She didn’t reply to Blake’s request.
Farrah didn’t like making promises she couldn’t keep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunlight. Warmth and softness. Orange blossom and vanilla.
Blake’s idea of heaven—if it weren’t for the damn alarm clock shrieking on his nightstand like a nun who’d walked into an orgy.
He set his alarm for seven a.m. on the weekends, a few hours later than when he woke up on weekdays, because early mornings were his most productive time of day. Blake loved getting all his shit done before other people rolled out of bed. Fewer distractions, more focus, though he would’ve happily stayed in bed all day today.
Yesterday drained him more than a five-hour training session in the rain back when he played football. Raw emotion was a bitch; it knocked you on your feet faster and harder than any three-hundred-pound lineman could.
Blake cracked an eye open and slammed his hand on his alarm clock’s off button.
Finally. Silence.
He braced himself before turning his head. The pillow next to him was empty.
He’d expected it, considering Farrah never replied when he asked her to stay through the morning. Still, disappointment curdled in his gut. Blake was about to let loose a curse that would have his mother washing his mouth out with soap when the bedroom door creaked open, and Farrah tip-toed in holding two cups of rich-smelling coffee.
Promise me you’ll be here in the morning.
And here she was, like a vision straight out of his dreams with her sex-tousled hair and one of his white button-down shirts barely covering her thighs.
Blake’s stomach flipped. His earlier disappointment took a back seat to the desire to crush her to his chest and never let her go.
“You’re awake.” Farrah handed him a coffee, which he accepted with a grateful nod.
“You’re here.”
She lifted a shoulder, looking almost as surprised as he felt. “I figured there are some things we need to talk about.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Blake said, tone dry. He took a sip of his morning elixir—strong and black, no cream, no sugar, just the way he liked it—before setting it on his nightstand. “Let’s talk.”
Their conversation last night had ended with a question mark. Blake assumed—hoped—that Farrah’s presence this morning meant she was willing to give them another chance, despite how badly he’d fucked up the first time around.
Granted, Blake hadn’t told her the entire truth. She didn’t know how Cleo miscarried or how selfish he felt, burrowing himself into her life again when she deserved so much better than him. But she knew all the parts of the story that pertained to her, and Blake would do anything to protect her from the darkest side of himself.
“I’ll be honest.” Farrah clutched her mug like it was her shield and salvation. “I believe what you did was a mistake—that you didn’t intend to hurt me—but you did. And I am so fucking furious you lied to me about something as big as getting your ex pregnant.” She swallowed. “I am also so, so sorry about what happened with your baby, and I appreciate you telling me the truth yesterday, but I can’t lie and say I trust you again.”
Blake’s heart shriveled in his chest.
“At the same time…” She blew a stray strand of hair out of her eye, indecision stamped across her gorgeous face. “I’m sick of living in the past, and there’s something inside me that can’t let you go, no matter how hard I try.”
The shriveling stopped.
There’s something inside me that can’t let you go, no matter how hard I try. Well, he’d be damned.
“So.” Farrah examined him, her gaze inscrutable. “It seems we have a conundrum.”
“And I have a solution.” Blake tossed the covers off and erased the distance between them with long, confident strides.
Yes, he was naked. No, he didn’t care.
Blake didn’t do false humility. He knew he could give Michelangelo’s David a run for his money. Heck, he was better than David, because David’s dick was kinda small. Blake’s was anything but.
Farrah’s breath hitched. “What’s the solution?”