Chapter Ten
Blake: Fun fact - I hate flying. Izzy looked at her phone and smiled as she waited in line at Starbucks. She texted: That's because you're a control freak. Blake: A. No, I'm not. B. I don't need a diagnosis, I need a distraction. Izzy: You think I'm free to just drop whatever I'm doing to entertain you? Blake: Be honest - you're in line for coffee, aren't you? Izzy: That's terrifying. Did you put an air tag in my purse? Blake: No, I stuck it to your back like a modern-day "kick me" sign. Also, you go every day – wasn’t tough to figure out. Izzy ordered her coffee, swiped her card and moved over to the waiting spot. Josh had dropped her off because her car was waiting on a part and she hadn't wanted to ride the bus with her overnight bag, the bag she was hauling to work because she was going to Blake's swanky apartment when she got off work. She still couldn't believe it. She was excited about the view, the challenge of making his cats love her, and walking to work in the morning like she was the fashionable protagonist in an NYC sitcom, but she was also nervous for some inexplicable reason. She looked down at her phone and texted: Do you have a window seat? Blake: Nope. Wedged in-between a talker and a hummer Izzy snorted and texted: A talker, a chest and a hummer walk into a bar... Blake: Funny girl. Izzy: Thank you. What time is your new bed being delivered, btw? Blake: Sometime before two. NO PIZZA on the bed. Izzy: Duh, Blake – I’m not five. Anyway. I’ve already planned out my meals for your bed. Tonight is spaghetti and meatballs. Tomorrow is babyback ribs, followed by fondue. And don’t worry. I’m going to be eating a lot of powdered donuts and Cheetos to soak up anything that might drip on the bed. #perfectcatsitter Blake: SHAY. Izzy: Chill, PHILLIPS. I am open to changing my bed menu. Blake: I WILL KNOW. Izzy: You're adorable when you use all-caps. VERY POWERFUL. Blake: I'm Facetiming you tonight at 6:01 and I expect a detailed visual tour of the bed. Izzy: I'm Facetimeing YOU tonight at 6:01 and I expected a detailed visual tour of your ass. She quickly fired-off a follow-up text. Izzy: NOT LITERALLY. "Your ass" as in a "your mom" joke. You get it, right? If you moon me via Facetime I shall report you to the FCC. Blake: I don't think you need that coffee. Also. Maybe while I’m gone, you should look up what the FCC does, since you clearly have no idea. Izzy: You're not the boss of me. Blake: I am quite literally the boss of you. Izzy: #stillgonnadrinkthiscoffee Blake: Have a good day, Iz. Nicknamification, in her opinion, was the absolute sexiest. Call Isabella Shay by her last name, or "Iz," for the love of God, and she melted like pat of butter on a pile of mashed potatoes. She let out a dreamy sigh in response to his Iz before responding with: You, too, Boss. "I still don't understand why it's ten o'clock there, and the plastic is still on," Blake said. "What are you waiting for - are you a night owl?" Izzy was definitely not a night owl, and she was getting very sleepy on his big, comfy couch with his cats snuggled in a pile against her, but she just hadn't been able to bring herself to unwrap his new bed yet. It just seemed...obtrusive. He should be the one to pull off that protective plastic - not her. "No, but I'm far too comfy on this sofa to get up. And these guys might revolt if I do." "Traitorous little shits. You can’t keep buying their love with chicken, you know.” “Why not?” She listened to their purring and said, “They go crazy for it.” “We’re paying you too much if you can afford to feed chicken breasts to the cats every day.” “Technically, you’re paying you too much, since I fed them your chicken breasts.” He made a face at her - they'd been FaceTiming for exactly one hour and forty-two minutes - and leaned his head back on the headboard. "It has to be hot as hell in there if you're still running the fireplace and the boys are on you." "Nah - I've got the patio slider open," she said, wishing their call wouldn't have to end soon. Because in addition to the fact that he was pretty much her favorite person in the world to talk to and play with, she was kind of enjoying the view. Yes, he was handsome; the man could inspire pornographic letters-to-the-editor with the way he looked at work. It was late, and the only other person in the office was the ultra-hot billionaire CEO. But Izzy found herself marginally-obsessed with the fact that when put-together VP Blake wasn't working, he was kind of a mess. His hair was always tousled, like he'd forgotten it existed once he removed his tie, and the man seemed to live in faded t-shirts