A Little Too Hot

Chapter Nineteen

THE SMELL OF coffee and my empty stomach wake me. I tug on jeans and crack my door open. Blake’s in the kitchen, and I consider waiting him out, but I’m shaking from both caffeine withdrawal and starvation. I make a beeline to the cupboard I’m pretty sure I saw coffee mugs in last night and open it. Sure enough, there are several mismatched mugs from different tourist destinations. I choose the one from Alcatraz, huffing out a sardonic laugh at the symbolism.

Blake looks at me curiously as he peels a waffle out of the waffle iron with a fork. His short hair is damp, sticking up as if he toweled it dry, and for the first time, he’s in a T-shirt instead of his typical button-down. I see the black lines of the tattoo that covers the left side of his torso and chest extend down his arm to just above the elbow. His faded jeans fit him just . . . mmm. It’s taking some serious self-control to keep my eyes off him.

I concentrate on filling my mug from the pot, then start back to my room.

“Sam, I can’t let you starve to death.”

I look over my shoulder at him and see him holding up a plate with a waffle on it. I spin and give him my best smirk. “Would that look bad on your résumé?”

He flings the plate onto the counter, where it clatters for a few seconds before coming to rest dangerously close to the edge. “I’m usually pretty good at reading people, but not you . . .” His eyes narrow a little, as if he’s trying to see past my skin. “One second you’re . . .” He tosses a hand in the air. “. . . and the next you . . .” His jaw tightens again, and he shakes his head in dismay. “You’re the most frustrating individual I’ve ever met, and I’ve only known you for, like, five minutes.”

“If it’s any consolation, the feeling’s mutual,” I say, turning for my room.

“If you eat, I’ll let you call your mom.”

I stop. The thing is, I don’t really want to talk to Mom, so I could just keep walking. But I should talk to Mom. And I’m seriously starving. “Isn’t coercion against the Geneva Convention?”

“The Geneva Convention only applies to prisoners of war.”

I turn and give him my most cutting glare. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking this isn’t war.”

“Strawberries?” he asks with a tip of his head, picking up the waffle plate.

“Fine.”

“Whipped cream?”

I take a mental fly swatter to the image of what I’d really like to do with that whipped cream and start back across the living room. “Fine.”

Blake loads my waffle up and sets it on the table. “The maple syrup is hot.”

Yep. Now the fantasy’s complete.

We eat in silence, and when I’m done, Blake holds his cell phone toward me over my empty plate. “Go ahead and call your mom, but unless you want to put both you and her in danger, please don’t talk about what’s going on or tell her where you are.”

I reach for the phone. “Will you get in trouble for letting me use this?”

He pulls it back. “Only if you say something you shouldn’t.”

I stand and snatch it out of his hand. “I’ll think about it.”

He looks at me a moment before standing and clearing our plates. “You can take it to your room.”

I cross the living room and close my door behind me as I dial. It rings twice before she picks up. “Hello?”

My heart pounds in my throat. “Hi, Mom . . . It’s me.”

“Oh, thank God! I’ve been beside myself since your message. Are you in trouble, Sam?”

Of course. Not, Are you okay? or What happened? but, Are you in trouble? But I can’t give her too much shit, because I am, in fact, in trouble. “I’m okay.”

“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“I can’t tell you. Sorry.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?” She sounds a little hysterical, but anything I could say to calm her would be a lie.

I toe the carpet, cringing. “Something happened and I’m sort of in protective custody. I’m not allowed to tell anyone where I am.”

“You’re in jail?” she screeches into the phone.

“No, Mom. I’m not in jail. But I’m somewhere where the police can keep me safe.”

“From who? Who do you need to be kept safe from?”

“It’s just . . . I was just sort of in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Her voice is wary, some of the panic slipping away. “But you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

There’s a long pause, and in the background I hear my brothers fighting. The pang in my chest surprises me. It’s not like we’ve ever been close. They’re thirteen years younger than me. My golden half brothers, who can do no wrong. Offspring upgrade 2.0.

“This is . . . I just don’t know what to think. It’s all so cryptic,” she finally says.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’d tell you more if I could.” I swallow. “How are the boys?”

“They miss you.”

My chest clamps at her lie. They barely know I exist. “Tell them hi for me.”

Another long pause. “When will you be able to come home?”

Come home? Am I unkicked out? “You want me to come home?”

“I’m so sorry, baby. I should have never insisted you leave. You just scared me so much.” Her voice hitches on the last word. “There are things we need to talk about—things you need to know.”

I’m not quite sure what that means. Mom has never been a big talker, other than to tell me what to do. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to leave here. It could be a while.”

“Oh, baby. Please take care of yourself. And I expect to hear from you.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to call again.”

“I don’t like this.”

I look around the room, far nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived, and think about who’s waiting for me on the other side of the wall. As mad as I am at him, I don’t think there’s any doubt at this point that his priority is keeping me safe. “I promise I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, baby. I love you.”

I don’t answer. I know she’s waiting for me to say it back, but I can’t. Everything that happened between us is still too raw. “ ’Bye, Mom.”

I disconnect and stand here staring at the phone. When I finally open the door, Blake is at the kitchen sink, his sleeves rolled up, drying the last of the breakfast dishes.

