Page 19

NINETEEN

Ella

I WAKE up wrapped around Blake like a spider monkey. If I want to, I can strain my head forward a little and lick his nipple. My knee is inches from his dick, my arm’s resting on his abs, and my head’s on his chest. That’s how close and personal I’m talking. Not that I mind his body because, holy hell, but I don’t need to be on top of it with morning breath. Inch by painfully slow inch, I edge my body off his. He mumbles slightly in his sleep and my heart freezes. Please don’t wake up .

I’ve been so focused on making sure he didn’t die, I didn’t really think through the whole sleeping-in-the-same-bed-together thing. I definitely didn’t think we’d end up cuddling the whole night. My intentions were purely to ease my own mind that Blake wasn’t going to die of a brain aneurysm overnight. I’m genuinely worried about him being okay.

And last night? We were up until almost 2:00 a.m. talking about nothing and everything. My family and growing up in Chicago, Blake’s favorite places to travel, our biggest pet peeves, strangest dreams we’ve ever had, the most controversial opinions we have, our weirdest habits.

I like Blake. I like Blake a fucking lot. I’m thoroughly screwed, and we haven’t even screwed. The irony isn’t lost on me.

There’s no way I’m letting him wake up and see me looking like the corpse bride, so I tiptoe into the bathroom. The eight million hair products he owns are surprising. It’s like a salon in here. I didn’t even know they made Olaplex for men and here he is with three different bottles. Does he purposefully make himself look like he has a perpetual case of bedhead?

I open a jar of pomade on the counter; it’s a masculine mixture of leather and cedar. It smells just like Blake. The thought of him massaging it through his hair turns me on more than it should. Not that I’m trying to notice, but there are no strands of female hair on Blake’s brush. So either he hasn’t had a sleepover guest besides me in a while, or he recently got a new brush. Why oh why do I have to notice these things? I try to make myself look more presentable then quietly open the bathroom door.

Blake flashes me a sleepy smile. His eyes are half-mast like he’s still waking up, dark hair sticking up in a million directions, the waves not knowing which way to point. The covers rest below his hip bone and the sight of his V wakes me right up. Who needs coffee when you have Blake’s body to jolt you awake?

“And here I was thinking you hated cuddling.” He shoots me a devilish smile. “Telling me to use a pillow and then invading my side of the bed like that.”

“I mean how could I resist? Your rock-hard muscles are so much comfier than a pillow.”

He laughs, clasping his hands under his head, looking casually comfortable and incredibly irresistible. “How’d you sleep?”

“Besides your boner poking my back every other hour? Fantastically.”

He has the decency to look mildly embarrassed until I can no longer keep a straight face. He throws a pillow at me, missing by a solid two feet.

“You look hot,” Blake comments, raising his eyebrows.

Heat travels from my head to my toes. “Uh … what?”

“Your sweatshirt,” he clarifies with a flick of his hand. “Isn’t it making you warm?”

Oh. Of course. My sweatshirt, not me. I shrug. “Not really.”

Blake squints as he gives me a once-over. I wish I could disappear into the fabric. “You’re almost drowning in that thing, love.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweatshirt. “It’s comfortable.”

Blake nods and I take the pause in conversation to change the topic. “How do you feel?”

His voice is raspy and tired. “Like I got hit by a car.”

“Too soon.” I peer at him to make sure there are no obvious injuries. “I’m already nervous enough about the Monza circuit.”

The thought of him crashing like that, waiting helplessly as the safety car comes to rescue him … nope. Not something I want to see again anytime soon.

“How about we make a deal?” He looks positively beside himself, like he’s just had a stroke of genius. “If you don’t stress about Italy, and I mean it, not even a line of worry on your forehead, I’ll … cook for you.”

I’ve never gotten Botox before, but I’m wondering if there’s anywhere close by that can take me for a last-minute appointment. Not a line of worry? My forehead’s going to look like a fucking maze with all the worry lines. I also don’t even know if Blake can cook. He has a full-time chef, for God’s sake. His idea of cooking could mean heating up a frozen pizza or making boxed mac and cheese—both of which are perfectly acceptable, but not for this kind of deal.

