Page 12 of Girl Going Nowhere

“You too. Not too much, though, or you may not want to come back,” I tell her playfully. When she glances at me, there’s uncertainty glimmering in her eyes. I want to ask her what she’s thinking, but I don’t. I wouldn’t get a genuine answer anyway.

With a quiet sigh, she turns to leave without another look in my direction, causing my brows to pinch as her curvy figure, emphasized in that damn yellow sundress, disappears around the corner.

“Dude,” my desk mate Ethan says, leaning back in his chair with a sly grin. He gestures toward the hallway Blake walked out of. “If you haven’t already tapped that, can I have h—”

“No,” I all but growl, cutting him off before he can even finish asking. The dipshit sure as shit doesn’t deserve to use her like he’s used plenty of other women. I won’t have it.

Ethan raises his palms. “Sorry. Didn’t know she was already claimed.”

My nostrils flare as I sit down, staring at the coffee she gave me.

Suddenly, I’m pissed off.

Because sheisn’tclaimed.

By me or anyone.

But I damn well wish she were.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Blake

Anxiety ripples throughmy system as I check my phone one last time before boarding the plane. My parents promised everything would be fine, but it’s the first time I’ve been away from Maia for more than a few hours to work. The past three years have been she and I against the world, and even though I’m excited to see Emily, I’ve been a basket case of nerves since my alarm went off this morning.

My parents are more equipped to handle the talkative toddler than anybody I know. The guys offered to watch her, but I knew it wouldn’t have been fair to stick that responsibility on a bunch of bachelors who finally had their place back to themselves to do what they pleased with for a weekend.

Plus, I don’t think my mother would have forgiven me if I deprived her and my father of one-on-one Maia time. They’re obsessed with the pudgy-cheeked girl whose toothy smile can light up any room and probably would have gone to the apartment and taken her from the guys if I’d agreed to let the boys watch her.

I love how much my parents adore Maia. Before she was born, I worried they wouldn’t want to be part of her life. It took no time at all for them to fall for her big brown eyes and radiant smile. There’s no part of my little girl that isn’t addicting to be around.

When I was eight months postpartum and struggling with the new version of me that I’d have to see in the mirror every day, I remember resenting how easily my parents showed their affection for my baby girl. Then I hated myself for being angry over something I should have wanted from the start.

“She’s our granddaughter, Blake,” my mother says in exasperation when I ask why she loves Maia so much. “Why wouldn’t I?”

What I wanted to say is, “I’m your daughter. When did you stop lovingmethat way?”

But I know I’ve given her plenty of reasons not to.

Internally sighing, I let go of the thought. The important thing is that Maia is with two people who love her for the weekend. She’ll get spoiled and have the best time. That’s all that matters. All I can hope for is not to be grilled by my mother the second I walk into their house to pick her up.What did you do? Where did you go? Did you see anybody? I hope you didn’t drink.

The fictional interrogation I’m making up in my head only makes me want to do all those things ten times more solely because I can. After all, my father and the boys told me to have fun.

Distract yourself.

It’s been over a year and a half since I’ve seen my best friend, so I know this trip will be good for the both of us. She and Hector even upgraded my ticket to first class, hoping it would ease my anxiety during the four-and-a-half-hour flight. I’ve got Brodie’s headphones, one of Finn’s Xanax pills to pop before takeoff, and a silent prayer.

I’m staring out the window at the airport workers on the tarmac when I hear somebody stop at the empty seat beside mine. Peeling my gaze away from the people prepping for takeoff, I glance over at the occupant who will undoubtedly witness my nervous breakdown at some point during the flight if the medicine I take doesn’t kick in. An early apology is at the tip of my tongue when I get a good look at my seat buddy, but I swallow it when my eyes lock on the ink running up his muscled, veiny arms.

Holy hotness.

I’ve only prayed once in my lifetime, and that was when there were complications during labor that put Maia—and me—at risk. I sort of assumed I could only ask for one thing from the man upstairs, but he just sent me something else in the form of a tall, sculpted package. I’ll have to remember to pray more often. Maybe go to church once in a while, like my mother always urges me to do as a “thank you” for the piece of work sitting down a few inches away from me.

The sexy stranger busies himself with setting his carry-on down by his feet and settling into his seat, which gives me ample time to do a quick once-over of his profile. And it’s a nice one—areallynice one.

I don’t know if Henry Cavill has a younger brother, but this guy could be the Spanish version of him. Strong, smooth jawline that looks like it could cut glass, high cheekbones I didn’t know I could be envious of, and a perfectly straight nose. And when he turns?

Good lord.

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