Pressure Point (Point #2) (25 page)

“What kind of withdrawal symptoms?” Screw spending another hour in the office, I’m going to see Blake. I begin shutting down my computer and preparing to leave.

“Cold sweats, hot flashes, pins and needles, loss of sensation in my fingers.”

“Aren’t those symptoms conflicting?” Tossing my hobo bag over my shoulder, I cross through Speck’s office and land in the elevator.

“You ob – ” Blake’s voice cuts out when I lose cell reception. Smiling to myself, I redial his number and wedge my cell phone under my ear.

“You obviously don’t know how addicting my girl is,” Blake answers. His raspy voice wraps around me like silk—sensual and smooth.

“Oh, yeah? Tell me about her.” My voice catches in my throat when I exit the building. Parked against the curb is Blake’s sleek black SUV. He’s leaning casually against the passenger door, a wide grin spread across his cheeks while he waits. For me. A pleasant sensation washes through me at his adoring gaze. I still want to pinch myself to make sure he’s real. I hurry toward him.

One large hand cups my cheek, the other plucks the cell phone still pressed against my shoulder. Blake drops the device into my purse then wraps his free hand around my waist, squeezing me tightly to him, like he doesn’t want there to be any separation between us. “There she is.”

“Here I am.” Yes, all breathless and panting, here I am. This man’s got me wrapped up in his touch.

Then our lips touch. A familiar insatiable sensation courses through me, demolishing any resistance to behave myself. Who cares if we’re in the middle of the street? I’m not an exhibitionist, but I don’t care who sees me mauling my boyfriend in the middle of the sidewalk. Both of his hands have traveled to my lower back, fitting me snugly against his hard body. My fingers weave through his perfectly styled hair, pulling him closer. The spearmint flavor is addicting; everytime our lips touch, I’m treated to his signature taste.

He touches his forehead to mine, eyes shut and breathing heavily.

“I missed you,” I murmur.

“No more of these weeks apart.”

There it is.
Reassurance that Blake wants to be around me as much as I want him elevates my mood ten notches and my lips naturally tilt up. “Agreed.”

“Your place to pick up clothes then my place.” There’s no room for argument and I’m happy to comply. After an unending day at work rife with stress, there’s nothing that I want more than a night with Blake.

We make quick work of dropping by my condo, and soon after, Blake’s parking in the three-car garage. The moment the garage door touches the concrete floor, Blake’s cell begins buzzing. “Got to get this,” he tells me without as much as a second glance.

“Hey, Cupcake.” Without looking back, Blake strides into the house, leaving the door open behind him.

Annoyed, I yank open the trunk of the car and grab my bag. With a tug, I pull it out of the trunk and it clatters to the ground with a thump, landing on my foot. I hiss out in pain at the sharp sensation on my sensitive toes. All of a sudden, I’m pissed off. We were meant to spend time together, reconnect after days apart and what’s Blake doing? Hiding me from Zoe.

Again.

I slam the door leading into the house more vigorously than is probably necessary, but I don’t care. Let Blake hear me. Okay, if I took a step back, I might recognize that I’m acting no better than a four-year-old throwing a temper tantrum, but I’m mad! It’s been a tough day; all I want is to be around Blake, and he’s nowhere to be found. Leaving my bags in a heap on the bench in the mudroom, I stalk into the kitchen and rip the refrigerator door open. Even the sight of the white wine I enjoy drinking doesn’t settle the fire building within. I pour myself a generous glass.

The cool liquid trickles down my throat when I take a very unladylike swig, still not calming me.

“Thirsty?” Blake sounds amused and sure enough, I find him with one of his smirks plastered on.

“Not funny, Blake,” I snap.

His eyebrows rise in confusion. “What’s not funny?”

“You!”

“Okay,” he says slowly, dropping onto one of the barstools. “Is there something you want to talk about, Stella?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“You’re talking in code, Stella. Care to explain to me what’s got you all red in the face?”

The wine glass hits the marble countertop with a clatter. I can feel my eyes narrowing, and yes, my cheeks are getting hot with anger. “We haven’t seen each other in a week and you’re ignoring me,” I accuse.

“That was a five minute phone call, Stella. I’m not ignoring you; Zoe wanted to talk to me about the plans for next week.”