and hoodies. It was such a contradiction, like beefy Superman being a nerdy reporter, that she felt kind of lucky that she got to see the tousled side of him. She suspected not many people did. Or maybe she just hoped that not many people did. He narrowed his eyes and said, "You're seriously opening the windows and running the heat at the same time?" "I just love the sound of the city, and hate being cold," she said, shrugging and looking over at the windows. There was something about the lights and the downtown sounds that made her never want to go home. Well, that and the fact that his apartment was straight-up ridiculous. For starters, he had an obscenely huge bathtub, as well as a shower that was the size of her entire bathroom. As if that wasn't fantastic enough, there were built-in Bluetooth stereo speakers wired throughout the place, so she could turn on her favorite playlist and have it stream across every single square foot of that dreamboat apartment. Monstrously-large TV, world's cutest cats (next to The Darkling), a massive kitchen; why would she ever want to leave? Perhaps instead of vacating when Blake returned, she might just barricade herself inside of sexy Number 1213. Surely she could get in an extra 12-14 hours of luxuriating before the SWAT team finally kicked down that beautiful door and pulled her ass out. "It's genius, if you think about it," she said, snuggling under the blanket as the autumn breeze blew through the apartment. "Sorry not sorry." "That's an on-brand statement for you," Blake teased, and Izzy thought he looked tired. She should probably let him go so he could sleep. Whatever he was working on in Boston was confidential - he wasn't able to share anything with her - but important, so he needed to be rested. "Listen, I'm going to go flood your bathroom by overfilling that decadent tub, so I really have to go. Are you planning on text-bombing me all day tomorrow, too, or was today just a one-time annoying event?" Please say yes. They'd spent the entire day in a meaningless text thread of sarcasm and meme-besting, and it had been amazing. He sat up in the bed and leaned closer to the phone, so he was all face, and said, "First of all, I did not text bomb you all day. It’s called micromanaging – I have two cats to worry about.” “Um--” “Second, since I can see that my deck door is still open behind you, obviously the micromanagement is a necessity.” “Debatable,” she murmured. “And finally,” Blake said in all his AVP glory, “Yes. Based upon what I’ve witnessed today, I have little reason to believe that you can handle this without my constant supervision. So you will be hearing from me every 3-5 minutes tomorrow.” She tried to play it cool, but failed miserably. She was beaming into the phone when she said, "God, no, that would be the worst."
Blake Blake had never been so happy to see his building. He held his key card up to the security pad, rolled his suitcase through the lobby, and impatiently waited for the elevator, which seemed slower than usual. The trip had gone well, and the acquisition was now official; everything had gone according to plan, work-wise. What hadn't gone according to plan, however, had been Izzy. He'd sent her that first text to tease her and to get his mind off of the flight, but he hadn't intended on opening a new corridor of their relationship. Though they'd had plenty of random text conversations before his trip, the discussions had usually begun with a purpose. A legit reason for them to be texting. Although – wait. Had they often had legitimate reasons? Yes, they’d been texting with purpose at times, but since their meeting at Starbucks, hadn’t they each been sneaking in little immaterial reasons to connect? Regardless, a full transition had occurred. They were now rando texting buddies. (Okay - he fucking hated that idiotic moniker, but Iz had said it fifteen times over the past few days, just to irritate him, and it had taken root.) She texted him about what she was wearing, the noise her co-worker made when she chewed potato chips, the macaroni and cheese she'd made in his kitchen and her thoughts on the mayor's plan to launch a streetcar project. He texted her about Patriots fans, airport bathroom hand dryers, the book he was reading, his grandmother's phone calls and his opposing views on the mayor's streetcar proposal. They'd texted the entire three days he'd been in Boston and FaceTimed every night. Basically, she'd become like one of his buddies - hell, he was just as comfortable talking to her as he was his best friend, Nick, only with her he got little gut punches when she did certain