My heart stops.
I want so much to reach for him right now.
To just wrap Blake up and hold him.
Right now, he’s talking to me the way he does when he’s on the radio, instead of shutting down and going defensive when he has to deal with me in person.
The man who’s talking to me now feels so much empathy. He owns their pain, hoping to ease it if he can’t take it away.
Well, crap.
So infatuation might not be the worst of it.
I think I might be a little bit in love with that kind, stubborn, strange heart of his.
For just a moment, I can’t help but step closer, reaching up to rest my hand on his arm. Even through his thick coat, his arm is solid muscle, and it tenses under my palm.
“You can’t make Justin let go of his pain, Blake,” I tell him softly. “But it’s good that you want to make him feel like he’s part of something. Maybe giving him control over a fire safety event would help him feel closer to the town, take his mind off what happened.”
The way Blake looks at me makes me wonder if I said something wrong.
His jaw sets tight, his eyes creased at the corners, and my heart plummets.
Before he can pull away from me, I draw my own hand back. But he only makes this rough, bearish sound under his breath.
“Hope you’re right, darlin’,” he mutters, before he turns away, tilting his head back to look up at the lights suspended in the rigging. “Somebody’s gonna die in here.”
I don’t know why I feel a chill when he says that.
Almost like a creepy premonition.
Hugging my arms around myself, I push down the feeling of disappointment in my chest.
“I don’t know anything about fire safety, but this looks kind of dangerous even to me,” I whisper.
“Heh. Maybe you need Justin’s course, too.” He glances at me, his eyes softening. “Hey. You serious about wanting to sing for the radio show or what?”
The sudden switch leaves me reeling, spinning, and I blink at him.
“Sing? Oh. Sure thing!” My eyes narrow. “So how long did it take for you to know it was me when I called?”
Blake smiles his wry, easygoing grin. “Thought so right away. Nobody’s got a voice like yours. Or a name like Broccoli.”
Shooting him a dirty look, I rub my hand against my too-warm neck.
Hey, if anything, Blake’s going to keep me from freezing to death out here by blushing. “I’d really like to try, if you think it’s all right. Maybe come up with a little custom jingle for you or something.”
“We can try. Don’t really have pro level recording equipment or a sound booth here, but we can probably rig something up at the station, if you want to come down this weekend.”
“Really?” My breaths suck in quickly, and my sinking heart rockets back up. “Thank you!”
Sometimes I hate how impulsive I am.
Without even thinking, I throw myself at him, pressing against his back and wrapping my arms around him from behind.
I’m just elated. Buzzing and fizzing and whirling like sparklers.
I’m also instantly embarrassed. He goes stiff as a board against me.
Heck, I feel like I’m undoing all my own handiwork, though it’s been nice to see him not limping today.
But I’m selfish.
I cling for a moment longer and breathe him in.
He smells like a Blake.
Fresh snow and woodsmoke and soft citrusy cologne. I take that scent in deep so I can remember it as long as I need to.
Then my sanity catches up.
“Sorry,” I whisper, peeling away.
He doesn’t acknowledge my apology. He doesn’t even move.
Blake just tosses his head, moving toward the edge of the stage. “C’mon. Let’s finish up here and pry Andrea away from whatever she’s doing.”
Biting my lip, I watch him vault down from the edge of the stage, then follow, climbing down more gingerly. For a moment, the heel of my foot slips as I drop down, and he starts forward, hands reaching for me—but I catch myself just in time.
He pulls back with another of those gruff, almost embarrassed sounds, looking away as I land in the chilly grass and dust myself off.
I’m going to smile, I tell myself.
I’m going to smile no matter what.
It’s not my fault he’s so guarded. So wounded. So Blake.
Papa bear’s got himself a cub to protect, all on his own, I get it.
There’s no use in taking his icy-hot reactions too personally.
So I just beam up at him, straightening my coat. “Lead the way, Chief.”
That earns me an utterly filthy look. “Don’t you start calling me that, too.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” I retort with a salute, and he rolls his eyes.
“Am I a captain now? C’mon, Sailor Broccoli.” Turning away, he strides across the grass. “Try to keep up.”
“Hey!” I have to scramble to catch up with those long legs of his and even longer strides. “Stop calling me Broccoli! And stop being so flipping tall!”