I sigh dramatically. “What kind of food?”

“I’ll cook you an Italian feast,” he decides, clapping his hands together.

“Okay, love the enthusiasm here,” I say slowly. “And not to burst your bubble or anything, but I feel like maybe we should eat Italian food cooked by, I don’t know, Italian people in Italy?”

Blake points to the door. “I’m kicking you out.”

I stick my tongue out. “Fine! An Italian feast in Italy.”

All I have to do is stay chill in Monza, hope that Blake doesn’t spin out in his car again, and he’ll cook me dinner. I can do that. I can at least try to do that. Hopefully .

JOSIE and I drive the thirty minutes from Monza to Milan and spend the morning at the Pinacoteca di Brera, one of Italy’s renowned galleries. I’ve never been huge on art. Blake’s blue painting that cost an arm and a leg is a perfect example. Why is that considered art? It’s not that I don’t respect it, but I don’t necessarily understand it. Neither does Josie, so we decide to do a guided tour.

“It’s larger than I expected,” Jos whispers as we circle a marble statue of Napoleon Bonaparte.

I stifle a laugh behind my hand. “Poor guy kickstarted the Napoleon complex when he could’ve originated big dick energy instead.”

We walk around for another hour before splitting up. Josie has meetings all afternoon, but I stay in Milan to do some more exploring. I find myself at the nearby Brera Botanical Garden. Located behind the austere Palazzo di Brera, it offers a slice of peace and quiet in an otherwise bumbling city. I FaceTime Poppy while I relax on one of the benches over-looking the garden.

I can hear cars honking outside her 35th Street apartment the second she answers.

“Elly Bean!” Poppy greets me with a raspy voice. She sounds just as hungover as she looks with her black hair in a messy bun and last night’s lipstick staining her mouth.

“Hello to you, too, Popcorn.”

She laughs, snuggling into her comforter. “Where are you today?”

Flipping my camera so she can see my view, I smile at her appreciative “oohs” and “aahs.” Each place I’ve traveled to with McAllister has gorgeous views worthy of one of the many postcards Blake sends.

“God, I’m jealous,” she says when I turn the camera back on my own face. “Eating gelato, drinking wine like it’s water, drooling over Italian men. You’re doing all my favorite things without me!”

“I’ll try to have a miserable time while doing them,” I tease. “Don’t worry.”

“Is one of the things you’re doing a private tour of Blake’s naked body?”

Poppy’s not shy about letting me know I should get rid of my qualms regarding casual, meaningless sex and follow the instructions of the customized condoms: ride a driver.

“Nope! My tour guide couldn’t fit that in today’s list of activities.” I pause before waggling my eyebrows. “Although we did have an interesting night together.”

The scream that filters through my earbuds temporarily deafens me. I may be the journalist, but Poppy starts asking questions like she’s fucking Diane Sawyer. Ugh. I meet her dissecting gaze with a glare, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

“You had a chance to seduce Blake and you slept in a men’s extra-large sweatshirt,” Poppy states with a groan. “What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t own lingerie.” I roll my eyes. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t have worn it. I’m not trying to sleep with him, Pop.”

“You’re unbelievably stubborn.” She shakes her head at me. Being scolded by Poppy, even through a phone, is never fun. “And you’re saying Blake cooking for you in one of the most romantic cities in the world isn’t a date? You spend pretty much every day together whether you’re working or not, Ella. It’s definitely a date.”

I’m seriously regretting ever telling her about our “deal.”

“He’s only cooking for me if I can keep my cool during the race,” I huff. “It’s purely platonic.”

Blake has no way to check if I’m nervous or not while he’s racing, which kind of makes it seem more like a date, but nope, not going there.

“I need more platonic friends like yours, then. None of mine offer to make me dinner or willingly travel to tourist traps in every city.”

She’s got a point, but I refuse to let her inside my head. If I can sleep in a bed with Blake without anything sexual happening, I’m sure I can handle a dinner with him.