"Out of all the Blake Thortons in the world, I bet a lot of them are gorgeous." I'm being rational. Pragmatic. Because he can't really be here. In Los Angeles. In Stark Tower.
I can practically hear Sylvia rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. "He has the tattoo you told me about," she says, effectively cutting off all my hollow denials. "Right there on his wrist. I noticed it first thing. Peeking out from under the cuff of a very finely tailored white shirt, I might add."
My fingers itch with the memory of a snow-bound Chicago night. My body curled up naked against him in a room at the Hilton at O'Hare, where our New York to LA direct flight had been forced to land due to the storm. Me, gently tracing the lines of that tattoo. A is A. Him, telling me that we were meant to be together. That when the plane hit that first air pocket and I'd grabbed his hand as we'd plunged downward, I'd been grabbing onto destiny. "You know it's true, Penny. You can't argue against reality. A is A, after all."
I'd walked away, because I couldn't believe that lightning could strike us both so precisely, and I was terrified of risking my heart.
But he was right. Oh, dear God, he was right.
I take a deep breath and gather myself. "Fine," I say. "It's him. Why's he here? Is he on twenty-seven?" Of course he is. That's the real estate division. And Blake is a real estate developer with projects all over the world.
Not that he told me his full resume in our one night together, but in the months after, I may have Googled the man. Once or twice, anyway. Possibly five or fifteen times.
Maybe more. But really, who keeps track of those things?
My intercom buzzes, and I jump. "Hang on," I say as I reach for the phone to answer my boss.
"I'm squeezing in a lunch appointment," Damien Stark says. "Reschedule my one o'clock for two."
"Of course." I'm a model of efficiency. Not at all distracted by the memory of the man who'd played my body with such intimate perfection, that at one point I'm certain I'd actually touched heaven.
When he ends the call, I return to Syl.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"Me? Of course. It's probably not even him. And it's not like I'll ever know for sure. I'm on thirty-five and he's on twenty-seven, and never the twain shall meet."
"I could suggest he go up there ..."
"Cute," I say. "But don't you--"
"Hang on." Her voice rises, confused. "He's gone."
"Gone?"
"He was talking to Jackson in the conference room across from my office, and now it's empty. Do you want me to find out where he w
ent?"
Yes. Yes, oh, please, yes.
"No. Seriously, Syl," I beg as the elevator dings, "don't say a word to him. Just walk away slowly. I don't--"
Across from my desk, the elevator doors open.
And standing right there--looking as delicious as I remember--is Blake Freaking Thorton.
Blake Thorton.
He's standing right there next to Jackson Steele, and though Jackson is one of the finest looking men I've ever seen, I barely even notice him. I'm drawn to Blake like a magnet, and I can't look away.
Had Sylvia really said he had sandy gold hair? That doesn't even come close. It's wild and indescribable. Infinite variations of gold mixed with hits of darkness, like light against a smattering of clouds. He wears it short, but long enough for a woman to run her fingers through it and feel the heat. And his eyes aren't merely green--they're as tumultuous as the sky after a violent storm.
Blake Thorton is a force of nature, and at that moment, I want nothing more than to be caught in the tempest.
I realize I'm staring and tell myself to smile. That's my job, after all. "Mr. Steele," I say. "A pleasure to see you."
I glance toward Blake, but his expression is veiled, and I can't tell if he's indifferent or purposefully shutting me out.