Dirty Boss (Dirty Rich 2)

I won't accept anything less than Blake being madly in love with me.

I study every nook and cranny of the room. The plush leather couch. The wide TV. The big, clear windows that lead to the balcony.

The cherry bookshelf in the corner. It's packed with rows and rows of science fiction novels. I haven't read any of them, but I do recognize a few names.

The shelf on the bottom is different. It's packed with graphic novels straight off a best-of list: Blankets, Fun Home, Smile, Blue is the Warmest Color.

As Lizzy would say, boring girl stuff.

Exactly what I like to read.

"Those are for you." His voice flows into my ears.

I turn to face him. He's standing in the kitchen, pouring whiskey into a glass of ice.

I nod. "Thank you." My heart speeds up. They're books, not a declaration of love. But they're a lot.

He understands me.

He knows what I want.

He wants to make me happy.

Maybe he is capable of loving me.

Suddenly, my black dress feels awkward.

I'm not mourning this relationship. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.

This is our last chance. That means it's my last chance too. These might be my last twenty-four hours with Blake. I'm going to enjoy them.

"Excuse me." I go to the sex room—I'm sure Blake calls it his spare room, but let's get real—and change into a tank top, pajama bottoms, and a hoodie.

I'm tempted to linger here. It's familiar. Hell, this is certainly the room where I have the most positive memories.

I let my eyelids press together. I linger in memories of his body joining mine, his lips on my skin, his growl vibrating down my neck. The Blake I understand. Who understands me. Who gives me exactly what I need.

But then I understand this Blake.

And he understands me.

And we do want to make each other happy.

I swallow the thought as I move into the main room.

Blake is in his pajamas. It's still strange, seeing him casual and relaxed. Blake in a t-shirt and plaid pants is absurd. Even if he still looks like a sex god.

He nods to the coffee table. There's a plate of berries and dark chocolate. And two glasses. One amber. One clear.

"Gin and chocolate?" I move onto the couch.

He sits next to me. His fingers brush my cheek. My chin. "Would you prefer whiskey?"

I shake my head.

He grabs my drink and hands it over. It's just like the first time. The brush of his fingers lights me up.

I move closer, until the outsides of our thighs are pressed against each other.

His fingers trail over my back, pressing the soft cotton of my hoodie against my skin. He nestles his head into the crook of my neck. Slides his arms around my waist.

Fuck. My stomach flutters. My muscles go weak. This is exactly where I belong. In his arms. In his apartment. In his life.

But not if it's his life. Only if it's ours.

Blake's breath warms my ear. "Thank you."

"For?" I press my knees together. It does nothing to stem the electricity racing through me. I want his body, yes, but as more than a fuck. As everything.

"For being here."

"Of course." I want to be here. There isn't a single part of me that wants to be somewhere else.

I down half my gin and tonic in one gulp. Fresh with that hint of pine.

"Kat."

I grab a raspberry and plop it in my mouth. It's sweet, tart perfection.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

He turns to me and runs his fingertips over my chin, tilting me so we're eye to eye. "Are you sure?"

No. Not at all. But I am sure I want to be here. "Let's watch a movie."

He stares back at me. His eyes fill with honest affection. "Anything you want."

"It's a little silly," I say.

"Same thing you said about your favorite book." He brushes the hair from my eyes. "Why are you embarrassed by the things you love?"

"I'm not embarrassed by them." I play with the zipper of my hoodie. "It's more that it's personal." My cheeks flush. This is really personal. But I want him to know. I want him to know all of me. "The Matrix."

He laughs. "You do realize who you're talking to?"

"Yes, I do realize you own a technology company, and you think you're a nerd. But that isn't what's personal. I don't really care about the movie that much." I finish the last half of my drink. "It was the thing Lizzy and I watched when she got out of the hospital. We must have watched the whole trilogy twenty times. She loves those fucking movies. Any movie where robots try to enslave humanity, she's all over it. Battlestar Galactica is her favorite show by quite a measure."

"What about you?" he asks.

