I take a cleansing breath, then bow. I gave up karate classes when I went to college, but even when I was partying hard, I kept up my kata, my solo routine. I’ve been dying to get back into it. I tentatively throw my first punch and a rush skitters through me when there’s no pain. I settle into the comfort of the familiar kata, but about halfway in, when I get to the first reverse punch, a searing pain shoots through my shoulder. I grab it, bending at the waist, and suck in a sharp breath.
“Do you need ice?”
At the sound of Blake’s voice, I jerk upright and find him standing at the base of the stairs, two white shopping bags dangling from one hand.
“No. I’m fine,” I say, rolling my shoulder.
“Karate or tae kwon do?” he asks, stepping off the bottom stair into the room.
“What?”
He moves closer and looks me over, sizing me up. I hate that my insides warm under his scrutiny. “Both use Kankû-shô,” he says with a nod of his head toward me. “That is what that was, right?”
“You know martial arts?”
He gives me a slow nod. “Kankû-dai is my preferred kata.”
“Karate,” I answer.
“Shotokan?” he asks, stalking closer.
I nod.
“How long?”
He stops right in front of me. Really close. And with the pool table behind me, I’ve got nowhere to go. I force my eyes to stay on his face and try to concentrate on answering his question. “Seven years.”
A smile tugs at his mouth as he hands me one of the bags. “I knew you were a force to be reckoned with.”
“What’s this?” I ask, taking it from his hand.
He backs off a step. “The things you asked for.”
I peek inside and find things from my list—makeup and various toiletries, mostly, plus a big bag of Skittles. “Thanks.”
“And . . . here are a few other things I thought you might want,” he says, handing me the other bag. When I start to pull open the drawstring, he grasps my arm. “When you get to your room.”
“Okay,” I say, tucking it under my arm. I move to scoot past him, up the stairs, but he doesn’t let go.
“Cooper’s on is way back with the doctor. He wants to check you over.”
My fingers go automatically to my cheek. The tenderness is gone and the Steri-Strips are starting to peel up at the edges. “I’m fine.”
“I know. We just need to be sure,” he says, stepping back to let me pass. “Liability. Wouldn’t want you suing us.”
I give him my best smirk. “There plenty of other things I can sue you for.”
I scamper up the stairs to my room, and when I open the bag Blake gave me, I find a black silk sleep shirt and matching robe, some loose workout shorts, and a handful of very sexy thongs—all the things in my closet that I’d complained about. Butterflies alight in my chest at the thought of him picking this stuff out for me.
I think about showering and changing but then remember that the doctor is going to want to see my shoulder. When I head back out to the living room, Blake’s in the kitchen and something smells amazing.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “Chicken Provençal over rice.”
“Smells good.”
He nods, his gaze flickering over me again, then turns back to the stove, and I wonder if there’s ever going to be a time this won’t be so awkward. I think about how easy everything was between us when he was Harrison Yates, and even though it was only for a few days and nothing about it was real, I want that back.
I go to the fridge and pull out a Diet Coke, popping the top and downing most of it. “How long?”
“I figured we’d eat when you were done with the doctor.”
“Need help?” I ask, stepping up to the counter next to him.
He holds up the knife he’s using to trim the chicken breasts and his eyes spark. “When I’m wielding a weapon of mass destruction, it’s probably wise to stand back.”
“You just don’t trust me not to stab you with it.”
He gives me a slow nod, fighting a smile. “There’s also that.” He sets the knife down, out of my reach, I notice, and tosses the chicken into a pot with some kind of sauce in it. “I guess I haven’t asked if there’s anything you don’t eat.”
I shrug. “Not really a big fan of sweet potatoes or pork products other than bacon, but almost anything else goes.”
“So I guess that means no Spam?” he says, peeking out from under his long lashes.
How can anyone make Spam sound sexy? Why can’t he just be a jerk? It would make it so much easier to stay mad.
“So, chicken?” he asks, pulling a rice steamer out of the cupboard.
“Better than beef.”
“Fish?”
“It’s okay as long as it’s not super fishy. Some of it smells really bad,” I say, holding my nose.
“What about other seafood—shellfish and whatever?”
“Love scallops and shrimp. Not a huge fan of clams.”
“Abalone?”
“What’s abalone?”
“It’s a shellfish.”
“Never had it.”
“It’s my favorite, but you don’t see it around much. Sometimes in restaurants.” His eyes seem to lose focus for a second. “My sister and I used to dive for them with our dad when we were kids.”
“In Texas?” I ask, confused. “That sounds like something that would require an ocean.”
He focuses back on my face. “No. Here . . . or up north really, near Mendocino.” He clears his throat and turns to the sink, pouring himself a glass of ice water. “You want a beer with dinner? Or wine?”
There’s obviously more to that story, but from the way he not-so-smoothly changed the subject, it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. I jiggle my Coke can. “I’m good.”
“Holy macaroni,” a voice says from near the elevator. I turn and find Cooper standing there with Dr. Martin, his eyes wide. They shift to Blake. “You couldn’t have picked a whole bathing suit?”
Blake shakes his head, then stands and moves to the doctor, holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming, Doc. She seems to be doing pretty well, but see what you think.”
Dr. Martin shakes Blake’s hand then smiles at me. “Is this true, Samantha? How’s that arm?”
“It’s fine. Just a little sore here and there if I twist it or move too fast.”
He motions for me to sit on the sofa and I do, then he takes my arm and moves it. “That hurt?”
I shake my head.
“How about this?” he asks, lifting it over my head.
“No. It’s good.”
He sits on the coffee table in front of me and pulls out a penlight. He flashes it in my eyes. “Your head’s been okay? No blurred vision?”
“Nope.”
“Headaches?”
My eyes flick to Blake, who’s pulled himself up onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Only the ones he gives me.”
Dr. Martin huffs a laugh through his nose, and fingers the Steri-Strips on my face. “Usually we just wait for these to fall off, but I can remove them if you’d like.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He moves to the kitchen and washes his hands, then sits again and gently pulls the tape off my face. “This is barely going to leave a scar. You’re lucky.”
“Not according to Jonathan,” I say.
He smiles. “Jonathan went home yesterday, in case you’re wondering. He’s doing fine.”
Thank God. “I want to see him.”
Blake tips his head in a warning. “We’ll talk about this later.”
I glare at him. “I want to talk about it now. My best friend got shot at because you put me in danger. I think the least you can do is let me see him to be sure he’s okay.”