Warmth radiates through me everywhere he touches, but when the fabric of my sweater ends and his fingers touch the bare skin at the back of my neck, a small gasp tumbles past my lips. Blake presses his fingertips slightly into me. Then he inches closer until the tip of his nose is in my hair, his breath landing on my scalp. One deep inhale and his hand travels from the back of my neck down my arm. He moves with exquisite slowness, stopping for a breath after nearly every inch downward. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for my reaction, testing how far he can push. Well, if he is testing me, I’m failing spectacularly. By the time he reaches down past my elbow, I’m positive I will combust. But then he cinches up the sleeve, running his thumb along my forearm right down to my wrist, cuffing it.
“Your pulse is wild,” he murmurs.
“You think?” I ask in a strangled voice. He knows what he’s doing to me. He knows it exactly. This man turned me into a ball of need without touching me intimately, or even kissing me. When he moves his thumb in a little circle over my pulse point, I press my lips tightly together. This is too much. How we went from zero to one hundred in the span of seconds, I don’t know, but I need fresh air to clear my thoughts.
I inhale deeply, gathering my wits. It’s no small task, considering Blake has me under his spell again. When I pull away, turning around, his molten gaze holds mine stubbornly, and I can’t look away, hard as I want to.
“Want to watch the sunset on the balcony?” I manage eventually, stepping back, putting some much-needed distance between us. “I have a bottle of wine too, and some sweets: Turkish Delight.”
“Sure.”
While I get out the wine and the sweet treat, Blake hovers in front of the bookshelf again.
“What’s with all these albums? Can I look?”
“Yeah.”
Those albums contain my illustrations. I like to print them out and look at them in albums. I feel like I can track my progress over the years better that way.
“Are these illustrations for children’s books?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I put the wine, glasses, and candy on a platter but leave it on the counter, heading to Blake instead.
“Wow. All these albums are full of them? There must be hundreds.”
“Lost count over the years.” While I was traveling with Nate on the job, I kept the albums in storage, but since I relocated to San Francisco I’ve kept them in my living room.
“When did you start?”
“At eighteen. Took a class at the community college, and since then I buy random kids’ books that are text only, and I make up illustrations.”
He looks up from one of the albums. “I know a children’s book publisher. I’d have to double-check, but I’m sure they do illustrated books too. Do you want me to set up a meeting?”
“Oh no, no, it’s just a hobby.”
“That’s a lot of work for a hobby. I’m no expert, but I think you’re really creative. I collected comic books growing up—not the same as children’s books obviously, but you’re good. He could at least give you feedback.”
“No, it’s really fine. I’m part of several online communities, and we give each other feedback. That’s all I need.” Also, the prospect of a publisher looking over it and saying “No, thanks” is terrifying. Yikes.
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
Taking the platter, we head outside, settling on the two neon-green beanbags. I showed Blake a swing online, and he ordered it, but it hasn’t been delivered yet. For now, we have the beanbags, and they are plenty comfortable. We also have two thick blankets because May in San Francisco isn’t exactly balcony weather, not even in the second half. Blake pours us wine. The sky is cloudy but the sun shines through, casting a beautiful glow—a color I can’t name, something between pink and orange.
“Where did you see the best sunset?” Blake asks.
“London Eye,” I answer without a doubt. “You know, the Ferris wheel? I went on it once at sunset, and it was a spectacle. It made me fall in love with that city even more.”
“How come you didn’t move with Nate to London, then?”
“I grew up here. I always wanted to return. I have many nice memories with my parents. Walks in Golden Gate Park, lunches in Fisherman’s Wharf. The occasional trip to Alcatraz. Even though I moved a lot, this has always been my anchor point, my home.”
“Makes sense. I didn’t know you grew up here.”
Afterward, we fall into a comfortable silence, watching the sun disappear from the sky. We chitchat about his family. I’m not sure how long we stay out on the balcony, but it’s pitch-dark by the time the wind starts blowing so powerfully, it chills me to the bone. The empty glasses and wine bottle are on the floor between the two beanbag chairs.
“I’m cold,” I declare when I can’t ignore the fact anymore.
“Me too. Up we go.”