“Everything okay?” he asks warily.

And that’s when I realize my face is frozen in a pained grimace. I force it to relax. “Yeah.” I move across the living room and lay his phone on the granite countertop. “So . . . what now?” I ask, looking around.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he says, gesturing at the room. “This is all yours, for now.”

“For months,” I say.

“Come on,” he says, moving past me. “We never finished the tour.”

I follow him to the stairs.

“You saw there’s a pool table downstairs,” he says, gesturing that way with a nod of his head, “and there’s a small gym and a poker table in the bathhouse next to the pool.”

He starts up the spiral stairs across from my bedroom door to the next level up. The stairway opens into a large room above mine. The wall behind us is glass, the view just as stunning as from the windows below. To the right, over an immense mahogany desk, there are framed San Francisco 49ers jerseys, an autographed football under a glass cube, and Joe Montana, my stepfather’s idol, smiles out of the wall, his arm slug across some guy’s shoulders.

“Wow,” I say, staring at it. “This guy knew people.”

Blake follows my gaze. “That’s what money will do.”

My eyes migrate around the room. Past the fireplace on the back wall, to the left, is a wall of books. Bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling from the windows up front to the back wall near the fireplace. I move in that direction and peruse the titles, plucking a John Lescroart hardcover off the shelf.

“That’s one of his best,” Blake says from over my shoulder.

“I like that they’re set in San Francisco.” I flip it open and find it’s autographed to someone named Bernadette. “Sweet.” I settle onto the sofa that faces the window and flip to chapter one. When I look up, Blake is lingering near the bookshelf, watching me.

He clears his throat. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he says, inching toward the landing.

I nod and go back to my book, but I’m not really reading. Out of the corner of my eye I’m watching him watch me as he slowly descends the stairs. When he’s gone, I close the book and set it on the sofa, then stand and move to the window. A minute later Blake steps onto the balcony below and clamps a hand on the rail, hanging his head between his shoulders and rubbing the back of his neck with the other hand. After a long minute, he steps back and looks out over the view, and it’s not until he starts to turn toward my window that I realize I’ve leaned into it, pressing my palm against the glass. I stumble back before his gaze finds me and sit hard on the sofa.

Not only is Blake my jailer, but the whole reason I’m here in the first place. I have to stop lusting after him . . . which would be so much easier if he would stop being so hot.

I pick the book up and try to focus, but it’s useless. I stand and move cautiously toward the window, and when I look down, he’s gone. I breathe in a deep breath and look out over the city from my glass cage. It’s a sunny day, with the marine layer already out at sea. The sun glints off the tall buildings in the city, and the water of the bay shimmers. My eyes focus on the foreground, the pool below, down a long set of stone stairs. Didn’t Blake say he’d picked out a swimsuit?

I’ve never been much of a swimmer, but I look down at the pool again. Maybe the water would be good for my arm. And with no phone and no internet, I need to do something besides sit around obsessing over Blake or I’ll go insane.

I bring the book with me as I descend the stairs and slip into my room. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure Blake said he bought me a swimsuit.

Tossing the book on my bed, I head to the closet and root through the drawers until I find what I’m looking for—a black string bikini. I move into the room, stripping off my jeans and T-shirt and strapping myself into the skimpy suit. It fits, and I look pretty damn good in it, if I do say so myself. If you ignore the tie-dye bruises covering the upper half of my body, the black suit with my red hair and fair skin is striking.

I tie my hair back and dig through my bag for my sunglasses, then head across the hall to the stairs. When I reach the bottom, I peek into the poolroom to make sure Blake’s not there. It’s empty, so I scoot across to the French doors and let myself out onto the lower deck. I follow the stairs and the stone path all the way down to the pool, my arms wrapped around myself against the slight chill of the spring air. I dip my toe in the water and find Blake wasn’t lying. It’s heated, just short of bathtub warm.

The bathhouse is almost as big as my parents’ real house. There are two doors in the front. I open the first and find a large room with two leather recliners and a sofa pointing at a big screen TV on the wall over yet another fireplace, a black granite, fully stocked bar along the right-hand wall, and a poker table near the windows looking out over the pool. On the opposite wall is a gym of sorts: a free weight rack next to a weight bench, and a treadmill. There’s more sports memorabilia here, and the smell of stale cigar smoke and sweat, giving it a definite man-cave feel.

I close the door and move to the next one. It opens into a bathroom, complete with a mammoth, glass-enclosed shower and a tall antique cabinet full of towels and a variety of floats. Grabbing a towel, I head back out to the pool.

I drop the towel on a lounge chair on my way to the deep end, where I stand staring at the smooth water before I lower myself in and float on my back, moving my shoulder through its range of motion.

Something buzzes over the water and I jerk upright, worried it’s a bee. But when I look at the edge of the pool, there’s an enormous greenish blue dragonfly perched there. I move closer to inspect it and am surprised when it doesn’t fly away. It just sits there, open-winged, staring at me with its gigantic eyes.

“Can I borrow your wings?” I ask it.

It doesn’t answer.

Something moves on the balcony, and I look up to find Blake leaning his elbows on the rail, watching.

I’m living in a fishbowl. But as a tingly rush skitters through me, I can’t help wondering how sick it makes me that I don’t I hate it.