Your Fierce Love (The Bennett Family 7)

“Why bars?” I continue my interrogation as we move to the bedroom, assembling the bed.

“I had contacts in the scene. Since I couldn’t escape my reputation, I decided to use it to my advantage.”

“Smart. You were a tabloid darling a few years ago.” Not since I befriended the family, but I pulled up his history online. All for research, of course, when the network featured his and Alice’s restaurants on Delicious Dining the first time. They’d wanted to know if Blake’s past would turn viewers off. But the search history hadn’t brought up anything scandalous, merely portrayed a man who liked parties and women, and even that was old news.

“I’m not that man anymore.”

“Hey! I’m not judging,” I assure him, nudging him with my shoulder.

“It was time I got my head out of my ass. Anyway, working, building something, feels right. It was time to make the Bennett name proud. And I get to work with Alice, which is a bonus. Between you and me, I think the best thing that happened to Alice was that she moved away and I took over operations. She was working twelve to fifteen hours a day, that little workaholic.”

Female solidarity is one of my cardinal rules, and I deeply admire Alice—she could take the world by storm if she put her mind to it, but I’m with Blake on this one. She was overworking herself.

Sighing, I remember my own family. They passed away in a car crash. I lost them so long ago, that sometimes when I try to reach back to a memory, I realize it’s gone. I don’t want to forget them.

We keep talking about everything under the sun while we assemble furniture, and I take snapshots of the apartment, wanting to document every stage

of the move. After we’re done, I scroll through the pics, and my jaw hangs. Blake appears in almost every picture. I don’t remember consciously doing so—clearly my subconscious is trying to prove a point. And I have to give it to Blake, he’d make an excellent model.

Guilt gnaws at me, but what do I do? Do I put the phone down? No, sir, I do not. Instead, I snap a new pic of Blake, who is currently checking whether the screws fastening the legs to the top of my dining table are tight enough. It is, in my humble opinion, the best shot yet.

His bicep is flexed, and the contours of his muscles are delicious eye candy. Great, not only am I a shameless Peeping Tom, but I also harbor dirty thoughts for a man who is not for me. I am the worst. The worst.

He’s a Bennett, for the love of God, and I’m determined for them to be a constant in my life. That means no crossing boundaries with Blake. He’s not the man for me anyway.

“All done,” Blake says seconds later, straightening up and startling me. “At least I think so.” His eyes sweep across the room as if checking whether anything is unfinished.

“Yeah, all done. I just have to unpack my boxes.”

“Speaking of boxes, I just have one mailbox. I can put a second one for you.”

“No need, I won’t put this address anywhere. I already gave Penny’s address at work. The emergency plan was to camp on her couch for a few days until I found a better place. No sense redoing the paperwork since I’m moving into my condo in three months max.”

“Okay.”

Come to think of it, it’s far better for my work file to display Penny’s address. I wouldn’t put it past Quentin to check where my address is and realize I’m living next to Blake.

“Do you want water?”

He nods, and after I take two glasses out of the box labeled kitchenware, we both walk to the kitchen.

Handing him a glass full of water, I say, “I’d thank you again, but I sound like a broken record even to my own ears. I’ll make it up to you, promise. Delicious dinner coming your way after I settle in.”

“Looking forward to it.” He gives me a wolfish smile and a wiggle of his eyebrows, and my body reacts instantly: rushed breath, weak knees, racing heart. Check, check, check.

While Blake helps himself to a second glass of water, I carry one of the boxes labeled bed linens to my bedroom. When I return, Blake is hovering dangerously close to an unlabeled box. As surreptitiously as possible, I lift it, intending to carry it to my bedroom as well. Several mishaps occur before I’m even halfway there. A strange sound cracks through the air. I can’t place it, but a few seconds later, two loud bangs—metal on wood—follow. Two batteries fell from the box, but how is that possible?

The cracking sound returns and I realize what’s going on: the bottom of the box is giving out. No, no, no. Not this box. Panic shoots through me as Blake seems to realize this too and hurries my way.

“Here, let me help—”

“No need.” I run to the bedroom, two more metallic bangs following me. With a relieved breath, I set the box on the floor. Straightening up, I’m startled to find Blake right next to me, holding out his hand, the four batteries in his palm.

“Why in such a hurry to get that box out of the way? What do you have inside, battery-operated friends?”

My cheeks flush, and I can’t form a comeback. Blake, who was probably only joking, looks from one cheek to the other, then to the batteries in his palm, finally lowering his gaze to my box. My mouth turns dry as dust, and I think I could melt butter on my cheeks right now. I swear the air between us charges. Suddenly, the room is too small, and there is not enough air. Hastily, I reach out to take the batteries. Our fingers touch, and holy hotness. The skin-on-skin contact is so charged, it sends my senses into a tailspin. My eyes meet his, and there is no mistaking the intensity of his gaze—or the heat in it.

Why, oh why didn’t I pack my vibrator in my suitcase? This was an accident waiting to happen.