Page 79 of Accidentally Amy

I meant it as a lighthearted tease about kissing, but realized it sounded filthy.

Blake stopped his forward motion and set me back on my feet a little roughly. His hot eyes were burning every little bit of me when he said, “Your mouth is the very best part of you, Iz.”

How did he do that? How did he manage to say things that made my heart swell up in my chest? I tried defusing the moment with “I’d say same, Blake, but those abdominals—”

“Izzy.”

I stopped rambling. “Yeah?”

“No jokes.” His eyes were just above mine, the planes of his face the center of my existence as he said, “I’m trying to tell you that I—”

A huge crash cut him off, the sound of ceramics shattering from the other side of the doorway, making both our heads turn in that direction.

“What was that?” I asked, suddenly hyperaware of my shirtlessness.

“Fucking cats,” he growled, putting his hands on my upper arms and repositioning me just a little. His eyes were all sex as he moved his face closer so his nose touched mine, and he said, “Stay right here and don’t move, Shay.”

“I’ll do what I want, Phillips,” I said, ruining my attempt at sass with my inability to not beam up at the man.

His mouth twitched and he said, “If your shirt is back on when I return, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“Not scared,” I said as he walked out of the room, and then I lost it yet again when he held up a hand and flipped me off without looking back.

No, I wasn’t scared, I thought as I watched him go into the kitchen.

I was terrified.

Blake

“Watch the claws,” I muttered under my breath as I swept up the broken remains of a glass bowl. I was holding both of the little shits in one hand so they didn’t step on any of the shards, and the broom in the other hand as I attempted to sweep up their mess. My reflection in the refrigerator mocked me.

Dress pants, no shirt, two cats—fucking cool, bro.

And talk about your shitty timing; I’d finally had Izzy smiling again. I was tempted to just ignore the crash and hope for the best, but then I remembered Goodyear’s circle walking and didn’t want to be responsible for bloody paws.

Fucking cats.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I knew beyond a reasonable doubt that I was not going to check it. An email from the office would destroy my resolve to ignore work until Monday and hope for the best.

But the damn thing buzzed again.

And again. And yet again.

“Fuck,” I growled, propping the broom against the pantry and pulling out the phone.

But it wasn’t an email. It was a text. Multiple texts.

From Izzy.

Izzy:I’m taking a poll. Are you between the ages of 20 and 40?

What the fuck was she doing?

I responded:Yep.

Izzy:Is your name Blake Phillips?

Yep.

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