Page 52 of Becoming Mila
When we reach Blake’s truck, he lets go of my hand. He lowers the tailgate and slides his guitar case onto the truck bed.
“Sit with me,” he says.
He perches himself on the edge of the tailgate with ease, but I have to heave myself up to join him. My legs dangle over the edge and we sit side-by-side in silence for a minute, watching the flames flicker down by the lake. Two girls are singing a duet now, their entwined voices dancing through the trees.
The silence between us is comfortable, yet we both must be aware of the heightened tension. Blake and me. . . alone. . . sitting close in the back of his truck. . .
“I’m jealous of you,” I say, breaking the silence. I keep my eyes trained on the dark water of the lake, my hands gripping the edge of the tailgate. “You know what you want to do. You are so much more than the mayor’s son. You have goals, whereas for me. . .Well, I guess I kinda fear that I’ll never be anything more than Everett Harding’s daughter.” My chest tightens when I say the words out loud, and I lower my head, blinking fast at the concrete beneath our dangling feet.
“You’re notjustEverett Harding’s daughter,” Blake says, angling to look at me. My gaze remains locked on the ground beneath us. “You’reMila Harding.Your own name. Your own person.”
“But I don’t have. . . athing,” I mumble, my voice laced with frustration. “Your thing is music. Savannah’s thing is horses. I don’t have anything I’m passionate about. I don’t really have any hobbies except hanging out with my friends at the beach and taking the occasional dance class. I have nothing that defines who I am except for who my father is.”
Blake lifts his hand, cupping my chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilts my head up so I’m forced to look him in the eye. “You still have time to figure out what yourthingis,” he says. “You don’t need a hobby to define who you are. The things you do and the things you say are what really matter. And you know what I think?”
I stare back at the caramel flecks in his eyes. “What?”
“I think you’re the girl who cares so much about disappointing her father that you cried in the back of my truck,” he says with a comforting smile. “You’re the girl at church who helps her grandfather. You’re the girl who laughed when she spilled her quesadilla down herself.”
“But I’m always going to be living in my dad’s shadow.”
“Mila,” Blake murmurs, bringing his face close to mine, “you absolutely should not be hidden in any shadows.”
Brushing the pad of his thumb softly over my skin, he delicately lifts my chin a little higher. His gaze drifts to my mouth and my breath hitches in my throat, my entire body frozen in place. We meet each other’s eyes again and his are burning with the same intensity as they did that day by the pool. They crinkle at their corners as he smiles, right before his lips meet mine.
The kiss is tender and caring, just Blake’s mouth against mine while his hand rests beneath my chin. I don’t want him to pull away. I want more than this, I want to really, really kiss him. My eyes are closed, and I can sense the pounding of both our heartbeats.
Parting my lips, I press harder into Blake, letting him know that this is okay. My body eases out of its paralysis and my hands find their way to him, placing one on the edge of his jaw while I weave my fingers into his hair with the other. He takes the hint, kissing me more, and soon his free hand is on the small of my back, pulling me even closer.
And on the edge of this tailgate, with my hands on him and his hands on me, I am thinking:Holy crap, I amkissing Blake Avery.
And it is undeniably perfect.
That is, until Blake pulls away.
My eyes fire open in alarm, wondering if I’ve done something wrong, but Blake’s looking over his shoulder now, eyes wide. His hand remains resting along my jawline.
“Sorry – I thought – I thought I heard a car,” he whispers.
A car door slams shut somewhere nearby.
Blake instantly lets go of me and slides off the tailgate. He heads around the truck to investigate, leaving me alone and breathless. A second later, I hear the distinct groan of Blake muttering, “Fuck!”
He appears back in front of me wearing an expression of complete dread, and before I realize it his hands are on my waist and he’s lifting me off the tailgate and setting me back on my feet without so much as straining a muscle.
“Is it the police?” I ask quietly. Panic begins to seep through me at the thought of the cops showing up here, because I really doubt it’s legal to start your own bonfire in a public park during the summer season, and what if. . . What if Dad or Ruben got wind that I was involved in an altercation with the police?
Oh, I’m dead. I’m so dead.
Blake slams the tailgate shut, then runs his hand through his hair. “No. Worse,” he says.
Right then, a voice hisses, “Blake!”
I recognize the voice instantly – it belongs to the real LeAnne Avery, the voice she uses behind closed doors when she isn’t keeping up appearances.
The clicking of heels on concrete draws nearer and LeAnne steps into view around Blake’s truck, her face like thunder and her arms furiously crossed over her chest. For once, she doesn’t look as though she’s just wrapped up a press conference. She’s wearing jeans and a buttoned-up cardigan, and her hair is gathered in a high, pin-straight ponytail that swishes around her shoulders with each step she takes. She may not look like the mayor right now, but she still has the authoritative stance of one.
“I thought you were staying in the city tonight,” Blake says, taking a protective step in front of me as though to shield me from the wrath of his mom.
