"Ah, so this is why you don't want to rent out this place."
"Yeah. I could have it remodeled and split it in two. It would take a shitload of permits, but it could be done."
"It'd be such a shame, though. Besides, maybe one day you'll want to tear down that pesky wall between the bedrooms, and then you'd have a split balcony."
"My thoughts exactly. I was thinking of doing something with the balcony, get rid of the beanbags." He points with his thumb behind him to the two bright green beanbags stacked in a corner. They look comfy, but this balcony deserves more love and attention.
"Hmm, some nice lounge chairs. Oh, and a swing would be nice." I animate at the thought, bouncing back and forth on my toes. "Just imagine sitting out here and watching the sunset, drinking a glass of wine. I bet it's beautiful."
I could also see myself sitting out here and sketching illustrations, which is hands down the best hobby in the world. Keeps me afloat when things get too cray-cray at the studio.
"Lounge chairs and a swing," Blake declares.
"You don't have to buy them just because I want them," I say reasonably, even though the thought of a swing makes me bounce back and forth from my heels to my tiptoes again.
"I asked for help, you shared your ideas. I like them."
"Okay." I'm trying to rein in my excitement, I really am, but I can't help grinning widely at the thought of lounging on chairs on sunny days and curling up in the swing with a book, looking up over the roofs when I need to rest my eyes.
I move over to the edge of the balcony. The railing is sturdy black metal curled in intricate patterns. A little low, but the pattern is thick enough that no one can see on the balcony from the street. It offers privacy while not obstructing the view. I love it. At least I do until I accidentally catch my skirt in said railing. In my efforts to free myself, I lose my balance. My stomach churns horribly as my upper body lunges over the railing. For a split second, I'm convinced I'm about to hurtle two stories to the ground, before two strong and sturdy arms pull me back to my feet. I don't protest when Blake pulls me against him, wrapping his arms around me. I just inhale his manly scent, losing myself in the safety of his strong and muscular frame, my eyes firmly closed.
"Shit!" I mutter into his chest. To my horror, I realize I'm trembling.
"I've got you." Blake's voice is soothing but tinged with unease, and I discover I'm not the only one trembling. I scared the living daylights out of us both. "I've got you, Clara. You're safe." I remain in his arms until the last of the tremors subside and my heart is in the right place again, no longer in my throat.
"I'm okay," I whisper. "You can let me go."
"As soon as you stop tugging at my shirt."
I blink open one eye and then the other. Sure enough, I'm fisting his black polo shirt like I'm planning to sink my claws into his chest. I unclench my fingers right away, my hands hovering awkwardly just above his pecs. I can't exactly lower my arms because Blake hasn't let go of me. I'm still pressed against him, my breasts squished against his granite chest. Our bodies are aligned, touching in more points than I want to think about. Blake is looking down at me, his pupils a tad more dilated than before as they search my face, resting on my lips. I lick them, almost unconsciously, and he exhales sharply, his hot breath landing on my mouth. Sweet baby Jesus. What's happening here? Am I imagining things? Have I misread Blake and my attraction isn't quite as one-sided? That's a dangerous thought if I ever had one. I must have imagined it. Wouldn't be the first time I mistake people's attention for affection.
One of the group home supervisors once explained that orphans sometimes grow into adults with attachment issues because the lack of parental love in the formative years leaves a huge hole. I certainly fit that pattern. As a rule, I'm careful with the people I let in, but those I do let in? Oh boy, they'd better brace themselves for excessive displays of affection. There might be a lot of pampering involved, even surprise cuddling sessions if I decide to go crazy, which I often do. Some aren't that keen on being showered with affection. Past boyfriends, in particular, haven't been. The words "clingy" and "suffocating" popped up during a break-up fight or five, which make my hope of a husband and kids as likely to happen as world peace, but that's an issue for another time.
Back to my current issue. I'm still wrapped in Blake's arms, and his gaze is still zeroed in on my lips. Right... time to face the music and either confirm or eliminate my suspicion. Slowly and deliberately, I lick my lower lip again. Blake's reaction is almost primal. Another sharp and hot exhale lands on my mouth while his fingertips press into my skin. Sweet baby Jesus on a unicorn. What am I supposed to do with this? As I extract myself from his arms, I can barely wrap my mind around this shift between us. I knew from the start that moving next to Blake is a risky business. Even when I thought the attraction was one-sided, I was dabbling in dangerous territory.