Your Fierce Love (The Bennett Family #7)(64)

Rising to his feet, he cradles my face, his thumbs pressing at the corners of my mouth, the rest of his fingers splayed on my cheeks and neck. I feel adored, safe, and treasured. I have no idea how he can do that with a simple touch, but he does.

I want to reciprocate-he might not need the kind of reassurance I do, but he does need it in other ways, like knowing with absolute certainty that I will not betray him or his family.

"I didn't know it would feel like this," he says, catching me off guard. "Sharing every day and night with someone. Wanting to share my life."

"I didn't know either," I whisper, too stunned to come up with a better reply. Slowly I gather my wits around me, fueled by his admission. "It feels right."

"It feels perfect." He kisses my cheek, my temple. "Fucking perfect. This is more real than anything I've had."

"Blake," I reply softly, pressing my hands over his, then bringing one of his palms to my lips, kissing it. The air charges between us, and a strange energy strums through me. I can tell Blake feels it too, because his eyes widen. This, right here, is more raw and intimate than anything we've experienced before. I'm falling for this man.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Clara





Free time does not agree with me. After working straight out of school for more than a decade, you'd think I could use a breather. But two weeks into my unemployment, I feel restless and guilty. I must have sent about eighty applications for various organizational and operational jobs, and I'm still waiting to hear from most. In the evenings, I help Blake at the bar, and I fill my mornings by working on my illustrations. The one I'm working on right now is giving me headaches, but I have nothing but time to figure it out. Too much time.



       
         
       
        

I startle when my phone rings and leap to my feet, glancing around. It's ringing somewhere around me, but I can't find it for the life of me, and this is not a good time for me not to be reachable. It could be a call for an interview. Finally, I find the darned thing under the couch-ask me how it got there.

Glancing at the screen, I see it's Blake, who is currently down at the bar, going through the inventory before opening in a few hours.

"What's wrong?" I ask, phone pegged to my ear as I rise to my feet.

"Can you come down for a few minutes?"

"Sure."

On that cryptic note, he clicks off. Huh, what's all that about? I'd better go check on him.

I step inside the bar, expecting to find Blake alone, but instead he's at one of the high tables with a man in a suit. He's dark-haired and looks like he's in his early fifties.

"Clara, you're here," Blake exclaims upon seeing me. "Great. I want to introduce you to someone."

I join the two of them and shake hands with the man, exchanging names.

"Charlie here publishes children's books," Blake says, and I feel like I just downed a glass of cold water.

"Our largest imprint specializes in illustration books. Blake tells me you have a large portfolio," Charlie continues. The back of my neck prickles. "I could look at it, if you want some feedback."

I don't dare look at Blake. He set me up.

"Great idea," Blake exclaims. I'm still not looking at him. Instead I try my best to keep a polite smile.

I clear my throat. "I don't think my portfolio is quite ready to be seen."

Charlie waves my words away. "Nonsense. It's never too early to get feedback."

Biting the inside of my cheek, I nod, because I don't see how I can get out of this without offending Charlie, or Blake. On second thought, Blake can shove all his hurt feelings up his ass. He deserves it for putting me on the spot like this.

"I'll be right back," I tell Charlie. Whirling on my heels, I strut out of the bar, and then I break into a run as I round the corner of the building, climb the stairs, and enter my apartment. I barely have time to take a few deep breaths, let alone process all this, when I hear footsteps behind me.

"Clara."

"Don't even talk to me right now."

"You're angry."

At least he has the good sense not to put a question mark at the end of that sentence. I whirl around, facing him, holding my chin high, my shoulders straight.

"Yes. So angry that if I had a pointy object now, I'd poke you with it repeatedly." 

"Machete or knife?"

"What?"

"The pointy object, would it be a machete or knife? I need to know how bad this is."

"This is not a joke, Blake," I say, deflated.

"You started with the pointy object," he points out. He's so calm, so collected, whereas I'm simmering with anger.