Chapter 9

CHAPTER

NINE

Blakely

I check the address one last time before turning into the driveway. My palms are sweaty as I turn off the GPS on my phone and slide it into my purse. Reaching over to the passenger seat, I grab the sugar cookies I made with my little sister, Brooklyn, over the weekend. We made way too many, and they’re Christmas trees and snowmen. I figured it would be our dessert and something Christmassy to bring to his life. Gripping my messenger bag by the handles, I take a deep breath. I can do this.

As I step out of my car, the front door opens. I stop and stare at the sight before me. Dr. Thompson is in a pair of well-worn jeans and a fitted Henley. Damn. He really is hiding arm porn underneath those dress shirts and suits he wears every day. The shirt fits him like a second skin and leaves nothing to the imagination.

Realizing that I’m standing beside my car in the driveway, just staring at the man, I force my feet to move toward him. “Hi,” I say when I reach the steps. He’s leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Blakely.” He smiles.

It’s a true, genuine smile that I’ve never seen from him before. “I brought my cookie,” I say, holding up the container. You’d think I’ve never talked to the opposite sex a single day in my life the way I’m acting.

“You brought me your cookie?” He arches his brow.

“No. I mean, yes. I brought cookies.” I thrust the container out again, this time hitting his chest. He grabs onto my wrists and, slowly, painfully slowly, takes the container from me. “Come on in. Dinner is ready.”

He turns and walks back into the house, holding the door open for me. I follow him inside, closing the door behind me. He leads me to the kitchen, where the smells make my belly growl. “Wow, it smells amazing.”

“Thank you.” He places the cookies on the counter.

“Wait, you cooked for us?” For me is what I wanted to say, but I caught myself.

“What, you think I can’t cook?”

“No, it’s not that. I just didn’t expect it is all. I assumed you would grab takeout or have something delivered.”

“Have a seat.” He nods to one of the barstools around his massive island. “What would you like to drink?” He rattles off the options.

“Just water is fine. Thank you.”

“Water it is.” He reaches into the refrigerator to grab a bottle, and I can’t help but admire his ass in those jeans. He clears his throat, and my eyes snap to his. His eyes smolder as he holds my gaze before sliding the bottle of water across the counter to me.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling the embarrassment wrap around me like a scarf on a cold winter’s day. Flipping open the top of my messenger bag, I pull my tablet out and turn it on. “The seating charts. I have a good head start, but I need to go over the list of ticket sales one last time since the event just sold out. I want to double check that all the ticket holders are sitting together, if at all possible. There were two people who bought three tickets, but luckily, I can put them both at the same table to even it out,” I ramble.

“Blakely?”

I stop and look up at him. “Yes?”

“Put that away.” Oliver nods toward my tablet.

“But… that’s why I’m here, right? To go over the seating chart.”

“You’re going to eat first. You’ve already put in a long day, and you need to eat.”

“Oh, I can do both at the same time.”

“Put it away, Blake.” His tone is stern, and the hard look he’s giving me tells me he’s not going to be happy until I indeed put my work away. “We eat first.” With that, he gets to work making us both a plate of baked spaghetti and garlic bread. He places my plate in front of me and then sets the other to the right of me before grabbing his glass of sweet tea and taking a seat next to me.

“Thank you for this. It smells amazing.”

He replies with a mumbled, “No problem,” as we dig into our meal. He finishes way before me, but then again, he gave me the same amount as him.

“I don’t think I can eat another bite.” Sitting back, I place my hand on my too-full belly.

“You don’t have to.”

“I hate to be wasteful.”

“It’s fine. Are you finished?” he asks, making sure. I nod, and he takes both of our plates. He scrapes mine off into the trash before rinsing them and placing them in the dishwasher.

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing. It’s all set. I cleaned as I went, so it’s all done,” he says, starting the dishwasher and then wiping down the counter. “Why don’t we go sit in the living room where it’s more comfortable? Unless we need the counter space?”

“No. I have everything in a digital design on my tablet.”

“Great. Come on.” He nods toward the living room.

Climbing off my chair, with my messenger bag on my shoulder, I head that way. When I feel his hand on the small of my back leading me into the room, my steps falter, just barely, but his arm goes around my waist to catch me.

“You okay?” His deep, husky voice is right next to my ear, and goose bumps break out across my skin. I’m glad he can’t see it. Thankfully, I’m wearing the same sweater I had on today at the office, but I switched the dress pants for leggings and my warm winter boots.

“Are you cold?”

Damn, he’s more observant than I thought. He is a physician, so I guess it’s his job to notice things.

“I… I’m fine.” He leads me to the couch, and I take a seat, with Oliver taking the one right next to me. I clear my throat. “So, the seating chart.” I fumble with my bag as I dig my tablet out again, pushing the power button to bring it out of sleep mode.

“I’m sure you have it under control,” Oliver tells me.

Placing my tablet on my lap, I turn to look at him. “You’re not going to help me, are you?” I’m smiling because I know he doesn’t care about the gala. What I don’t know is why I’m here. Why did he volunteer to help me when he couldn’t care less?

