"And a lot of hard work."
"I only get lucky when I work very hard."
"Hats off to you for working your way up. Be proud of it."
"I am."
"Do you like your job?"
"Yeah. I don't love it, but the point of a job is to pay bills, and it does that just fine."
"Very practical."
Yep, that's me. Practical could be my middle name. Ain't nobody got time for dreams.
"Should we finish carrying these inside?" I point to the bed planks, and he nods.
We take them inside, and then we both breathe with relief.
"Thank you." I look at the unopened boxes and still-disassembled furniture, whipping up a plan. "I'll get started right away with setting up the bed and the couch."
"I'll help you."
"I can handle this."
"I know. But you don't have to. You have me. Use me," he offers.
Ah, what an image that conjures. Blake on his back on my couch. I'd start with those arms, tracing the contour of his bicep, then lifting his shirt, applying the same treatment to the ridges of his six-pack (I have not seen them yet, but I have a wild imagination).
What is it with me today? I've been near him before.
"Okay. Thank you. When do you open the bar?"
"Four o'clock, but I need to be down at three for a meeting. Plenty of time."
We get to work right away, and I'm surprised by Blake's assembly skills. Between the two of us, this will look like home in no time.
"How did you decide to go into the bar business? Why not join your siblings at Bennett Enterprises?"
"I wanted to. I majored in finance in college, so I figured I'd work with Logan."
"Logan is the CFO, right?"
He nods. "I spent a couple of months there, but it wasn't panning out. Everyone treated me like their younger party brother. Hard to do your job when you constantly have to convince people to take you seriously."
"That I can relate to. People at work sometimes think I'm a joke because I'm so … ." I wave my hand in the air, trying to find the right word.
"Exuberant?"
"Yes."
"Us weirdos must stick together. Anyway, striking out on my own seemed like the better decision."
"Why bars?" I continue my interrogation as we move to the bedroom, assembling the bed.
"I had contacts in the scene. Since I couldn't escape my reputation, I decided to use it to my advantage."
"Smart. You were a tabloid darling a few years ago." Not since I befriended the family, but I pulled up his history online. All for research, of course, when the network featured his and Alice's restaurants on Delicious Dining the first time. They'd wanted to know if Blake's past would turn viewers off. But the search history hadn't brought up anything scandalous, merely portrayed a man who liked parties and women, and even that was old news.
"I'm not that man anymore."
"Hey! I'm not judging," I assure him, nudging him with my shoulder.
"It was time I got my head out of my ass. Anyway, working, building something, feels right. It was time to make the Bennett name proud. And I get to work with Alice, which is a bonus. Between you and me, I think the best thing that happened to Alice was that she moved away and I took over operations. She was working twelve to fifteen hours a day, that little workaholic."
Female solidarity is one of my cardinal rules, and I deeply admire Alice-she could take the world by storm if she put her mind to it, but I'm with Blake on this one. She was overworking herself.
Sighing, I remember my own family. They passed away in a car crash. I lost them so long ago, that sometimes when I try to reach back to a memory, I realize it's gone. I don't want to forget them.
We keep talking about everything under the sun while we assemble furniture, and I take snapshots of the apartment, wanting to document every stage of the move. After we're done, I scroll through the pics, and my jaw hangs. Blake appears in almost every picture. I don't remember consciously doing so-clearly my subconscious is trying to prove a point. And I have to give it to Blake, he'd make an excellent model.
Guilt gnaws at me, but what do I do? Do I put the phone down? No, sir, I do not. Instead, I snap a new pic of Blake, who is currently checking whether the screws fastening the legs to the top of my dining table are tight enough. It is, in my humble opinion, the best shot yet.
His bicep is flexed, and the contours of his muscles are delicious eye candy. Great, not only am I a shameless Peeping Tom, but I also harbor dirty thoughts for a man who is not for me. I am the worst. The worst.
He's a Bennett, for the love of God, and I'm determined for them to be a constant in my life. That means no crossing boundaries with Blake. He's not the man for me anyway.