Chapter Seven
Izzy Izzy looked at her watch – almost noon. She ignored the growl in her stomach and wished time would move faster. Her breakfast - a can of Rockstar and a chocolate pop tart - was no longer doing the trick and she needed sustenance. She usually ate lunch at 11 a.m. like a senior citizen, but that day, she was holding out until 12:30. No reason - she just felt like waiting, she thought as she got out her compact and added a little blush and lip gloss to her face. Thirty minutes later, when the alarm on her wrist buzzed, she stuck her debit card in the pocket of her skirt and stood. Grabbing her black pea coat, she slid her arms into it as she left her office, heading for the exit like her ass was on fire. She felt nervous as she rode the elevator down, which was ridiculous because she was just grabbing food. It’s what people did at lunchtime, right? Nothing weird about that. Just because she knew that certain people enjoyed the Monday specials at Caniglia’s food truck, and they usually took their lunch sometime between 12:30 and 1:00 – well, that shouldn’t make her nervous. Lots of people did that. She pulled out her phone as she walked the two blocks to the mobile Italian restaurant, snuggling deeper into her coat. It was one of those early October days where the sun was warm, the leaves were bright, and the chill in the air kissed the tip of your nose. No texts. It wasn’t a surprise, really, that Blake was radio-silent during the workday; he was all-business, after all, and they’d just agreed upon their rules. Yesterday, however, after he’d dropped her and the bike off at her building, they’d pretty much been in an endless texting conversation for the entire rest of the day. But it was a weekend day – totally legal. She’d texted him while they each watched the same football game, she’d texted him as she’d gone down into the creepy basement to do laundry, and she’d texted him while she’d given The Darkling a bath. For someone so above-board-executive-like in person, he was surprisingly fun on the phone. This morning, when she’d been walking toward the Ellis building (she had to take the bus downtown because her car was still impounded), she’d felt her phone buzz in her purse. When she pulled it out, Blake had texted: I can see you from my window. The Ellis building was an all-windowed skyscraper, and even though she knew Blake worked on the 15th floor, she had no idea where exactly that was on the face of the building. So she’d stopped and responded: You have to be lying. Blake: Black tights, black boots, black coat, red purse and -- is that a piece of toast in your hand? She laughed and texted back: A Pop Tart. Put down the high-powered binoculars, creeper. Blake: I was simply looking out the window, and there you were. Shocked the hell out of me, tbh. Izzy: Can you tell what I’m doing now? She’d switched Pop Tart hands so she could hold up her arm and flip off the building. Blake: Not very HR of you. Izzy: Can you tell what I’m doing NOW? She started hopping on one foot. Blake: Making a spectacle of yourself. Izzy: No one is watching me but you. Blake: The man behind you begs to differ. She turned around, but no one was walking behind her. Blake: Made you look. His idiotic texting put her in a great mood as she’d breezed into work, and it hadn’t waned all day. But now, for some reason, she was nervous to see him. Even though they’d shared their frequent whereabouts with the sole purpose of possibly running into each other, what if he didn’t want her there? What if he’d changed his mind and didn’t want to be her sort-of friend? Really, it was just a little nerve-wracking, being the first one to casually happen upon the place that the other one happened to mention they might be visiting. Felt a little stalker-y, if she were being honest. It was no big deal, she told herself as she turned onto the next block. He probably wasn’t there, anyway.
Blake He could tell it was her, even though she was still a half-block away. He leaned against the front of the building and thought it was the same as when he’d happened to glance out his office window that morning and immediately spotted her down on the street below. Fucking weird, that. He put his hands in his pockets and allowed himself to watch her, because there was no way she could see him yet. Her hair was down, blowing in the fall breeze, and she reminded him of Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail with her dark tights, skirt, wool coat and scarf. She should have a damn pumpkin under her arm and a coffee in her hand, he mused. But as he watched her walking in his direction, he felt them again. Fucking butterflies. What in the hell was with that? Nope. Fuck that. Not butterflies, no way. If he were interested in her, the way his stomach felt at that moment might possibly be butterfly-related, but he wasn’t, was he? In all actuality, what he was feeling was just, shit, uh…gladness. Seriously - gladness? Yes, he was just glad to see a friend. Lunch with a buddy was better than lunch alone, so he was simply glad to see her. That was all. Blake straightened and walked over to the food truck, getting in line. He looked at the menu board for a solid ten seconds before he heard, “Blake?” He turned around, and shit. She was smiling up at him with that mouth, those lips, and the soft smell of her perfume was coming at him like some kind of a…uh…shit, something he couldn’t ignore. Or something. What the fuck was wrong with him? Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, and his chest felt a little tight as he looked at her lipstick. “I thought that was you,” she said with a teasing glint in her eyes. “It is me,” he replied, unable to stop himself from grinning back. “Are you out trolling for calzone, too?” She leaned in a little closer and said, “To be honest, I’ve never been a fan of the dough-dome pizza that they call calzone. I like my slices big, open, and melty. Just like my men.” “Did you seriously just say that?” “I know - ew. I was trying something.” She crinkled her nose, narrowed her eyes and said, “I don’t think I stuck the landing.” “I don’t think so, either.” Blake turned his attention back to the menu and said, “Their fried ravioli is good.” “Is it ricotta cheese-filled?” she asked. “I think so,” Blake said, looking at her. “Why? Is that bad?” She nodded and said, “Ricotta is lumpy and disgusting, like curdled milk mixed with cottage cheese. But if you like spoiled food, who am I to judge? Enjoy.” “Oh, I will,” he replied, thinking of her pop tart – and empty fridge - and wondering if she was a picky eater. But as he looked at her – as she looked up at him, wearing a shitty little grin – it held for just a moment too long. Something passed between them, a memory or an awareness, before she cleared her throat and turned her attention to the menu. Said, “Do they have good spaghetti?” Blake just looked at her profile, his brain slow to move on and comprehend her words. When she didn’t turn to him, he said, “No one knows the answer to that question because who would be stupid enough to order spaghetti from a food truck?” “I would,” she said, still looking at the menu. “I love spaghetti and spaghetti is on the menu, so judge me not.” “But you can’t walk and eat spaghetti at the same time, dipshit.” That made her look, and then her grin was back. “Now I have to - challenge accepted - which will be a colossal mistake for which I’ll blame you all day. Every time someone looks at the blobs of marinara on my shirt, I shall curse your name.” “I thought that was a dress,” he said, and the look she gave him - forehead crinkle - made it clear that she was just as shocked by his asinine awareness of her attire as he was. What the fuck was that? “Yeah, um,” she said, raising a hand to push her hair behind her ear, “It’s a skirt and top.” “Ah,” he said, gave a nod, and stepped up to the order window, needing an escape from that moment of idiocy. He lowered his voice and ordered. “Could I please get the spaghetti?” He heard her quietly laugh and then she stepped beside him and said to the second cashier, “I would like the spaghetti, and can I also get a slice of cheese pizza and a piece of garlic bread, please?” He opened his mouth to comment when Izzy whipped her head toward him, pointed a finger and said, “Don’t say a word - I’m hungry, okay?” He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t not smile. He looked at the freckles on her nose and said, “What would I even say, Iz?”
Izzy “So let me get this straight,” Blake said, his face relaxed behind dark sunglasses as he walked beside her. He was looking straight ahead, his hands in the pockets of his perfectly-pressed suit pants. “The house that you accidentally “forked,” which I can’t even believe is a thing, was being watched by the FBI.” “Yep.” Izzy took a sip of her soda as they walked back to work. “Forked the wrong house, which turned out to be the residence of some questionable members of a satanic cult. So not only did we get picked up by the feds, but we were questioned at the station and also got MIPs because we had a bottle of vodka in the trunk.” “Wow.” He looked at her then, and even though his eyes were covered, she knew they were squinting because his dimples were out. “Your high school experience was very different from mine.” “When there’s nothing to do, you make things happen, Phillips.” Izzy saw the Ellis building at the end of the block, and she was bummed it was time to go back. Even though Blake was her polar opposite and the kind of guy (hot, successful) who usually made her nervous, she felt totally comfortable around him. She had fun with him because she was able to relax and be her uncool self. “I forgot to ask,” he said, glancing over at her as they walked around a woman and her dog, a French bulldog who was sitting on the sidewalk with zero intention of moving, “Did you get your car back?” “I don’t want to talk about it,” Izzy said, rolling her eyes and looking over at him. “In order to get it out of jail, I have to take the title to the impound lot and pay a few hundred bucks.” “Oof,” he said, and she could feel his gaze on her, even though his eyes were covered by Ray-Bans. “Oof, indeed,” she replied. “Because after that, I get to have it towed to a mechanic, who will probably tell me it’s going to cost a fortune to fix.” “No idea what’s wrong with it?” he asked. “Nope,” she said, looking down at the scarred sidewalk as she tried not to think about how little money she actually had in her bank account at the moment. “But I didn’t hate taking the bus today, so perhaps this is a chance to reexamine my vehicular needs.” “Yeah, but how far is the bus stop from your apartment?” “Only a few blocks.” “Do you really want to have to hoof it a few blocks in the snow?” His voice was full of adulty concern as he added, “In the dark? In the rain?” That reminded Izzy of the dark and rainy night where she’d kissed Blake, and her stomach did a little flip of its own accord. She cleared her throat and said, “No, but I’m also not going to throw a lot of coin into a car that’s fifteen years old.” He looked at her - she could see his eyes through the sunglasses now because the sun was hitting the lenses just right - and it felt like he was having some sort of internal conversation with himself as he just watched her. He didn’t say anything, and when they stopped at the corner to wait on the light, he said, “What are the rules about car repairs?” “What?” Izzy tossed her cup into the trash can next to the crossing light and put her hands in her pockets. “What do you mean?” The light changed, and they started walking again. Blake