Page 55 of Crash

The sudden intensity in his voice shifted the air between us, making it harder to breathe. I’d always known Blake had a darker side, one I’d seen glimpses of through the years in bloody knuckles after fights and sharp comments that didn’t quite fit his polished doctor image. Most people would be put off by that edge to his personality, but it had always drawn me in, made me want to unravel all his complicated layers.

“So,” he said, his casual tone a stark contrast to the tension crackling between us, “should we do a panty count to see how many your neighbor snatched, or should we get on with the tour?”

I crossed my arms, going for stern but probably looking more … Jell-O-like. “I’ll only stay here on one condition.”

Blake arched an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Funny, I thought the suitcase implied we were past the negotiation stage.”

“Whether you acknowledge it or not, this is a huge favor, and I need to contribute something.”

His lips curved into that smile that had always spelled trouble. “Oh?”

“Not that.” I ignored the heat crawling up my neck, and other places, at his suggestive tone. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Morrison. I meant something useful.”

“Such as?”

“I could clean?—”

“Have a maid.”

“Cook dinner?—”

“Personal chef.”

I frowned. “I can’t just … live here. It doesn’t feel right. It’s unbalanced, and that makes me uncomfortable.”

The playfulness drained from his face as he took three steps closer. Close enough that I caught the spicy hint of his body wash mixed with that uniquely Blake scent I’d recognize anywhere.

“You want to know what you can give me?”

I nodded, my throat suddenly dry at his proximity.

“Give me this.” His voice dropped lower, softer. “Coming home to lights on instead of darkness. Having you here, in my space, making it feel less like an empty house and more like …” He ran a hand through his hair, messing up those perfect dark strands. “Just … be here, Tess. That’s more than enough.”

Holy shit. Hello, backflips in my stomach.

“Blake …”

“Besides,” he added, his casual tone returning as he stepped back, breaking the spell he’d accidentally cast, “you’re actually doing me a favor. Now I won’t lie awake at night, imagining you breathing in toxic mold.”

“You worry about me?” The words slipped out.

“Only when you do stupid things. Like moving next door to Norman Bates.”

“He’s not?—”

“And now,” he continued, talking over my protest, “I won’t be distracted at work, wondering if your creepy neighbor is building a shrine to you in his basement.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“I’m a doctor. We’re known for our dramatic flair.” He flashed that heart-stopping grin. “Almost as dramatic as wedding planners who refuse to accept help from their dearest friends.”

Dearest. My stupid heart latched on to that word, hoping I meant as much to him as he did me.

“Fine. But I’m at least doing the dishes.”

“Touch my dishwasher, and I’m changing all the passwords in this place to components of the periodic table. Now, can we get on with this tour, or do you need to list more chores I won’t let you do?”

“A tour.” I shook my head, studying the endless hallway before us. “At my place, I could do an entire tour in twenty steps or less, but this place? I’ll need hiking boots.”