One of his favorites, if Farrah remembered correctly.
“Who’s this?” The woman cocked her head and eyed Farrah curiously. With her high cheekbones, creamy skin, and golden-brown eyes, she should be on a Times Square billboard, showing off the latest designer fragrance or expensive lingerie line.
Say something.
Except, she couldn’t. All Farrah could do was stand there and try not to drown beneath the wave of jealousy that consumed her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Why don’t you head out for the night?” Blake suggested to his chief of staff. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Patricia tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
Patricia shot one last quizzical look at Farrah, who remained unmoving in the doorway, before she brushed past her and swayed down the hall.
Patricia had been here all night, helping Blake sort through their shitshow of an opening. They’d settled on a new restaurant manager, but they still had issues with the plumbing and now their liquor distributor said their alcohol deliveries were going to be delayed. Something about the company consolidating two facilities into one and a backlog.
Blake would be more sympathetic if he weren’t so pissed off.
You couldn’t have a bar without alcohol. Period. That was the whole fucking point of a bar.
He and Patricia spent all afternoon scrambling to find another distributor who could deliver the quantities they needed on time for a reasonable price. They’d only stopped for a quick dinner break, during which he’d spilled wine all over her white shirt. He’d lent her the first top he could find—his favorite STU sweatshirt—to cover up the stain until she could change.
They’d been wrapping up when he heard a knock.
He didn’t know who he’d expected when he opened the door, but he most definitely hadn’t expected Farrah.
Blake leaned against the doorframe, drinking her in. She wore a little orange dress that bared her shapely legs and made her look tanner than usual. Her cheeks glowed pink, a sure sign she’d been drinking. Or maybe the pink had something to do with the anger flashing in her eyes.
“Sorry for showing up unannounced,” Farrah said stiffly. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“She was leaving anyway. Come in.” Blake eyed the thin line of her lips and the tense set of her shoulders. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” Farrah surveyed his apartment. She paused on the two half-empty glasses of wine on his kitchen counter, and her scowl deepened.
“You look upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“If you say so,” Blake drawled, not believing her for a second. “What brings you here tonight?”
By now, he knew better than to hope for a love confession. With his luck, Farrah was here to tell him something went wrong with the bank and that she hadn’t received the final payment for her design services.
Blake tensed his jaw and cleaned the wine glasses while he waited for Farrah to answer.
“I, uh, came by to see how you’re liking your new apartment.” Farrah twisted her necklace chain around her finger until the surrounding skin turn
ed white.
He dried the glasses and placed them upside down on a towel before facing Farrah with raised eyebrows. “You came here on a Friday night to check on the apartment you designed?”
“Yes.” Defensiveness crept into her tone. “How do you like it?”
“The same as I did when I signed on off everything,” Blake said dryly. “I love it.”
Decorated in an elegant, masculine palette of navy blue, gray, and white with gold accents, the apartment looked like something out of a magazine spread. But thanks to personal touches such as the wall of photos from every one of his bar openings—custom framed to include an engraving of the host city’s name—and the shelf of knickknacks collected during his travels, it felt like home instead of a museum.