“I’m here for moral support.”

“Riiiight,” I say with a laugh, dragging out the word.

“Fine. Let’s see this fancy chart of yours.” He holds his hand out for my tablet.

“I’m not sure I want you to see it now.” I rush to grab the tablet and hold it tightly to my chest.

“Are you holding out on me, Blake?”

Why is his voice husky all of a sudden? Why is my body melting into the couch at the sound of his tone of voice? I’m losing it. Before I can fire off a reply, my phone rings. Reaching into the pocket of my leggings, I see it’s a call I’ve been waiting for. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.” I offer him an apologetic smile while bringing the phone to my ear. “Jerry, hey,” I greet the caller. I feel Oliver stiffen next to me, but I ignore it.

I listen as Jerry tells me that everything is good to go for the Tree Lighting that’s two weeks away. “Has it been decorated?” I ask him. I listen again as he tells me they’re starting tomorrow night. “Great, I’ll stop by and check out the progress.” We settle on an agreed time, and I end the call.

“Who the fuck is Jerry?” Oliver asks.

I glance over at him to see his muscular arms folded across his chest. Damn that arm porn. No wonder my aunts are always going on about it. It’s… powerful. “Why?” I’m goading him, and I know it’s wrong, but I do it anyway.

He leans in closer, his arms still crossed. “Blake,” he warns. One word, my name on his lips, that growl, and I’m shifting in my seat.

Never in my life did I think a growl would be sexy, especially when directed at me, but here we are, making history. I mean, I’ve read about the sexy growl, but this is my first time to ever actually experience something I thought my favorite authors created to enhance the story. It turns out it’s not only real, it’s sexy as hell.

“Ollie,” I reply sweetly, knowing it will get under his skin.

He uncrosses his arms and lifts his hand toward my face. I freeze, thinking he’s going to cup my cheek, but instead, he brushes my hair back out of my eyes. “Who is Jerry?” he asks again.

“Jerry from maintenance.”

“Hmm. And why is he calling you so late?” He’s so close I can feel his hot breath flow across my cheek. There are just a few inches separating us. We’re way too close for a working relationship. Maybe that’s why all I can think about is leaning over and pressing my lips to his. For research purposes, of course. They look soft. Very kissable, if you ask me.

“Blake?”

“He works second shift.” I finally break out of my daydream of kissing him and give him the answer he’s waiting for.

“Are you meeting with him?” He leans back, putting some much-needed distance between us.

“Yes. Tomorrow night, around seven. They’re going to be decorating the tree to prepare for the Tree Lighting Ceremony, and I want to check on things.”

“You don’t have to be there for that.”

“I want to be. The Tree Lighting Ceremony is my project, and I want to make sure it goes off without a hitch.”

“They’re working you too hard.” He furrows his brow, as if my work schedule irritates him.

“I can handle it, just as I’ve assured my boss. My boss, Hilary,” I say to remind him he’s not my boss—thankfully. Daydreaming about kissing your boss is definitely not good. Grounds for termination for sure, but I’m in the clear. Oliver isn’t my boss, and there isn’t a no-fraternization policy unless it’s direct reports. I might have checked yesterday while on my lunch. I needed some light reading, and that’s the story I’m sticking to.

“I’ll go with you.”

From the look on his face, he’s not in love with the idea.

“That’s not necessary. Jerry and I have had several after-hours meetings.”

“We’ll go to dinner first,” he announces, as if his word is the gospel.

“I’ll probably just work until it’s time to meet with Jerry.” I’m just being a brat now, but I’m not going to let this man, no matter how sexy his arm porn and growly voice are, walk all over me. “You don’t like Christmas. Why would you want to be there for this?” I’m goading him again.

“I’ll be there. We will have dinner first. You can’t eat that late.”

“It’s not going to kill me to eat a late dinner.”

“I’ll be ready to go at five.”

I want to stomp my foot and argue, but there’s a larger part of me that wants to have dinner with him. “You’re buying.” This time, I’m the one crossing my arms over my chest and scowling at him.

“Like I would let you pay,” he scoffs.

“I can afford to buy my own meal, thank you very much.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m paying.”

This man.

“I changed my mind. Only if I can pay.”

“Not happening, baby,” he says.

Baby.

Wow. Normally, I’d be rolling my eyes at the term, but not when it comes from this man. “Take it or leave it.” I hold his stare.

“Fine. Five o’clock. My office.” He’s not looking away, and neither am I.

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” I’m being stubborn, but I don’t care. I’m not a puppet.

“Fine,” he says, but his tone says it’s not fine. “You text me when you head out to your car, so you’re not waiting on me.” He sits back, crossing his arms to mimic me, and gives me a smug grin.

I roll my eyes. “Are you one of those?”

“One of those what?”

“One of those people who always has to have the final say? The last word in every conversation or argument?”

“No. But with this, yes. I don’t want you waiting out in the cold.”

“Then we could just cancel dinner.”

“Blake.”

