Farrah’s chest clenched with fear and anticipation. Her body wanted this. Her brain did not. As for her heart…well, it didn’t know what it wanted.
He’s a client.
He’s an ex-lover.
He broke my heart.
He can make my body melt.
It’s too risky.
What’s life without a few risks?
It would be so easy to give in. Farrah’s apartment was a five-minute walk away, and Olivia had to be asleep by now. She could sneak him in without her roommate ever knowing.
Blake’s heart beat in time with hers.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Their mouths moved another millimeter closer.
Warning sirens screamed in Farrah’s head as the inferno in her body raged.
She had two seconds to decide.
Appease her body…or protect her heart?
Blake’s lips parted, and she shoved him. Hard.
Farrah ripped herself out of his embrace, her heart skidding at five hundred miles a minute. The fog in her head cleared enough for her to realize they’d smashed past the boundaries she’d insisted they adhere to.
She’d deal with that later. Right now, she needed to get out here.
“I’m leaving.” Her voice sounded far away to her own ears. “It’s late.”
Blake nodded. He’d won—she’d backed down first—but for a victor, he looked awfully defeated.
Farrah grabbed her belongings and hurried out the door. Her feet hit the cracked pavement, and she didn’t stop running until her red brick building come into view.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
By running away, she’d showed her hand. Despite what she said, she wasn’t over Blake. An irrational, primal part of her still wanted him, and now they both knew it.
Farrah could’ve stayed and played the game through to the end, but that wasn’t an option.
She had too much to lose.
Chapter Twelve
“We have you fully booked for media in the two weeks leading up to the grand opening. In fact, Mode de Vie wants to do a big lifestyle feature on for their October issue. The interview will be in June, and they requested a photoshoot at your apartment. Is it going to be ready by then?”
“Yeah, Angus beef is fine.” Blake watched two contractors assemble the stadium-style seats in the special events section of the bar. The heavy thud of hammers hitting nails and the screechy whine of high-powered drills filled the air. Blake loved those sounds. It was the sound of shit getting done, of success and hard work; it was also the one area of his life that hadn’t gone to hell.
His chief of staff glanced up from her clipboard with a frown. Patricia Hart was a lot of things— competent, assertive, organized to a fault—but she was not tolerant of people slacking off. Not even when that person was her boss.
“We moved on from discussing the food ten minutes ago. We’re going over your media schedule now. Get it together, Blake.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, half-amused, half-annoyed. “How much do I pay you to talk to me like that again?”
“A lot.” Patricia’s smile dripped saccharine. “Now, about your apartment. Is it going to be ready in time for the Mode de Vie shoot? The interview is the third week of June.”
“I think so.”
“You think so or you know so?”
Blake scowled. Patricia was his best hire and an indispensable part of his team. He came up with the vision and strategies; she implemented them, and he paid her a crap ton of money to do so. She also kept his ass in line and didn’t take shit from anyone.
But sometimes, he wished he’d hired someone a little more accommodating.
“I know so.”
I hope so.
Farrah told him the apartment would be finished in July, taking into account potential contractor issues and shipping delays, but that was if there were contractor issues and shipping delays.
“Good.” Patricia ticked something off on her clipboard. “That’s all for today.”
With her auburn waves and endless legs, she could moonlight as a model. Blake recognized her beauty, but even if she weren’t an employee, it did nothing for him. He was a black hair, brown eyes, smart mouth kinda guy.
“Great. Call me when the liquor distributor comes back with a quote. I don’t want a repeat of New Orleans.”
Both Blake and Patricia grimaced when they remembered the jackass distributor who’d charged them three times the standard price for two dozen cases of shitty well liquor. Their New Orleans manager had signed the contract in a haze of grief after losing out big in Vegas the previous weekend, and by the time Blake and Patricia found out, it’d been too late.
“Of course. It won’t happen again.” Patricia eyed him cautiously. “You’ve been distracted lately. Is everything ok?”
Blake’s eyebrows shot up. He and Patricia didn’t discuss personal matters. Ever. Theirs was a professional relationship—a great one, but professional nonetheless. She did her job, he paid her, and that was the way they liked it.
“Yeah. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”
Correction: he had one person on his mind. All the damn time. Blake replayed his and Farrah’s near-kiss the way he used to replay tapes of his old football games. He studied them, analyzed them, broke them down frame by frame until he could pinpoint every mistake, every unconscious tic and tendency, and every player’s strengths and weaknesses.
After replaying his night with Farrah on a loop for two weeks straight, Blake was sure of three things: 1) her body wanted him; 2) her mind shunned him; 3) her heart was terrified of him.
He felt it in the heat of her skin against his, saw it in the glint in her eyes, and heard it in the rapid thud-thud-thud coming from inside her chest.
In his quest for Farrah’s heart, her mind was his enemy and her body was his ally. And what do you do with allies? You butter ‘em up, give ‘em what they want, and keep them on your side.
That would be a helluva lot easier if Blake were anywhere near her body. Farrah hadn’t spoken to him since she ran off into the night. His calls rolled to voicemail, and she returned his messages via curt texts instead of calling him back. She also refused to meet him in person, saying she was still getting quotes from contractors and didn’t have any updates for him yet.
Blake kicked himself for pushing things too far, too fast. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d been terrified that Farrah was telling the truth. That she was over him. He could handle her hating him, but he couldn’t handle her treating him like he was just some guy she used to date. Because the opposite of love wasn’t hate; it was indifference.
So, he’d pushed her. Forced her to show her hand and admit, if only to herself, that she may not love him anymore, but he still affected her. Short term, it gave Blake satisfaction to see the heat in her eyes. Long term, it was a fucking terrible strategy. The more Farrah was aware of her attraction to him, the more she would avoid him.
Case in point: the past two weeks.
“Understandable. This is a big opening.” Patricia snapped back into chief of staff mode. “Is there anything else you want to go over.?
“No. That’s it. Thank you.”
Patricia left to supervise the bar setup, and Blake swept his eyes around what would soon be the crown jewel of the Legends empire. The New York branch wasn’t going to be just a sports bar—it was going to be a destination. And it wasn’t going to be just a destination—it was going to be the hottest destination on New York’s nightlife circuit. A sports mecca spread over three stories, complete with a bowling alley, state-of-the-art recreation room, and upscale cocktail bar/nightclub.