Chapter 25 Misunderstandings and Mixed Signals
Olivia：POV
I paused for a moment, feeling a flush creep up my neck at Blake's question. Friends becoming lovers? What kind of question was that? And why was my heart suddenly beating faster?
"What do you mean?" I asked, suddenly embarrassed. Then a realization struck me. "Wait, you're not still pining after that girl from middle school, are you?"
Blake's eyebrows shot up, a strange expression crossing his face. "I might be, actually."
"So the person you've been wanting to pursue is Sophia?" I asked, connecting imaginary dots. "The one who used to hang out with us, the girl you heroically defended when those boys were picking on her."
I could still picture it clearly—thirteen-year-old Blake stepping between Sophia and those bullies near the school cafeteria, his jaw set with determination even though he was smaller than most of them.
After that incident, Sophia started hanging around us all the time, and the way she looked at Blake was filled with admiration and obvious infatuation.
Blake put his hand to his forehead and sighed deeply. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it.
"No, that's not—"
"If you like her, just go for it," I interrupted, suddenly feeling like a relationship guru. "Though I have no idea where Sophia is now. Haven't talked to her since high school."
I twirled my fork absently in the remaining pasta sauce, avoiding his eyes.
The creamy alfredo had gone cold, but I kept stirring it anyway, needing something to do with my hands. "But friends probably can't end up together anyway. I mean, if there were real feelings there, wouldn't you have gotten together back then?"
Blake's face was a masterpiece of frustration. He stared at me like I'd just told him the earth was flat, his fingers drumming against the white tablecloth in a rhythm I recognized from our childhood—something he did when he was trying not to lose his temper.
"You really think that's how it works?" he asked quietly.
"Well, yeah," I shrugged, finally looking up to meet his gaze. "People who are meant to be together figure it out pretty quickly. They don't spend years orbiting each other without making a move."
Blake took a long sip of his water, his eyes never leaving mine. The ice clinked softly against the glass, and I found myself focusing on the sound rather than the intensity of his stare. "Maybe some people are afraid of losing what they already have. Not everyone's as fearless as you, Olivia."
Something about the way he said my name made my stomach flip. The candlelight between us cast strange shadows across his face, making him look both familiar and mysterious at the same time.
His features had sharpened since we were kids—the soft roundness of childhood replaced by defined cheekbones and a stronger jawline.
"We should probably head back," I said, suddenly needing fresh air. The restaurant had grown warmer, or maybe it was just me. "It's getting late."
Blake signaled for the check, and I watched him interact with the waiter—polite but distant.
The drive home was quiet, with only the soft hum of the car's engine and the occasional directions from the GPS filling the silence.
I leaned my head against the window, watching the city lights blur past like fallen stars, feeling oddly drained after our conversation.
The leather seat was comfortable, and Blake had adjusted the temperature perfectly—not too warm, not too cold. Despite everything, he still remembered I always got car sick if it was too hot.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, the car had stopped.
When my eyes fluttered open, Blake was leaning over me, his face inches from mine, eyes intensely focused.
His arms were braced on either side of my seat, effectively caging me in. I could smell his cologne—something woody and masculine that definitely hadn't been in his repertoire when we were teenagers.
The unexpectedness of finding him so close startled me awake instantly. His eyes held a predatory gleam that made my breath catch, and for a wild moment, I noticed the way his shirt had pulled slightly open at the collar, revealing a hint of collarbone. When had Blake gotten so... solid?
For a wild moment, I thought he might kiss me.
"What are you doing?" I gasped, instinctively pushing against his chest before remembering his back injury. My palms pressed against the firm muscle there, and I froze, caught between wanting to create distance and not wanting to hurt him. "Move back. I need to go."
"Fine," he said, his voice low and rough as he pulled away. I caught a flash of something—disappointment? frustration?—before his expression shuttered. "Just so you know, you look really ugly when you sleep."
The tension shattered like glass.
"You're the ugly one," I shot back automatically, feeling like we were eight years old again, trading insults on the playground.
I grabbed my purse and practically bolted from his car, the cool night air a relief against my heated skin.
My heels clicked against the pavement as I hurried toward my building, and I didn't look back as I walked to my front door, though I could feel his eyes on me the entire way. The weight of his gaze was almost physical, making the space between my shoulder blades tingle.
Once inside, I leaned against the closed door, my heart still pounding like I'd run a marathon. What the hell was that all about? The intense way he'd looked at me, leaning so close I could smell his cologne and see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes...
"Blake Westwood, what the fuck is wrong with you?" I muttered to the empty hallway, kicking off my heels and letting them clatter against the hardwood floor.
I pushed myself away from the door and headed straight for the shower, hoping the hot water would wash away this confusing evening and the memory of Blake's face hovering above mine, the way his presence had seemed to fill the entire car.
Later, wrapped in my fluffy bathrobe and halfway through a glass of wine, my phone buzzed with a text from Victoria.
[Victoria]: So are you and Blake actually a thing now? Because the way he looks at you... girl, that man is INTO you.
I stared at the message, my finger hovering over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say to that?