Page 38 of Crash

“You didn’t have to be mean to him.”

“And he doesn’t have to monitor your comings and goings like an amateur surveillance team.”

“He’s harmless.”

“Yet you’ve felt the need to clarify that.Twice.” Blake put his hands on his hips, his shoulders rounding at the movement.

“He’s socially awkward, that’s all.” I dropped my keys and phone on the foyer table with a clatter. “Being mean to him doesn’t make social situations easier.”

“You don’t find it concerning that he’s camping out on your porch?”

“Like I said—” I started toward the kitchen, desperate for a drink of water.

“Socially awkward but sweet?” Blake’s voice dripped skepticism. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record, Cupcake.”

The nickname hit like a sucker punch. He didn’t know it had this magical power to transport me into a girl who would gladly let him be bossy. In bed.

Domination, sign me up.

“I really need to take a shower.”

Blake’s attention finally swept through my shoebox of a home. I watched his assessment through new eyes, seeing my place the way he must. The kitchen was barely more than a hallway, with three tired cabinets on each side showing battle scars from previous tenants. My apartment-sized appliances huddled together like apologetic afterthoughts, the refrigerator’s persistent hum serving as background music to my professional inadequacy.

The “dining room”—a generous term for the corner where I’d wedged a secondhand table—had disappeared under an explosion of wedding planning materials. Seating charts and fabric swatches spilled across the surface like evidence of the successful career woman I was trying to become. The living room didn’t fare much better, featuring a love seat that had seen better days and a 32-inch TV balanced precariously on a garage-sale end table that wobbled if you walked too heavily past it.

My bedroom door stood open at the end of the hallway, just large enough for a queen-size bed that served as a daily reminder I’d chosen ambition over square footage. The whole place screamedtemporary situation. Except I’d been telling myself that for a while now.

Blake’s presence made everything feel smaller, more provisional too. His broad shoulders and success-story swagger belonged in some sleek downtown high-rise with floor-to-ceilingwindows, not this glorified starter home, where I played at being a grown-up.

“You’ve lived here for what, a year and a half?” he asked.

“Yep.” I kicked off my shoes, surprised to find I wasn’t self-conscious about my home like I usually was with visitors. This was Blake. He knew me. Knew this wasn’t my endgame.

“And you didn’t have any health issues before moving in?”

“No.”

He nodded, gaze tracking along the walls like he could see through them. “Seen any signs of mold or mildew?”

Oh.Now I saw where this was going.

“No. Eli had the same concern, so we both went over this place with a fine-tooth comb.”

But Blake was already in full diagnostic mode, his eyes cataloging every crack like a potential symptom. “Mind if I take a look around?”

A look around. In my private residence. The teenage girl in me wanted to race ahead of him, hiding evidence of my decidedly unprofessional life. The reading glasses with the pink rhinestones I’d bought during a late-night Amazon spree. The collection of unicorn coffee mugs that my best friend kept adding to as a joke. And, dear God, please don’t let there be any underwear lying around.

But he was looking for mold. Nothing else. And if I didn’t let him satisfy his doctor instincts, he’d never let it go.

“Knock yourself out.”

I shadowed his inspection tour, partly to prove I was fine, mostly to run interference before he stumbled across anything mortifying. Like my battery-operated boyfriend in the nightstand drawer. His physician’s focus took him through my kitchen first, those capable hands—hands that had literally restarted my heart—running along cabinet edges and pipejoints, checking for moisture. In the bathroom, he examined the caulking with the same intensity he probably gave surgical sites.

His lips twitched as he took in my shower curtain, covered in cartoon cats wearing tiaras. “Nice decor.”

“Judge all you want. Princess cats bring me joy.”

That earned me a low chuckle that did dangerous things to my insides. But it was nothing compared to what happened when we reached my bedroom. Instead of mold, his attention caught on my collection of throw pillows, each embroidered with a different romance novel quote.