Drop Dead Gorgeous

Sometime later, I have no idea if it’s been minutes or hours, Blake puts his hand over mine to stop my mouse scrolling.

I glance up at him and have to blink away the dryness in my eyes from staring at the screen. “What?”

“C’mon. We might not get the answer tonight, but I need to feed you.”

My brows knit together, confused. “I’m not hungry. And what if the answer is in the next paragraph? Or on the next website?”

“Then that paragraph and website will be there tomorrow,” Blake reminds me. “And what if it’s not? Plus, your stomach’s been growling for the last fifteen minutes.”

I slap my hands over my belly, feeling heat flush my cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t notice.”

“I know. And you looked so cute, lips moving along as you read and light sparkling in your eyes as you considered every word. I couldn’t bear to stop you. But I need to get home to Chunky too.”

“Oh!” I exclaim. “Sorry! I’ll let you go. I just . . .” I trail off, standing and scrambling to grab my purse and the toxicology report printout. “I lost track of time. I’ll let you get home. Sorry.”

I try to hand the paper to Blake, and he tilts his head, eyeing me with a questioning look as he takes my hand instead of the printout.

“Zoey.” His voice is firm and quiet, stopping me in an instant.

Even my brain shuts up and tunes in to Blake. “Yes?”

“I’m not telling you to go. I’m saying ‘let’s go’. The both of us.”

There’s no question mark in what he’s saying, but the question is in his eyes. Along with his desire. “Oh.”

Apparently, that’s all I can say, but he doesn’t need any more. He closes his laptop and puts it in a bag, which he throws over his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he tells me. No questions at all this time.

I consider arguing, once again trying to save his ass if he’s not inclined to do it for himself, but then he turns, and when confronted with that ass in slim-fitting business slacks, all I can do is follow him out the door like he’s the Pied Piper.

Hopefully, not to either of our deaths.

Chapter 13

Blake

For the third time, I glance up into my rearview mirror, but Zoey’s right there, just as she’s been since we pulled out of my office’s lot. She’s following me, and I count it as a major victory.

I know I must seem like the most boring person to the world as I pull up in front of my little white house, a newer construction I bought partly because I know the builder and their safety record. But as she parks and takes that first step up my concrete walkway, I feel like I just won the Super Bowl.

“Now, don’t judge,” I tell her as I pause, my key in the deadbolt. “You know, how I live.”

“What? Do you live like a frat boy with just a black leather couch and a big screen set up on boxes?” Zoey teases.

I feign offense as I peek in the window too high on the door for her to see in, as if I’m surveying the damage. “How’d you know?” But at her horrified expression, I can’t help but laugh. “Not anymore, but once upon a time . . .” I shake my head sadly, putting a hand to my chest in faux mourning. “Those were the days.”

Zoey pushes on my chest, scolding and flirting at the same time. Does she even know that she’s doing that? She pulls me in and pushes me away, verbally and physically, at every turn.

But fuck if I don’t enjoy it.

“I meant Chunky. I told you he adopted me, and that’s true, but it hasn’t been long, and his diet isn’t working as fast as I’d hoped.” I whisper the word ‘diet’ knowing that Chunky hates the very idea of it.

“Diet?” Zoey echoes at normal volume.

“Shh, he’ll hear you and get a complex. He’s very sensitive.”

Zoey’s smile is full-wattage with humor. “Your dog, who is named Chunky, supposedly because of peanut butter, is on a diet and sensitive about it?”

“Down seven pounds in six months,” I report proudly.

She seems as ready as she’s gonna be, so I open the door and am almost immediately knocked to my ass by Chunky, who Superman leaps at me joyfully, all four of his doggy feet a solid twenty-four inches off the floor.

Used to this flying canine greeting, I drop to one knee to catch him in my arms and turn my face away so his messy, sloppy kisses hit my cheek and not my mouth because he’s a French kisser if given the opportunity. “Who’s a good boy? That’s right, you are, Chunka-Chunka-Burning-Love. You’re my good boy,” I tell my squirming, slobbery dog as I scratch and pet him all over.