The anger simmering inside of me boils over, and suddenly, I’m left with heartache. When I speak, my voice comes out strangled with emotion, my throat getting thick with emotion. “You’ll never tell her about us, will you? I’ll be your little secret until you decide that you don’t want to be with me anymore and there will be no collateral damage because Zoe won’t know we’re dating.” On some level, I know how dramatic my ramblings sound. Blake’s taken me on plenty of dates in public, and I even appeared on some local blogs photographed with Blake at the Scrapers games. He’s done nothing to indicate that he wants to hide our relationship, but he still hasn’t come out and said that he wants to tell Zoe about us.

“Stella…” He looks wounded, and I instantly feel regret. “Do you truly believe that I want to keep you a secret?”

“No,” I redact. “But I can’t deny that I’m really impatient for Zoe to know about us. She was my closest friend and now I’m in this weird limbo stage. It’s wearing on me, Blake, and you haven’t brought up telling her at all. What am I supposed to think?”

“You’re supposed to trust me,” he answers almost tiredly.

I take a tentative step toward him then place my palm on top of his hands spread flat against the counter. His warm skin under mine is the perfect salve to my emotional scrapes and I begin calming. “I do trust you, Blake. If I’ve learned anything from my mom, it’s that communication is important in relationships and we’re not communicating about this.” My eyes flicker to his uncertainly. I find understanding in his expression, and I forge on. “Obviously, I let my emotions get the best of me. I’m sorry for getting angry with you. I’m ready to talk to Zoe. I want her to know that we’re together.”

Blake flips his hand over, fits our fingers together, and yanks me between his legs. His hands fall to either side of my waist and he begins leisurely stroking my sides with his thumbs. “You’re right. We haven’t talked about Zoe and we need to.” His deep brown eyes bore into mine and I know something serious is coming. “Believe me when I said I was planning to tell you this before you got upset?” I nod once. “I want you to come to New York with me on Friday. There’s a press junket for the Wind and I’ve been invited to
SportsHour
.”

The answer comes automatically. “Yes.” I need to take a break from unending work, but I’m confused as to how this fits in with my desire to come clean to Zoe.

“We leave for New York Friday and fly back on Monday morning. After, I plan to drive to New Point because there’s a birthday thing for Zoe. I was going to invite you tonight. It’s about time that Zoe knows about us. We’ll surprise her.” Blake makes the comment factually; meanwhile, my heart soars in my chest at his invitation.

“You’re ready to tell her,” I repeat more to myself than him. Relief washes through me. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was worried, deathly afraid, that Blake would never be prepared to tell his sister. Now, he’s invited me on an impromptu vacation, and at the end, we’ll see Zoe.

“Do you think she…” Uncertainly stops me in my tracks.

“Go on,” he encourages.

“Do you think Zoe will want to see me?”

Blake’s eyes melt into liquid chocolate and he drops a row of kisses from my cheek along my jawline and then to my lips. “Baby, of course, she does. Zoe’s finally in a place now where she’s not relying on anyone to force her out of bed. She’s a different girl then you saw a few months ago. Zoe has a great job and a boyfriend. She’ll be thrilled to see you again. I know that she misses you.”

Dropping my cheek to the space where his neck and shoulder meet, I snuggle close to him. His words release more of the tension in me. I allow him to lift me into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist and clinging to him. Though he promised dinner, we quickly forget about it, lost in each other.

Blake

Stella provoked a feeling in me that I’m not too familiar with. Fear. God, when I saw the anger and hurt that she wore earlier this week, I almost lost my mind. I would do damn near anything to strike those emotions away from her for the rest of her life. Thankfully, I was able to fix what was bothering her with something that I’d already had planned.

Frowning to myself, I yank the length of my tie through the Windsor knot. It’s Friday and my girl is getting ready to come with me to
SportsHour
for my interview with the dipshit Chip Conway. I loathe this media junket stuff, especially when I’m forced to play nice with the host who loves a good scandal. Thankfully, my legal team built an ironclad contract that says if he mentions anything about my personal life, we pull advertising from his show. Pretty simple shit, actually, but I don’t feel like playing nice with this prick when I could be wining and dining my girl. Instead, I’ll have to suffer through this interview and then take her to a nightcap. Fuck if I know why I have to get to the studio an hour before the show goes live at eight.

“Holy hotness.”