things. Smiled, laughed, talked about his bathtub, snuggled with his cats; shit like that made him get a pinching pain just below his heart. But it was that word – buddy – that had begun buzzing in the back of his mind, even when he didn’t realize it. It was there, silently bouncing around in his head. Blake knew the rules that he and Izzy agreed to. He knew why they were so important, and at a certain level, he still agreed with them. That being said, there was just this feeling he had when he was with her that was so not buddy-like. He was too excited to be home to work it out now, but it was obviously something he needed to work out. Blake pulled out his phone and tried texting her again as he got into the elevator. I am in the building now. He'd been texting her since five a.m., when he'd decided to change his flight and come home a couple hours early. But she hadn't responded. He didn't want to scare her by showing up unexpectedly, but he was also dying to get home and get started on the weekend. Of course, the only real plans he had was to go for a run, watch football and fix Izzy's car, and after the past few days of nonstop work, that sounded fucking amazing. He unlocked the door to his apartment, opened it slowly and said, "Iz?" He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He could hear the TV, but no movement. He said - loudly, "Izzy? Goodyear? It's me - I took an earlier flight." Was she asleep? Perhaps the new bed was that good, so comfortable that it rendered the sleeper comatose. He took two steps into the living room and said "Iz - I'm ho--" Shit. His mouth snapped shut when he saw her. He quietly walked over to the sofa and for some reason, the sight of her sleeping made that pinching feeling she gave him inside burn so strong it almost hurt. Fucking fuck. Her hands were tucked under her cheek, her hair wild across his pillow - his pillow, and a disconcerting emotion he couldn't identify settled on his chest like a brick as he looked down at her. Longing? Fondness? Wishfulness? Also – had she slept there all night? Why hadn’t she slept in the new bed? Something about seeing her there, though, cocooned in his blanket, asleep on his couch, made him homesick for…something. Fuck, he was a mess, and he was also a total creep, watching her sleep like he was goddamn Joe Goldberg. "Izzy." He dropped to a squat, moved his mouth a little closer to her ear and said, "I'm home, Iz." "Blake." Her mouth turned up into a smile, even though her eyes stayed closed. She turned her head just a little and pressed her lips against his. Shit, shit, shit. Before he could think, she kissed him, her mouth soft and warm as she opened her lips under his. He steadied himself against the couch and swallowed, unsure of what to do. Was she even awake? And how did she taste like chocolate already? “Kiss me, Phillips,” she said against his mouth, a smile in her voice. “Unless you don’t want to.” She moved her hands down to his neck, and the movement threw his squat off balance. He caught himself by bridging one arm over the back of the couch and one on the front, and Izzy apparently took that as a move. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer, and all of a sudden he was on his knees beside the couch, his upper body poised over hers as she bit down on his lower lip. I’m done, he thought - maybe even said out loud - as he opened his mouth wide over hers, wanting to fucking consume her. She made a noise in the back of her throat that sent heat through him as her hands moved to his chest and her mouth went wild. She kissed like sex and battle and sport, like domination and competition, like going all out and leaving nothing on the floor, holy shit. He wanted more - wanted all - as he felt her fingertips flexing - gripping - the front of his shirt. Blake’s hands clenched on the sofa as her smell - vanilla - burrowed into his senses and made him drunk on fumes. He opened his eyes, needing visual confirmation that this was really happening and Izzy was destroying him like he’d imagined her doing a hundred fucking times. Hell, yes. He nibbled on her bottom lip and said her name - no, he rasped her name because apparently he’d lost the ability to speak, and her eyes fluttered open. They seemed absurdly blue as she blinked up at him, a sleepy grin on her mouth But then her forehead got a tiny crinkle, just between her eyebrows, and the smile disappeared. “Ohmigod, Blake," she said, blinking fast and removing her hands from his body like it'd been burning them. She sat up on the couch, gave her head a tiny shake and said, "Shit, shit, shiiiit. I am so sorry."