She was so engrossed in examining the furniture she didn’t hear Blake’s bedroom door open.
“It’s looking good.”
Farrah screamed and spun around while picking up the nearest item that could double as a weapon—a white ceramic vase with navy blue coral design, to be exact. Her heart slammed against her sternum as panic crashed over her in waves.
Three years of living in New York and she had yet to be mugged or accosted in any way—unless you count the aggressive elbowing of irate New Yorkers on the subway during rush hour—but Farrah wasn’t about to go down without a fight.
“Whoa. Don’t shoot.” The person held up their hands, and the fog of adrenaline cleared enough for Farrah to notice the familiar head of blond hair and knife-sharp cheekbones.
She lowered the vase, waiting for her pulse to return to normal before she hissed, “Jesus, you scared me. What are you doing here?”
Farrah caught a shadow of Blake’s dimples before they disappeared. “It’s my apartment.”
“I thought you were staying in a hotel.”
“I am. I came to pick up more clothes.” Blake gestured at the black duffel bag sitting at his feet. “Turns out, I’m not a great packer.”
“Blake Ryan admitting he’s not great at something? That’s a first.”
“I have more than enough redeeming qualities to make up for such a minor fault.”
Her mouth tilted up into a smile.
Then she remembered what happened between them the last time they saw each other, and the smile disappeared.
Blake
watched her with guarded eyes. “The apartment does look good. I wish Mode de Vie had panned out so the world could see it.”
Farrah swallowed the lump of disappointment in her throat. Blake called and broke the news a few days ago. Their first conversation since Syracuse, and a short one at that. As much as she’d freaked out about what might happen after being mentioned in a platform as large and influential as Mode de Vie, she hated seeing the opportunity slip between her fingers, especially since she had yet to receive a single callback for an interview.
Hundreds of job applications and not one follow-up, not even from the small design firms. Farrah even checked to make sure her emails were sending correctly. It didn’t make sense. New York was a tough job market, but she had a stellar resume. She should’ve at least received a phone screen.
The earnings from Blake’s project would tide her over for a while, but if she didn’t find stable employment soon, she’d be saying goodbye to the Big Apple and hello to L.A. smog in less than a year.
“Thanks.” Farrah shoved her rising panic into her Deal-With-It-Later drawer. “It’s not done yet. Give it another week. I just came by to double-check everything before I leave for the night.”
“You don’t have to rush now that the magazine scrapped the shoot.”
“I’m not. Timeline worked out that way.”
Silence descended. Farrah rubbed her thumb over her pendant, seeking comfort in its cool familiarity. Sammy’s words echoed in her mind.
The next time you see him, ask him about the night you lost your necklace.
She could. The curiosity burned her from the inside out, and it wasn’t like things could get any more awkward between her and Blake. At the same time, she was terrified of the answer. Whatever it was, it was bound to tilt her world off its axis, and she’d had enough changes in her life these past few months, thank you.
Like they said, don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.
“We should talk about what happened in Syracuse.” Blake stepped closer.
Run, her sensible self warned, but something glued her feet in place.
Running wouldn’t do her any good, anyway. Blake was a black hole, a raw force so powerful he could suck her in whether she was four feet or four worlds away.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Farrah focused on Blake’s jaw instead of his intense eyes. It was strong and square, covered by a light layer of stubble that made him look even more like a Calvin Klein model than usual.
It should be illegal for guys to keep their good looks after they break a girl’s heart.