said, “If you wanted to have it towed to my place, I could take a look at it.” That made Izzy stumble in the middle of the street, which made Blake grab her arm and say, “Easy, Shay.” Easy, Shay. Good God - what was he trying to do to her? Since the moment she’d met him, his entire existence had been an assault on her ovaries. And now he was going to add car-fixing and stumble-stopping to the dopamine equation? She needed holy water or garlic STAT, although that fleeting sarcastic thought brought to mind an image of Blake having unholy water poured over his massive chest like some kind of hot guy wet t-shirt contest participant. So garlic it is. Izzy was disappointed when he released her arm, which was a ludicrous reaction, so she said, “I don’t think that’s probably allowable. But thank you.” He gave her an eyebrow raise and said, “Why not?” She shrugged. “I don’t know, it just seems too personal.” He grabbed the sleeve of her coat and tugged. It startled her, the jerking motion that moved her a little closer to him, but his mouth slid into a smirk before he started pulling her along behind him as he walked toward the alley to their right. “What are you doing, Phillips?” “Getting you to listen to reason before we go back to work, Shay.” He let go of her sleeve once they were out of foot traffic. He took off his sunglasses, and she felt the gold flecks of his intense brown eyes as he said, “Hear me out. I’m still all-in on rule-following for us, but you’re my friend, Iz. If I can fix your car and save you a fortune, why wouldn’t that be okay?” Because it would feel like…something. Something from a daydream about boyfriends working on their girlfriend’s car. Side note: Every time he called her “Iz,” a sex angel got its wings. “Because of money, maybe?” She couldn’t think all of a sudden, but she knew there was a reason. Reasons...reasons...what were reasons again? She cleared her throat and said, “You’re my boss, so there’s got to be a rule about me paying you for services.” “Like I’d charge you,” he said, sounding disgusted and his eyebrows slammed down. “Well I would have a rule about that, then, Blake,” Izzy said, tucking her hair behind her ears and looking up at his perfectly-trimmed stubble. “No way would I let you fix my car without paying you.” “Then you can pay me with a favor,” he said, and she watched as it hit. He’d said it innocently, casually offering to work for nothing, but his eyes got hot when he realized. His voice sounded deeper, rougher, when he responded with, “I’m sure I can come up with something.” The air in the alley suddenly got thick and quiet, like they were underwater. The city sounds disappeared, and Izzy swore she could hear her heart beating and her breath catch. She swallowed, and her voice was husky when she said, “I’m sure you can, too.” “If we were alone,” he growled, his voice nearly a whisper as his mouth lowered to her ear. “I think we could negotiate a very good deal.” “I know we could,” Izzy said, her eyelids heavy as she felt his breath on her neck. Every nerve ending in her body was crackling and straining toward him, and she was almost lost to it when she heard a car horn in the distance. Yes, you’re in an alley, dumbass. Izzy’s eyes went wide and she sucked in a breath. “Which is why we need to get back on the sidewalk now." He lifted his head and smiled down at her. “We’re in the center of the city during lunchtime on a weekday - far from alone. I think we’re safe.” “You don’t think this alley feels private?” She blinked, feeling disoriented as he pointed that gaze at her, and she breathed, “I feel all alone in the dark with you here.” The instant it left her mouth she regretted it, because Blake’s languid smile dropped away. His jaw clenched and he just looked at her for a few seconds before he said, “Izzy--” “Ohmigosh - I have to get back.” She pasted a grin on her face and took a step back from him, mortified. Obviously she’d been the only one on the verge of combustion, and she needed to get the hell out of there. Her voice was too loud and perky when she said, “You may be able to take long lunches because you’re Mr. Fancy VP, but this lowly generalist has to be on time. I’m going to sprint back and I’ll see you later.” His eyebrows went down again. “Iz--” “Bye!” Izzy turned and literally started slow jogging, knowing she looked like a moron but unable to stop herself because she needed to put space between herself and Mr. Chest. All she wanted in her quiet little life was to keep her friend Blake and to embark upon a promising career at Ellis, but if those things were going to happen, she needed to find a way to be cool when she was close to him. There had to be a way to speak to him without melting into an endorphin-riddled puddle of goo, right? It wasn’t until she got back to her office – sweaty and still embarrassed - and sat down behind her desk that she saw he’d sent a message. Blake: I have a Plan B, Iz, so don’t freak out. Can I call you at six? Plan B? What did that mean? Izzy sighed and contemplated not responding, but texted: I’ll be dining with The Darkling, but I suppose he won’t mind if I take a call. Blake: Excellent. Also, you looked VERY cool slow-jogging through midtown in high-heeled boots, FYI. Izzy: Oh, I know. Izzy logged back into her computer and was just getting started on a headcount report when her phone buzzed again. Blake: I just found a marinara stain on my tie, so I think I’ve proved my point about spaghetti. She smiled and shook her head, even though she was alone in her office. Izzy: Serves you right - the whole thing was your fault (it didn’t have to be like that). I have an orange, Saturn-shaped stain in the center of my shirt, so your tie is child’s-play. #CountYourBlessings Blake: Have a good afternoon, Starbucks Amy. Izzy: Same to you, Chestie McBestie.