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“You haven’t aged a day.”
“It’s Blake.” “Blake who?” “Blake Ryan.” Another pause, and then, “Your new client is Blake Ryan?”
Now that made Farrah laugh. “I won’t fall in love with him again.” She was horny, not an idiot.
Who’s the fucker texting her? Was it her boyfriend? She wasn’t married—he’d checked for a ring at the Aviary. But maybe she was dating someone. She was beautiful, smart, witty, kind. She must have men beating down her door.
“I’ll call you when the sketches are ready.” It wasn’t a no.
“Hardly. I’m just a baker, not Mark Zuckerberg.” “Mark Z can kiss my ass. You’re much better.”
“Maybe this is a sign,” he mused. “For you to bury the hatchet and move on. You can be friends again.” Farrah snorted. “Right.”
It was wrong and petty of him, but as Blake watched Farrah walk away, he couldn’t help but hope she had a really, really bad date.