Farrah’s spidey senses tingled at Cheryl’s tone. “Mom, what aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking.” Cheryl cleared her throat. “Anyway, will you be bringing a boyfriend with you? A son-in-law would be the best Christmas present, but I have to vet him first. Moms can always tell if someone is a good egg or bad egg.”
As subtle as a sledgehammer to the head. Cheryl’s gentle nudges about settling down, getting married, and birthing lots of grandbabies had evolved into outright shoves, and Farrah was only twenty-five.
“There are no eggs, good or bad. I’m not dating anyone.” Technically true. Right?
“No one?” Disappointment seeped through the phone into Farrah’s ear. “Not even a date? You’re young and attractive. Maybe you’re not going to the supermarket often enough.”
Ok, the egg analogy was getting weird. “I’ve been on dates.” Farrah chewed on her bottom lip, wondering whether to disclose her sort-of dates with Blake. “I’ve been, uh, hanging out with Blake.”
“Blake? The boy from Shanghai who broke your heart?”
Cheryl had been there, tissues and ice cream in hand, to comfort her daughter when Farrah returned home from Shanghai and collapsed into tears whenever she saw or heard something that reminded her of Blake—a movie they’d watched together; a song they’d danced to; her set of Kelly Burke limited-edition Pantone markers, which he’d gifted her for her twentieth birthday and which she couldn’t bring herself to throw away until they ran out of ink.
“Yes.” Farrah gave her mom a quick rundown of what happened, minus the sex part. She’d already told Cheryl about Blake’s design project—she just hadn’t named him as the client. “Before you say anything, I know I’m being reckless. Given my and Blake’s history, I shouldn’t even be talking to him. Right?”
“Not necessarily.” Farrah knew her mom so well she could hear her shrug over the phone. “He sounds like he’s changed and wants to make things work. Besides, you were so smitten with him. Maybe this is your second chance.” She sounded wistful. “Grudges are the worst thing to hold on to. No matter how bad someone hurt you, you can’t heal until you forgive. Sometimes that means moving on. Other times that means giving things another shot.”
Farrah tightened her grip on her phone. “You think I should give Blake another shot?”
Two months ago, she would’ve scoffed at the idea, but now, a strange warmth filled her at her mother’s advice.
“I think you should do what your heart tells you. We can be so afraid of getting hurt we lock it up in a fortress, but hearts are meant to roam free until they find what they’re searching for. Let yours lead you to where you need to go.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After weeks of headaches, Blake’s business was running on smoother grounds again. He’d fixed the plumbing issues, found another liquor distributor who could deliver on time, and knocked his Miami visit out of the ballpark. Not only did he have the city officials eating out of his hand, but he’d found the perfect venue for Legends in the trendy Wynwood district.
The New York branch may not be open yet, but when business operated at the size Legends did, he didn’t have the luxury of waiting until one project finished before he started on the next one. Blake worked on a fast-paced rolling schedule.
But as much as he’d enjoyed Miami’s beaches and the thrill of seeing a business deal snap together, he would much rather be where he was now: in his kitchen, hands braced against the counter, while Farrah sucked him off like she was auditioning for a Hoover gig.
“Fuck.” Blake’s groans echoed in the marble space as Farrah worked him mercilessly. Tongue. Hands. Teeth. Taking him to the edge over and over again until she drew him all the way down her throat and pressed on his taint.
His orgasm ripped through him, brutal and unrepentant. His knees buckled, and he would’ve collapsed onto the floor had he not been squeezing the kitchen counter with a death grip. Blake was sure he shouted—loud—but he couldn’t hear anything past the roaring in his ears.
When his vision cleared, he found Farrah staring up at him with a self-satisfied smirk.
“I should go on business trips more often.” He lifted her up and sat her on the counter. She wasn’t naked yet, but that was something they could remedy in a second.
“Hmm. Maybe. That was for the pastelitos.” She tilted her head toward the box of flaky guava-filled pastries he’d brought back from Miami. “An appropriate apology for running off and leaving me with BOB.”
Blake’s brows snapped together. “Who the fuck is Bob? What’s his last name? I just want to talk.” And kill him. Don’t worry—it’ll be slow and painful.
Farrah’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “BOB. Battery Operated Boyfriend. Last name: Vibrator. I think he’s getting sick of me, so it’s a good thing you’re back.” She hooked her legs around his waist and swiped her tongue across his bottom lip, which made him harder than the marble slab she was sitting on.
Yes, already. When it came to Farrah, Blake’s dick could run longer marathons than an Iron Man champion.
“I’m second place to BOB Vibrator? Bullshit.” Blake’s shoulders relaxed now that he didn’t have some asshole to hunt down. “For one, I’ll never get sick of you.”
“Hmm. We’ll see.”
“We don’t have to see. We know. At least, I do.” Blake ran his hands up the sides of her thighs. “I can prove it.”
“Tempting,” she murmured. “But first…” She pushed him away and hopped off the counter. “Coffee.”
Blake’s jaw unhinged, and Farrah broke out into sunny laughter that filled the room with its warmth.