Chapter 13: PUSHING ME AWAY.

       I stepped into Mr Blake's office, clasping my hands together as I stood near the door. The air felt heavier than usual, though I couldn't quite place why. He was sitting behind his desk, flipping through a file, but the moment I entered, his eyes lifted and for a second, he just stared.

I cleared my throat. "You wanted to see me?"

He didn't answer right away. His gaze still on my face before settling on my lips. His fingers, which had been tapping lightly against the desk, went still.

I shifted under his scrutiny, suddenly aware of how warm the room felt.

Then, before I could react, he pushed back his chair and stood, walking toward me with slow, deliberate steps.

My breath hitched.

I forced myself to stay still, but when he stopped just inches away, my heart thudded so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

Then, to my absolute shock, he reached up and tilted my chin, his fingers brushing my skin as he studied my face.

"What happened?" His voice was quieter now, lower.

I froze.

What...?

My lips parted, but no words came out. Because was he seriously touching me right now?

His fingers were warm, his touch firm yet careful. I couldn't breathe.

"I—wh—" I swallowed hard. "What do you mean sir?”

His thumb barely grazed the corner of my mouth, his gaze darkening. "Your lips are swollen."

Oh.

Oh.

I bit them too hard last night.

Memories from the kitchen came rushing back—the way Alan had toyed with me, the way I'd felt so overwhelmed by the tension, the way I'd nervously chewed my lip to keep myself from reacting too much.

But how was I supposed to explain that to Blake?

How do I tell him that his brother had me so flustered last night, that I still felt the effects of it up till this morning? That I had spent the night tossing and turning, replaying the scene in my head, feeling a strange, unfamiliar tension knotting in my stomach?

I couldn't.

So I forced myself to shrug. "It's just a habit, to when I am nervous."

His fingers twitched, but he didn't let go. His eyes stayed locked onto mine, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

"Nervous?" he murmured.

The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine.

His grip didn't tighten, but I felt the weight of it, the warmth of his skin against mine. He was standing too close, looking at me too intently, and it was making my head spin.

"And why," he asked, his voice just above a whisper, "would you be nervous?"

I didn't answer.

I nearly choked.

I couldn't tell him the real reason.

"Are you nervous now?" he asked softly.

I exhaled shakily "I'm not."

Blake didn't believe me. I could see it in his eyes. But after a long, tense pause, he finally let his fingers slip away, stepping back as if shaking off whatever had just happened between us.

"Right." His voice returned to normal—controlled, professional. He turned away, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply. "What do you do when you're free?"

The sudden change in topic caught me off guard.

"What?"

Blake was still facing away, but his posture was rigid. "When you're not working. What do you do?"

I hesitated, still thrown off by what had just happened. "I... I read sometimes. And I like to write."

That made him turn, his expression shifting slightly. "You're a writer?"

I nodded. "Yeah, something like that."

Blake's gaze softened just a little, something impressive flickered in his eyes. "That's impressive."

I blinked. I wasn't expecting that. "It's nothing serious. I just... write when I have the time."

Blake studied me for a moment before leaning against his desk. "Don't say that, writing is serious and it's beautiful. What do you write about?"

I hesitated. "Just... stories."

His lips quirked slightly. "That's vague."

I shrugged, suddenly shy. "I guess I don't really talk about it much."

He hummed, watching me with quiet curiosity. "You should. It's a good thing. Writing, I mean."

I exhaled, unsure how to respond. Most people didn't really care when I mentioned it—not like I actually mentioned it to anyone, but Blake's reaction was different—like he actually found it interesting.

"What made you start?" he asked, tilting his head.

A small smile crept onto my lips. "I think I've always loved stories. The way they make you feel, the way they pull you into a different world, out of reality. It just... feels natural to write them."

Blake nodded, his gaze lingering on me. "That's a gift, you know."

I laughed lightly. "I wouldn't call it that."

"Well, I would."

The certainty in his tone caught me off guard.

For a moment, the tension from earlier faded. The air between us felt lighter, easier.

Blake exhaled, glancing toward the large bookshelf behind him. "If you had the chance... would you ever publish?"

I blinked, not expecting that question. "I don't know. I guess I've never thought about it seriously."

Blake's gaze flicked back to mine. "Maybe you should."

Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten.

I stared at him, unsure of what to say. But before I could find the words, he straightened, pushing off the desk and returning to his usual composed self.

