He looks up from one of the albums. "I know a children's book publisher. I'd have to double-check, but I'm sure they do illustrated books too. Do you want me to set up a meeting?"
"Oh no, no, it's just a hobby."
"That's a lot of work for a hobby. I'm no expert, but I think you're really creative. I collected comic books growing up-not the same as children's books obviously, but you're good. He could at least give you feedback."
"No, it's really fine. I'm part of several online communities, and we give each other feedback. That's all I need." Also, the prospect of a publisher looking over it and saying "No, thanks" is terrifying. Yikes.
"Let me know if you change your mind."
Taking the platter, we head outside, settling on the two neon-green beanbags. I showed Blake a swing online, and he ordered it, but it hasn't been delivered yet. For now, we have the beanbags, and they are plenty comfortable. We also have two thick blankets because May in San Francisco isn't exactly balcony weather, not even in the second half. Blake pours us wine. The sky is cloudy but the sun shines through, casting a beautiful glow-a color I can't name, something between pink and orange.
"Where did you see the best sunset?" Blake asks.
"London Eye," I answer without a doubt. "You know, the Ferris wheel? I went on it once at sunset, and it was a spectacle. It made me fall in love with that city even more."
"How come you didn't move with Nate to London, then?"
"I grew up here. I always wanted to return. I have many nice memories with my parents. Walks in Golden Gate Park, lunches in Fisherman's Wharf. The occasional trip to Alcatraz. Even though I moved a lot, this has always been my anchor point, my home."
"Makes sense. I didn't know you grew up here."
Afterward, we fall into a comfortable silence, watching the sun disappear from the sky. We chitchat about his family. I'm not sure how long we stay out on the balcony, but it's pitch-dark by the time the wind starts blowing so powerfully, it chills me to the bone. The empty glasses and wine bottle are on the floor between the two beanbag chairs.
"I'm cold," I declare when I can't ignore the fact anymore.
"Me too. Up we go."
Blake rises to his feet and holds out his hand for me. I gladly accept the help because climbing out of a beanbag is serious business, especially after half a bottle of wine. I'm as unsteady on my feet as a toddler. But the moment my hand touches Blake's, a bolt of heat singes me. It travels through my limbs, making my toes curl and my nipples tighten. In the span of a few seconds, my body has gone from relaxed to wound up. Blake hauls me up so close our chests touch. Our noses are dangerously close too.
The proximity makes me light-headed. The wine isn't helping either. I pull my head back a notch so I can see Blake better. I make the mistake of looking him directly in the eyes. The intensity in them is overwhelming. I've been on the receiving end of his hot looks before, but this is different. There isn't just lust here, but downright hunger. A little too late, I realize it's probably because he can feel the tight peaks of my breasts pressing against him. He drops one hand to my waist, and his fingers are pressing against my flesh possessively. I become aware of every single point of contact-there are far too many.
We're close enough that I can sniff the scent of his shower gel. Crisp. Masculine. My mind immediately supplies images of Blake in the shower, rubbing gel on himself. I imagine he does that job thoroughly, not leaving out even one morsel of skin. I wonder how he looks with only a towel wrapped around himself. Now that we're neighbors, there's a distinct possibility I might see him in that scenario, especially with the shared balcony and everything. Shit, my Peeping Tom tendencies are getting out of hand.
I try to whip my thoughts into shape, but they're jumbled together and become more jumbled still when I feel Blake's hot breath on the lobe of my ear, then the tip of his nose on my cheek. When the corner of our lips touch, he presses his fingers into my sides, a low sound reverberating in his throat.
"Blake, I..."
"You look so kissable right now, Clara."
His voice is low and rough-his bedroom voice. I haven't heard it before. It's sexy and inviting, just like the rest of him. Great. I won't be able to unhear it.
I draw in a sharp breath. Wanting to diffuse tension, I try to joke, but under the influence of the wine and his intoxicating proximity, the best I can come up with is, "So I usually don't? Careful, Bennett, I take offense easy after drinking wine."
"Always do. First time I saw you, I wanted to kiss you."
"You did?"
"You have no idea how much you affect me, do you?"
Blake is looking down at me with so much intensity my knees nearly buckle. He skims his thumb along my jawline, moving to my earlobe, rubbing it gently between his thumb and forefinger. I clench my thighs together almost involuntarily. My ear is not a sweet spot. It really isn't. But I have a hunch Blake can turn any body part into a sweet spot.