate three bowls of Cheerios instead of my normal two, and then I gave up on reading Anna Karenina to sit in front of The Little Mermaid. I couldn’t concentrate on anything right now, and Disney movies always made me feel better. It seemed silly to worry like this, and yet if there was one thing Blake was, one thing he had always been, it was reliable. This wasn’t like him. Something was up.



By the time the front door slammed with his arrival, I’d worked myself up into a frenzy. I hurried out.



“Hey. What’s up?” I asked.



Blake was wearing a suit and a pleased yet still tense expression.



“You’re still wearing your pajamas,” he said, his glance sliding to my penguin-printed fuzzy pants.



“Blake,” I said.



“Okay, just hear me out. You know this breakfast we’re going to, in…”—he checked his watch—“an hour? It’s with Lila.”



“What?” I asked.



“I called her,” he said. “She wants to talk to you. The rib house was her idea.”



I stared at him. Lila was fiery, stubborn. One thing she was not was forgiving.



“Really?” I asked.



Blake nodded and glanced at his watch again. “You better start getting ready if we’re going to make on time.”



Then, with a wry half smile, he added, “Something tells me Lila is not someone who takes lateness lightly.”



I gaped at him, still surprised, and then raced up the steps, my mind already flitting through my wardrobe for what to wear. It was only once I was standing in the walk-in mausoleum of clothes that it hit me: Blake had never answered my question.



After 15 minutes of agonizing, I decided on a white T-shirt with a white skirt. I would meet Lila as a literal walking white flag.



We got there five minutes early, which was not really early since Lila was there too. She was wearing a subdued maroon and a penitent pout.



When we got to the table, she rose and addressed my feet. “I’m really sorry, Claire. For last time, for everything. I was so sure I knew better. I was wrong.”