"That'll be all for now," he said, his tone back to its professional sharpness. "And so I won't be having my breakfast this morning, I have somewhere I need to be, perhaps I will be around for lunch or dinner" he explained.

I hesitated before nodding. "Alright."

I turned to leave, but just as I reached the door, his voice stopped me.

"Samantha."

I froze, looking back.

His gaze flickered to my lips one last time before meeting my eyes.

His jaw clenched.

"Try not to be nervous, especially around me."

My stomach flipped.

I had no idea how to respond to that.

So I didn't.

I simply nodded and walked out, my pulse thrumming wildly as I shut the door behind me.....

————

     The kitchen was quieter than usual. Without Blake around, there was no need to prepare breakfast quickly, so I focused on making something for myself. The warmth of the morning sunlight filtered through the windows as I placed a pan on the cooker, cracking eggs into it with a sigh.

It should've felt peaceful. But my mind was anything but calm.

Last night still clung to me—Alan's voice, his teasing, the way he looked at me like he knew something I didn't. My lips still tingled, slightly swollen from how often I had bitten them, and I hated that he had done that to me.

But Alan wasn't the only one messing with my head.

Blake.

Blake had noticed my lips too.

And he had been calm, cool, nothing like the bossy man I had come to know. His touch had been gentle, his voice filled with concern.

He had noticed me—in a way I didn't think he ever would.

And then there was the way he reacted when I told him I liked to write.

His surprise had been genuine, his curiosity real. And when I told him I was, he didn't dismiss it. He had seemed... proud. Like he wanted to be involved in my writing life, wanted to understand it.

Between the two brothers, my thoughts were tangled in a mess I couldn't seem to escape from.

My grip on the spatula tightened. Why couldn't I stop thinking about them? Why did my lips still tingle like I could still feel the ghost of his words against them? And why—why did Blake have to notice, to touch my face like that, his tone softer than it had ever been before?

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head.

I was thinking too much.

I focused on flipping my eggs onto the plate, ready to finally eat and push all these ridiculous thoughts away but a voice cut through the air.

"Make me something too."

The voice was deep, careless, and unmistakable.

I stiffened, my hands pausing as I turned to the doorway.

Alan.

He leaned lazily against the frame, arms crossed over his chest—his usual posture. He had a black singlet on with shorts and a towel over his shoulder. He was sweating so I assume he just came out of the gym, thank God he had something on this time.

But his eyes—there was nothing playful in them today. No teasing, no smirk. Just an unreadable expression, as if last night had never happened.

I blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

He pushed off the doorway, stepping into the kitchen. "I said, make me something." His tone was detached, like he couldn't be bothered to care whether I did or not.

I frowned. "What happened to making your own breakfast?"

His jaw twitched, but his expression didn't change. "well remember that your now my caretaker too so.... When your done Just bring it to my room."

And just like that, he turned and walked off.

No look back. No smirk. No lingering glances.

I stared after him, my stomach twisting.

What the hell was that?

Where was the man who had toyed with me in the kitchen, who had looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve?

And why did it feel like he was suddenly pushing me away?

I quickly pushed the thought aside and made the breakfast but the realization hit me, I had never been to his room before.

Nadia was out. So no one was around to ask for help.

————

Balancing the tray in one hand, I walked through the halls, trying not to let my nerves get the best of me. It took three wrong doors before I finally found the right one—one that was slightly open.

Pushing it open with my foot, I stepped inside.

And froze.

The tray almost slipped from my hands.

The room was... different.

Unlike Blake's minimalistic, perfectly arranged space that was filled with books and papers.

Alan's room felt lived in. The room was dimly lit, the curtains only partially drawn, papers scattered on the desk. But what really caught my attention—

Canvases.

They were all tucked into one corner, but still completely visible. Some were draped with cloths, others leaned against the wall. My stomach did a weird little twist as I took them in.

Naked women.

Some were half—draped in sheets, their bodies painted in soft strokes of shadow and light. Others were completely bare, skin rendered with such breathtaking detail that I could see every delicate curve. Their poses sensual yet undeniably artistic. I swallowed.

Could this be women he had slept with?With that thought I dragged my gaze away—only to stop at the unfinished piece on the easel.

It wasn't like the others.

This one was different. Clothed. The shape of the shoulders, the loose strands of red hair, the curve of a familiar figure—

But the face was covered.

My breath caught for a second, something strange curling in my chest.

I didn't get the chance to process it.

"Do you always snoop around people's rooms?"

The deep voice startled me, making me whirl around......

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