16. Ginevra

CHAPTER 16

Ginevra

B lake turned me down last night. Humiliation washes through me again as I spend the day at the spa getting pampered and treated like a queen. But I can’t relax, not totally, because I keep replaying the snippets of last night that I do remember, which aren’t many. I know I acted like a fool and that he left the bedroom and slept on the sofa.

My stomach twists and my chest tightens. If I could crawl under a log and hide forever, I would. I’m so embarrassed.

I shouldn’t have had so much to drink last night, because when I do, my inhibitions disappear and I’ll do pretty much anything. Luckily for me, I usually don’t remember much of what happens, just vague impressions and sensations. Or maybe that’s not a good thing? I don’t know. All I know is that the wild and carefree version of myself doesn’t have panic attacks, she’s happy and freed from her trauma, and she does whatever the hell she wants.

I’d love to be her all the time. There was an era in my life not so long ago when I downed a shot of vodka first thing in the morning. It helped with the hangover from the night before. Since moving in with Blake, I haven’t been drinking as much, if at all. When did that change? I don’t actually recall.

Never mind, it’s not important.

Mostly, I’m embarrassed about last night because Blake’s the only man who’s ever turned me down—as far as memory serves. But do I really want to have sex with him when I won’t remember it the next morning?

That thought gives me pause. I’ve always been fine with not remembering. Most of the snippets I do recall leave me feeling dirty and used. Why would I want to have all those details seared into my mind forever? I don’t.

My thoughts wander to Blake… Would having sex with him leave me feeling gross and used? Hmm… Somehow, I doubt it. He made me come on his face and that felt downright heavenly.

Even so, I’ve never fucked anyone while sober, and since he won’t do it when I’m drunk, we’re at an impasse. The truth is, I’m afraid to do it sober, I don’t know what thoughts or feelings will come up, and that terrifies me. I don’t know how to be vulnerable like that without freaking out.

As my day at the spa comes to an end, I make my way back to the suite, in a much better head-space and ready to go out on the lake with my fake fiancé, only to find him on his phone, pacing the living area.

“What do you mean by he dropped the ball ?” Blake’s cold tone could make hell freeze over. “I see. Find his crew, and make them get it done tonight. No, I’ll deal with him later. Personally.”

Blake glances at me, then out the window at the sun’s position low on the horizon, and shakes his head. He mouths the words: Not tonight . I nod, understanding that he’s too busy with work for us to go out on the lake. Which is fine. Our relationship’s fake anyway, we probably shouldn’t do romantic stuff like watching the sunset from a rowboat. I’m not even sure why I originally suggested spending time together while we’re here.

Blake turns his back to me. “I don’t care what it takes, Marcus, I want it done tonight. If you have to hold them there at gunpoint to get the job done, then do it.” A pause. “Yes, I’m fucking serious,” he growls. “Good. I’ll send you the plans I sent that fucker. Hold on.”

He goes upstairs to the bedroom and doesn’t come back down for the rest of the night. From what I can hear, he’s either on his laptop or the phone dealing with this work crisis. So I curl up on the sofa in front of the cold fireplace and watch my cooking shows. Room service arrives with our dinner, and Blake takes his meal up to the bedroom.

I’m not disappointed in our last night here. Not at all. We really should try to keep this kind of distance from each other and not get too attached. Not that Blake’s the type to get attached to anybody. Tonight proves that I’m low on his priority list.

Brushing off my sadness, I focus on what makes me happy—my television shows.

M orning brings pretty much the same dynamic as last night. Blake continues to ignore me in favor of his laptop and cell phone for the three-hour ride home, so I take in the beautiful scenery and try not to let his behavior get me down.

I shouldn’t want his attention. He’s blackmailing me, using me to get something he wants from his step-mother–I’m assuming. I should distance myself from him. The fact that I do want to spend time with him and get to know him shows that I’m seriously messed up. It seems the more toxic the relationship, the deeper I fall into it.

My ex, who runs hot and cold—who’s apparently on a cold streak because I haven’t heard from him in a while—had me pining for him. Hell, I thought he was my first true love in the beginning. So stupid. So naive .

Now Blake’s blackmailing me into this fake relationship, and I suggest a romantic boat ride on a lake. Worse, I’m irritated when I’m not the center of his attention. I crave to know who he really is beneath that frigid exterior. He intrigues me to no end.

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

This is all fake . We’re not friends. He’s a dangerous man I should stay far away from. I know all of this, but it doesn’t stop me from sliding fast toward getting my heart broken—again. And this isn’t all my fault either, is it? I mean he was so nice to me when I had that panic attack, then he was amazing when he licked my pussy, and that proposal was pure perfection. I almost believed his lies. But that’s what comes out of his mouth whenever he opens it—lies.

I need to rally my defenses against him. He’s far better than I am at any game of manipulation. He’s a pro, and I just realized I’m in over my head.

When we arrive home—his home, my temporary living situation—Blake’s in a much better mood. I can tell because his scowl lines are more relaxed than they were earlier. His shoulders look less tense too.