"I root for the robots." I set my glass on the table. Fine. I'll answer the question he was really asking. "It's not my favorite movie, but it's the most comforting thing I can watch. It feels like… like love."

He runs his hand through my hair and rests it on the back of my neck. With the other, he tilts my chin so we're face to face.

His voice is soft. Sweet. "The Matrix is my favorite movie."

"Yeah?"

He nods.

I swallow hard.

I've seen The Matrix twenty times. More. It seems like it's a movie about rebels fighting a manufactured dream world.

But it's not.

It's about love.

Love is the thing that saves the day.

Love is the thing that saves the world.

Love is the thing that matters.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I fall asleep on the couch and wake up in Blake's bed.

He's behind me, his arm resting on the curve of my waist.

It's so different than last time I was with him. When I woke up alone, I felt cold and empty.

Right now, I'm warm. The whole fucking world is warm.

My eyes flutter closed. One more minute to feel his arms around me.

I do my best to slide off the bed without waking Blake. He looks peaceful with his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly.

I creep to the bathroom and brush my teeth. There's a sound in the bedroom. Then footsteps. He knocks softly.

I mumble a come in.

He does. His hair is actually messy. And he actually looks tired.

My lips curl into a smile.

His eyes fix on me. "What's that for?"

I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste. "For you."

"I make you happy?"

"Sometimes."

"I want to make you happy."

I turn to the sink and rinse my mouth. I don't know what to do with his words.

He moves closer. Waits until I'm standing then wraps his arms around me.

I bury my head in his chest. He runs a hand through my hair.

It's warm.

Comfortable.

"Relax. I'll make breakfast," he says.

"You make things?"

"I do."

"You? Not your assistant or a cook or a maid?"

He chuckles. "You're verging on insulting."

"You get insulted?"

"Only by people I care about." He reaches for his toothbrush. "I make an amazing breakfast. You'll eat those words."

"Or will I be too busy eating the delicious food?"

He laughs. "That's a terrible joke."

"That's why it suits you." I take a step backwards. "No offense."

"It's good to know your strengths and weaknesses." He turns back to the sink.

I slink to the main room, grab my sketchbook, and plop on the couch. I need to capture all the thoughts racing around my head. First, the funeral. Six panels. Starting with a closed casket. It's a little obvious, but it's necessary.

Then Blake, sitting in a cheap chair in his expensive suit, his eyes on the floor, his expression miserable.

And me, behind him, considering coming up to him.

A poin

t-of-view shot of him standing.

Him at the podium.

The words She was everything.

"I like you lost in thought." Blake leans in to plant a kiss on my lips.

He tastes like mint toothpaste.

"Aren't you used to it?" I ask.

"I still like it." He takes a step towards the kitchen. "You want coffee?"

"Yes please."

He moves into the kitchen. I turn back to my drawing.

Slowly, the smell of java fills the room. That French roast with vanilla. The one he was drinking after the pool. I can't even smell vanilla without thinking about it.

I try putting last night into a panel, but I don't know where to start. At the diner? The drive here? My body pressed against his on the couch?

How can I put all my feelings about him into four or ten or even a hundred panels?

The smell of red peppers and olive oil fills the room.

I give up on work and move into the kitchen.

Blake pushes vegetables around a pan. He cracks eggs in a clean plastic bowl, whisks them, pours them in the pan.

He is a good cook.

At least if the smell of that omelet is any indication.

He turns back to me. Runs his fingers through my hair. Looks down at me like I'm the secret to all the happiness in the world. "Cream and sugar?"

"Please." I rise to my tiptoes to kiss him. This is so normal. So domestic. So sweet.

It's perfect.

He fills two mugs and adds just enough cream and sugar to one.

I steal the coffee from him and take a long sip.

It's perfect.

And it makes me think of him. Of vanilla on his lips. I get lost in my mug. And my thoughts. It's been less than two months, but it feels like it's been forever. Was it really me who ran into Blake? It feels like she was another person entirely.

"Here." Blake sets a plate in front of me. An omelet, avocado, two dozen raspberries.