I sigh and close my eyes for a long moment. When I open them, the first thing I see is a tall, skinny wood vase on the counter, tucked in behind two smaller glass ones that hold cotton balls and Q-tips. Looking around, I find several other examples—wood framed art on the wall, a wood-handled brush hanging in the shower, and the wood vanity, of course.

Maybe those were all there before, or maybe Blake sees me, understands me, and doesn’t think I’m weird or should change.

Maybe he likes me not despite my weirdness but because of it?

I open the door and should turn right, back to the living room where he’s waiting. I go left instead and find myself in the doorway of Blake’s bedroom. The bed is neatly made with a navy and green plaid duvet, white pillows laid out at the head. It’s not fussy, just tidy—like the man.

On the nightstand, I see a poseable wooden figure; on the other, a stack of books and a set of small wooden boxes. I feel him behind me before he says anything, and I breathe in strength and exhale fear. His fingers trace down my arm to my hand, which he takes in his. “Zoey?”

The name I’ve heard hundreds of times, but the question in it is anything but easy. I’m not simple, but he’s taken the time to figure out my layers, fighting through the nonsensical labyrinth that is my head, willing to wait for me while somehow simultaneously making me believe in possibilities.

He’s given me . . . hope. And for a woman who doesn’t have that, it’s a precious gift. I let my head fall back to his shoulder, and his hands caress back up my arms, raising gooseflesh in their wake.

“You really put wood everywhere. For me.” No question, just truth.

“I did,” he agrees easily, never conceiving that I might’ve thought he was lying or exaggerating. But that’s what people do.

It’s not what Blake Hale does.

It’s not who he is.

“There was already a lot in here with the furniture, but I added a few little things by the bed, and in the other rooms. Amy and I went shopping. She helped me pick out things because I can’t decorate for shit. My plan was to put wood slices everywhere, but she told me I should be more ‘adult’ about it.”

As he talks, his hands trace along my skin—arms, neck, and even brushing my down-for-once hair over my shoulder. He follows the touches with small, sweet kisses that bring zings of sensation to my entire body, but it’s his words that make my heart race. “You did that for me?”

“Of course,” he whispers before nipping at my earlobe.

My eyes fall closed, and unbidden, the words fall from my lips in a plea. “Ask me. Please.”