As we step out of the car, a tall, beefy guy appears and takes our luggage in hand. He gives a single nod to Blake, some kind of silent communication passes between them, then he disappears inside the brownstone. What was that all about?

Blake opens the front door for me. “Go straight to the bedroom.”

I choke on air, and blink up at him. “ Excuse me?”

After he turned me down last night, now he demands that I go to his bedroom? I don’t think so.

“There’s something I want you to see. Come on.” He takes my arm, and I give in as we head upstairs.

We enter and I immediately notice the change. The bedroom’s clean and tidy…

I turn toward him. “Where are all of my things?”

“Open that door.” Blake releases me at the same time that I notice a door in the wall, one that didn’t used to be there. My chest tightens with apprehension, but curiosity wins out and I turn the knob and step over the threshold.

My gasp catches in my throat.

Lights automatically turn on all around me, illuminating the largest walk-in closet I’ve ever seen. It’s an entire room with an island in the middle, a crystal chandelier hanging over it. My clothes, shoes, and bags are beautifully displayed in a custom closet system. Part of the island is a glass jewelry case. There’s even a makeup vanity and mirror in front of one of the two huge windows.

“This is…” I trail off, I have no words.

Blake leans casually against the doorjamb, arms folded. “Magpie-worthy?” he asks.

My heart skips a beat, and a foreign kind of warmth spreads through my limbs. He did this… for me . I can’t believe it.

Spinning toward him, I ask, “Is this why you were on the phone last night and this morning?”

“Yes. The contractor did half the job then vanished, so I had my assistant Marcus and his team finish it up before our return. Do you like it? I can have them change anything?—”

With a squeal, I rush to him and throw my arms around his neck. “I love it! Thank you so much.”

He grunts. “Now you have a place for all of your stuff.”

I kiss his cheek, then pull away. “I know you want me to think you did this to get all of my clutter out of your way, but I know that’s not entirely true. You did this for me. Admit it.”

“Never. I did this for my own selfish reasons, and that is all.” He states those words as fact, yet my heart flutters at the warmth in his eyes. Liar. He did this for me.

“Whatever you say.” I bounce on my toes, unable to contain my excitement. “I’m cooking you dinner tonight.” That statement’s out before I lose my nerve. “Your boneless chicken and vegetables can wait one more night. I know you eat delicious dishes, you did at the resort.”

He sighs. “I only eat delicious dishes made by world-renowned chefs.”

“Snob.”

“Quite.”

“Well, I promise you that you’ll love whatever I make for you.”

“Gin, don’t.” He frowns. “I’m not a polite person. I’m not going to tell you how good your home-cooked meal is just to make you happy. I don’t believe in false praise.”

I dryly chuckle. “Oh, I know.”

But I don’t care. Nothing he can say will dissuade me from thanking him by cooking dinner tonight. With that goal in mind, I go in search of Kyla. We have work to do.

“ G in,” Blake growls as I make him sit down at the dining table with me. He’s like a fussy toddler who doesn’t want to eat his food.

“Stop protesting. It’s too late now. Sit down so we can have a nice meal together.” I take my seat across from him. Nerves skitter beneath my skin as Kyla serves the dinner we worked so hard on. I wanted to do this one mostly by myself, so she provided the ingredients, then sat back and watched, only speaking up when I was about to do something wrong. Under her masterful guidance, I think I did okay.

Blake sniffs at his forkful of braised pork in a sweet and savory sauce before tentatively putting it in his mouth. I roll my eyes. He’s acting like I might serve him poison—or worse, prison food. I know he eats pork because he ordered it at Spades, when we had dinner together.

He chews, makes a small noise in the back of his throat, swallows, then goes for another bite. I tasted everything in the kitchen along the way, so I know it’s good—excellent even. Blake tastes the braised pork with the accompanying rice, then the sautéed bok choy and mushrooms topped with basil, all in silence.

I can’t stand the suspense any longer. “Well?”

Leaning forward, I wait for him to speak.

“It’s good.” He scowls at his plate, like he’s blaming it for being so tasty. “Actually, it might be the best braised pork dish I’ve ever had.”

I grin so wide my cheeks ache. He’d never say that if he didn’t mean it. The anxiety twisting my stomach morphs into tiny bubbles, so light and airy I could float away. Finally, I dive into my own meal. It is good. I’m very proud of myself right now.

Blake arches a brow. “You made this under Kyla’s supervision?”

“Yep. She corrected me twice. Once when I almost skipped a step, and again when I grabbed the wrong spice. Other than that, it’s all my creation.”

He nods, chewing. “You have a true talent here, magpie. Why haven’t you pursued it?”

“Oh, um.” I swallow. “I’ve been watching cooking shows for years, but I didn’t realize I could actually cook until I moved in here.”

“How’s that possible? Didn’t you grow up with a working kitchen in your home?”

“I did. But we weren’t allowed in there very often. I didn’t have anywhere to cook until Kyla let me use the kitchen here.” Explaining it all aloud sounds kind of sad, but it’s the truth. Moving in with Blake has changed my life in more ways than one.

That’s something I can never repay him for, I wouldn’t even know where to start.