I love how he shortens my name. He leans in close, and my eyes once again go to his kissable lips. Damn, they really do look soft. “Ollie.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a grin. “Only you,” he says, almost affectionately. “Text me when you head out, and I’ll be right behind you. Deal?”

I give in. “Deal.” It’s a small concession, after all.

“Now, let’s go over these seating charts.” He places his arm behind me on the back of the couch, and that’s what we do. Well, that’s what I try to do. His nearness and the way his hand brushes my shoulder are driving me crazy. By the time we’re finished with the seating charts, I need a break. I need some distance. I’m sure it’s frowned upon for a lowly assistant director of marketing to seduce a staff physician. That’s what’s about to happen. I’ve never felt this kind of pull, this kind of attraction before in my life.

“Dessert,” I blurt, standing abruptly from the couch. I fumble with my tablet, turning it off and shoving it back inside my messenger bag. “It’s time for dessert. We’ve earned it.” I smile, trying to seem unaffected, but I’m sure he can tell what his nearness is doing to me.

“That’s right. Your cookie.” He smirks.

“Cookies. The sugar variety. Come on.” I don’t know why I do it, but I offer him my hand to help him stand from the couch. He doesn’t hesitate to place his hand in mine. When I try to pull away, he laces our fingers together. He looks down at our joined hands as if he can’t understand the act of holding hands before leading us out of the room.

In the kitchen, I try to let go again, but his hold is strong. We move to the opposite side of the island where the chairs are. Before I know what’s happening, his hands are on my hips and he’s lifting me to the counter. Stepping between my thighs, which I automatically open for him, he leans in close, reaches around me to grab the container of cookies, and hands them to me.

“You made these?” he asks as I try to control my racing heart and pull the lid off the container.

“Yeah, my little sister, Brooklyn, came over Sunday after family dinner, and we made them.”

“Family dinner? Is that something you do all the time?”

“At least one Sunday a month. It used to be more, but with sports and life, we don’t always have the time to get everyone together. I have a big family.” I hold the container up for him, but he shakes his head.

“Christmas,” he says, almost affectionately. “Pick one for me.”

Reaching into the container, I grab a Christmas tree with green icing and colorful sprinkles. I hold it up to him, and my breath stalls in my lungs when he grips my wrist, leans in, and takes a huge bite. He chews, holding my gaze.

“Delicious.”

Is it hot in here?

My heart is racing, and my palms are sweaty. I’m in serious danger of this container of cookies slipping from my grip. That would be a waste, because they are yummy, if I do say so myself.

“Your turn,” he says. Before I can process his words, he moves my hand so that I can take a bite of the same cookie he just bit.

In. The. Same. Spot.

Even with my shock, I still open wide and take a bite of the same cookie. Oliver grabs the container, maybe sensing I’m about to drop them all over his pristine kitchen floor, and sets the rest of the uneaten cookies on the counter. He then proceeds to swipe his thumb across my lips.

“Crumb,” he whispers, leaning in close.

“Th-Thanks.”

“Your eyes are beautiful.” Another brush of his thumb, this time over my cheek.

“Yours too,” I say stupidly. What is it about this man that fries my brain? I’m Blakely Kincaid. I always have something to say. “I should get going.” If I’m not mistaken, there’s disappointment in his gaze, but it’s gone before my Oliver-fogged brain can fully define it.

“Let me have your keys, and I’ll go start your car for you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I have remote start.”

“Then I’ll remote start it for you.” His hands land on my hips for a second time in a matter of minutes, and he lifts me from the counter but doesn’t step back. Instead, he lets my body slide down the length of his.

Is that…? Is he hard? For me? It’s definitely time to go.

On shaking legs, I move back to the living room. I can feel his presence right behind me. My hand trembles as I reach into my bag and find my keys and hand them to him.

He leans in close, his lips next to my ear and his hand on the small of my back. “Thank you.” When he steps away, I immediately miss his warmth, and I stand here like a lovesick fool, watching him move to the window, pull back the curtain, and point the remote at my car. I should tell him he didn’t need to go to the window. Chances are, it would have started from here, but I can’t seem to find my voice.

When he turns to face me, I quickly avert my gaze, grab my bag, and move to the front door. I need to get out of here.

“Did you not bring a coat?” His brow is furrowed.

“I didn’t wear one in. I have one in my car in case I have trouble.”

He nods, accepting my answer.

“Thank you for dinner and for all of your help.” I stand at his front door awkwardly. I raise my hand to wave, but he shocks the hell out of me when he slides his arm around my waist and pulls me into a hug. His warmth wraps around me, and I wish I could stay here.

With him.

Just like this.

“Text me when you get home.” His voice is gravelly.

“It’s not too far,” I counter.

“Willow River is a good twenty minutes, Blake. Text me.” His normal grumpy tone is back.

And here I was, starting to think the grumpy doctor had disappeared. “Fine,” I huff.

“Thank you.”

I open the door and rush down the steps to my car. I refuse to look in the rearview mirror to see if he’s watching. I have enough to unpack as it is. I hope Isla’s home. I need some best friend talk.