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TWENTY-FIVE

Ella

CONSIDERING I drank enough tequila to incapacitate a linebacker, it shouldn’t surprise me when I wake up at 5:00 a.m. with a splitting headache. Bits and pieces of my night come back, including Josie wrestling me into my pajamas. I absolutely did not need those extra two shots of tequila last night, but not much I can do about that now.

My flight back to London isn’t until tomorrow morning, but there’s no way I can be productive today. Besides a few quick bathroom breaks and a much-needed scalding hot shower, I spend the entirety of my day in bed. Between my parents, my brother, and me, we have access to every streaming site. It’s both a blessing and a curse. Right now, it’s a blessing because I manage to get through over half a season of Law & Order: SVU .

Josie’s supposed to come over for a lovely room service dinner, but she cancels at the last minute, saying she forgot she has plans with some marketing people. I’m too tired to think about it or care. Half an episode later, I hear someone at my door. I immediately know it’s Blake. He has such a specific way of knocking. He uses the heel of his palm rather than his knuckles, making the sound less harsh. I immediately hit pause on my computer. Maybe he just got here and hasn’t heard a perp yelling at Stabler?

“I can hear your TV, Ella. Can you open the door, please?”

No such luck.

“Yes, I can.” That doesn’t mean I’m going to.

Moments go by before I hear Blake sigh. Welcome to the club.

“ Will you open the door, please?”

I bite back a tender smile, knowing he noticed my grammar catch. Blake’s not going away until we talk. He’s made that much clear based on how many times he’s tried to corner me in the past week. I know we need to because I can’t avoid him forever considering my job quite literally depends on speaking with him. Sighing, I reluctantly get out of bed. I take my time putting on my slippers before dragging my feet to the door. I swing it open aggressively.

Blake’s in a tuxedo, looking like he’s walked off the cover of GQ magazine. His hair is handsomely styled, his face freshly shaven. Forget about his just-rolled-out-of-bed look, this is his take-me-to-your-bed-so-we-can-roll-around look. What is it about men in tuxes? I miraculously manage to keep my expression flat.

I lean against the doorframe to block him from waltzing in. “Did you run out of clean shirts or something?”

He chuckles softly and holds out the most gorgeous bouquet bursting with purple, yellow, white, and pink flowers. They smell like spring. If Marc Jacobs is looking for a new perfume scent, this would be it.

“For you.” Blake coughs and hands the flowers to me.

“They’re beautiful.” I take them from his hands. “Thanks.”

We stand there awkwardly, neither of us saying anything. I finally step back, allowing him inside the room. Part of me wishes I’d tidied up a bit. It looks like I’ve been robbed, with clothing still strewn across the floor leading to the bed. I’m pretty sure there’s a thong on the lamp.

I place the flowers in the small kitchenette. They still look pretty even without a vase. Blake makes himself comfortable on the couch, positioned between the jeans I wore last night and a pair of leggings. I’m not sure where to sit. I don’t trust myself to be next to him when he’s looking like that. Meanwhile, I probably look just as horrible as I feel. The coffee table seems like a safe bet, so I sit on the far edge, leaving a healthy amount of space between us.

Blake runs his fingers through his hair, messing up the coiffed styling. “I’ve been so focused on getting you to talk to me, I didn’t really think about how to start.”

“I’ve been talking to you.” Not very often, but words have come out of my mouth. “Sort of.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been adjusting to the time change.”

If Blake had a bullshit meter, it would be going off right about now. I’ve gone from his biographer to his hide-and-seek opponent.

“You won’t even look at me.”

“What are you doing here, Blake?” I sigh, giving him the eye contact he wants. “I told you we’re all good.”

“We’re not all good.”

He taps his foot against the floor. I’m not used to seeing him so visibly nervous. It’s refreshing, but not doing much to ease my own nerves. He’s the confident one, always so sure in everything he says and does.

“I don’t blame you for how you feel if that’s what you’re worried about.” He’s not going to compromise on his end, and I’m not going to compromise on mine. “Yeah, things are a little awkward right now, but I’ll get over it.”

“I was wrong when I said I can’t give you more. I know I can and that I want to. I’ve been positively miserable not being able to talk to you. I kept picking up the phone to call you when something happened over break because you’re the person I want to share things with, whether they’re good or bad.”

Um … what the fuck? He looks at me, wanting and waiting for me to say something.

“You looked super miserable with your tongue stuck down that one chick’s throat. Was that one of the times you wanted to call me? Or was it when that Kylie Jenner lookalike straddled you at the club? Probably hard to get your phone out of your pocket when someone’s on top of you.”

The petty in me will not let that go. He wants to be with me but also wants to fuck socialites and models? I’m not a mathematician, but that doesn’t quite add up. Blake looks so uncomfortable I almost feel bad. Almost.

“I didn’t sleep with any of them.” He leans forward with a sincere look in his eyes. “I swear to you. I was trying to convince myself that casual was what I wanted, but I was wrong. None of them meant anything and I’m an idiot for thinking they could even remotely compare to you.”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m glad you’ve decided what you want?”

I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m hungover and extremely thrown off by this entire conversation.

“What I want is you, Ella. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that I want this. That I’m serious about us. Christ, I even talked to my therapist about you.”

There’s no point in hiding my surprise. I already know Blake goes to therapy, but I’m dumbstruck that I came up as a topic of conversation. Our therapists should get together to compare notes.

“Says he’s never heard me talk so passionately about anything besides Formula 1 until you.”

I bury my face in my hands. My mind is going a million miles an hour, not sure what to do with what he’s saying. I’ve spent the past month wishing this is what he’d said, but he didn’t. And now that he is? I still like him, but what’s changed? I’m not prepared for this.

“Have dinner with me,” Blake says softly as if it’s that simple. “You can tell me every reason you shouldn’t be with me, and I’ll tell you every reason you should be.”

I barely wanted to open my door for him and now he wants me to go to dinner with him while I’m in my pajamas?

“You’re in a tuxedo,” I point out. “I’m wearing boxers.”

“I’ll change,” he says. The look of hope on his face is unusually bashful. “We don’t even have to leave the hotel. We can just eat in the dining room.”

He’s using my love of food and pajamas against me. Sneaky. My stomach betrays me by growling. Blake hears it—there’s no way he doesn’t—but he makes no comment.

“Okay,” I relent. “But just dinner.”

He knows the way to my heart is through my stomach and I’ve got to give him brownie points for that.