I meet Stella’s eyes in the bathroom mirror. She’s staring at me hungrily and I smile at her verbal confession.

“There’s no way that I’ll be able to concentrate on the media training points when I know you’ll be waiting for me in that dress.” Her tight black dress showcases every delectable curve of her hourglass figure. The dress has a scoop neck, revealing an expanse of creamy white skin and luscious cleavage. “Snow White, what are you trying to do to me?”

Stella’s laughter is like lemonade on a humid day, sweet and refreshing. She wiggles her way between the bathroom vanity and me and settles my tie on my chest. I lock her in place, my hands on either side of her hips.

She places her hands on my shoulders, affixing me with a mock stern gaze. “You’re going to run this interview. And then you’ll come back to me and we’ll have all the time that we need to be together.”

“Fine,” I grumble, though the prospect of spending the rest of the weekend tangled with Stella in crisp white sheets sounds pretty damn enticing. “Let’s get this over with.”

I’m not one to fall victim to superstition. Most of the time, I’m on an even keel, but when I walk through the doors of the
SportsHour
studio, the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. Stella must sense something too because she squeezes my hand tightly. Glancing over, I find her watching me worriedly. We pause next to the reception desk and I ask her the question hoping she has an answer for what I’m feeling.

“What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head quickly, the mass of thick, flower-scented hair shimmering under the fluorescent lights. “Nothing.” The smile she wears does nothing to reassure me.

Never let ‘em see you sweat.
I squeeze her hand and offer a confident smile before turning toward the desk. “Mr. Campbell,” the young girl breathes and jumps to her feet and leads us through a maze of hallways to a dressing room. While Stella waits patiently, a Wind PR staffer reviews the media plan with me and a producer from the show drops by to tell me about the logistics of the taping. Chip Conway, the host who I’m starting to think of now as more of a chump, doesn’t stop in to say hello.

Prick.

I type out a text to Zoe, reminding her that I’m on the show tonight. In a couple of days’ time, I’ll be introducing my relationship to my sister. I have no worries about this. In fact, I think my sister will be shouting from the rooftops that her big, bachelor brother is finally settling down. I haven’t told Stella, but I know Zoe wants my girlfriend back in her life. It’s not my place to interfere. Yet. Once they see each other on Monday, I’m hoping they can rekindle their friendship. Stella still carries pain and guilt over not being able to save my sister from her own demons. Both of us regret that, but I’m starting to finally accept that I can’t fix what plagues Zoe. I want Stella to learn the same thing.

“How much are you involved in the day-to-day operations for the Wind?” Stella’s gentle voice snaps me out of my annoyance. She’s wedged in the corner of the couch, smiling at me. Damn, if it doesn’t make my chest swell knowing that she’s mine.

“Not much. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been more interested in the operations of the hockey team. Probably because I spent most of my time playing football; I liked escaping into something still in sports, but a different arena.”

“You’re interviewing then as an owner,” she says.

“These media types love connecting my former glory days playing college ball.” I extend a hand toward her. “Come closer.” She doesn’t hesitate, sliding into my lap. Her skin is soft as satin when I press my cheek against hers. I inhale her floral scent through my nose, trying to settle the foreboding sensation in my gut. “Something’s off,” I murmur.

“The seediness that is Chip Conway,” she whispers back. It’s enough to make my lips twitch toward a smile.

“On in five, Mr. Campbell.”

With an annoyed sigh, I pull away from my girl and glance toward the door where a harried producer waits with a clipboard. I nod sharply, indicating that I’ve heard him, and help Stella to her feet. We keep our hands tightly interlocked when we walk toward the stage. The PR rep said there were two hundred seats in the audience, and then the millions watching at home. The attention doesn’t bother me; hell, I’ve been on gossip blogs and magazines, it’s old news. Let them have those pictures, it doesn’t reflect on what’s actually happening in my life. But tonight that pinch of uncertainty makes me think twice. As if sensing my apprehension, Stella squeezes my hand.

The
SportsHour
theme music fills the studio and the audience erupts in enthusiastic applause.
Chump
struts out from the opposite side of the stage. He pauses off center to give his opening monologue. There’s an air of arrogance stinking up the entire building. The slick-haired host looks like he has a full house behind his poker hand and it pisses me off. I’m not letting this fucker push me around.