Page 22 of Triple Play

A noise from the back interrupts us—Felix, clearing his throat. I drag my face up from Blake’s shoulder to meet Felix’s gaze. He’s looking at me. Staring. Between his hat and beard and the darkness of the car, it’s hard to make out his expression, but his eyes practically glow in the dark like coals.

Blake shifts me around so he can pull his phone from his pocket, then texts something one-handed. Two phones buzz—mine where it’s mounted on the dashboard and presumably Felix’s. “There’s a box by the door with the key in it,” Blake says. “I sent the code if you want to go ahead, Paquette.”

Felix doesn’t move.

Until Blake clears his throat. “Don’t wait on our account.” The Blake version of get the fuck out.

Finally, Felix opens the back door—Lilac’s hinges squeak reassuringly—hauls himself out on the driveway, and shuts the door. Hard.

The second he’s gone, Blake wraps his arms tight around me. He nuzzles the crown of my head. “Sweetheart, you did so good.”

“You haven’t seen good yet,” I crow.

Blake laughs. “You New England girls are pretty tough.”

Tough. Great. Tough is for overcooked steak and old shoes. You don’t date tough. You admire it and move on from it. “I don’t feel so tough right now.” I feel like I want a shower, an orgasm, a hot meal, and a deep stretch. Not necessarily in that order.

Blake tilts my chin up. “Promise me something.”

“Whatever you want.” I roll my hips for emphasis.

Blake’s eyes darken. He smiles at me, a version of his smile I haven’t seen before, something teasing. “Promise me…” he says.

I roll my hips again. This I know—this is what I’m good at. I let a few strands of hair slip from my bun, the tips of which brush his face. “Whatever you want,” I purr.

“Promise me that you’ll let me drive tomorrow,” he says.

Oh. He’s being thoughtful and I’m being…desperate. Or about to pop from frustration. “Sure,” I say, “you can drive all the way to Florida if you want.”

“I just might. Now c’mon, let’s go warm up.” And he opens the door and offers me a gentlemanly hand. “Careful, there’s ice.”

For a second, I study his palm. “I’m used to this weather,” I say. You don’t have to do this for me. I can take care of myself.

That gets his smile. “Then you should make sure I don’t slip.”

“Well, if you need the help…” And I put my hand in his.

We spend the next few minutes gathering our luggage and carrying our suitcases up the short stone walkway to the house.

“Hold on.” Blake busies himself scraping the soles of his shoes against the path. At first, I think he’s just vigilant about wiping snow off his feet, until he nods like he’s confirming something. “Here we go.”

And picks me up, bridal style, settling me into the strong cradle of his arms.

“Your shoulder!” But I’m laughing. “What are you doing?”

“Practicing doing this for real. Now hold on.” And he maneuvers open the front door and carries me right over the threshold.

Some cynical part of me—the Boston part, the dancer part—thinks it’s a put-on. How many other women has he done this with? That doesn’t stop me from melting against him, from nestling my face against his chest.

Maybe I shouldn’t trust this. He’s about to be in Florida for six whole weeks. Ballplayers aren’t exactly known for their fidelity. Can he even sleep around on me if we haven’t slept together?

Well, only one way to solve that…

Except Blake pauses in the living room. “You get lost?” he asks. It takes a second to realize he’s not talking to me.

Because Felix is standing—lurking, really—by the counter separating the living room from the kitchen, a dark shape outlined by a strip of overhead lights. “Didn’t know which room you wanted,” he says. “I know some people have preferences about sleeping arrangements.”

I giggle—I can’t help it, my laughter dissolving into Blake’s shirt like we’ve been caught sneaking in. “Babe, you can put me down.”

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