Chapter 8 #2
Without making the conscious decision to, I find myself moving forward, straining my hearing as though any moment now, a word will emerge that will remind me where I know it from.
My boots are silent on the worn, flagstone floor as the sound of Blair’s voice grows louder, and my heart lurches as I turn a corner and find myself staring into the house’s cavernous kitchen.
The space is lit by stormy daylight that drifts in from the large window above the sink, illuminating the rows of copper pots hanging from the rack on the wall, and the long marble-topped table standing in the center of the space.
And, at the end of it, is Blair.
She’s dressed in an oversized sweater that’s sliding off one shoulder, light red hair piled on top of her head in an untidy bun, and is too busy digging into a tub of ice cream to notice she’s no longer alone.
My mouth is dry as I watch her sway her hips lazily, singing the same, hauntingly familiar song that pierces right through me for reasons I wish I could understand.
This woman could be an entirely different person from the wild-eyed creature who landed herself in half the tabloids in Europe, or the defiant little princess who flipped me off for reminding her to drink water this morning.
I can’t seem to look away, even when she pushes the top back on the ice cream and twirls across the room to put the carton back in the freezer, her feet bare on the checkered floor.
Dimly, I remember my purpose for being here, and that I should step into the kitchen and announce myself. Still, I stand there in the doorway, unmoving, as she hits a higher note—this one slightly flat—and laughs, shaking her head, before trying again.
Seeing her like this shouldn’t affect me. And yet—no. Clamping down on the thought, I clear my throat loudly and step into the room.
Blair’s head snaps up, eyes round with shock, and the spoon sticking out from between her lips.
“Ice cream for lunch?” I ask mildly, pushing my hands into my pockets. “Interesting choice.”
Her cheeks go pink, and she hurriedly removes the spoon, sticking it back in the bowl. “What do you want? Shouldn’t you be working?” she demands, recovering her sense of self-importance in an instant.
A nerve in my jaw twitches. “I am working. Believe it or not, I haven’t come for the pleasure of your company.”
“Of course. You don’t do anything for pleasure, do you?
” Blair scoffs, shaking her head. “Gosh, I bet that’s why your face always looks all pinched and puckered up like a giant butthole.
I’d probably get rectum face too if I slept in a coffin and subsisted exclusively on repression.
” And, raising her eyebrows challengingly, she helps herself to another spoonful of ice cream.
I have to actively remind myself that sinking to her level and engaging isn’t going to help in the present situation. Steeling my features, I frown. “Your father wants to know when you’ll be starting your remedial studies courses.”
Blair does a poorer job of hiding her indignance than I do, and sets down the spoon with a noisy clatter, pursing her lips. “He could have called me for that.”
“That’s the advantage of having a great deal of money, you can pay people to take care of life’s less enjoyable tasks for you,” I point out, strolling further into the kitchen. “Well?”
She blinks, curling her arms around her middle, even as that pointed little chin lifts defiantly. “Well what?”
For fuck’s sake.
I give her a pitying look that makes the color on the apples of her cheeks glow brighter. “When. Are. You. Starting. The. Courses? I can spell it for you, if you’d like.”
Blair’s head tilts to the side, looking a little bemused now. “Strange. I’ve never hit someone before, but I’m experiencing the strongest impulse to smack you in the face right now.”
“You could try.” I stop ten feet away from her, crossing my arms over my chest, and pointedly ignore the way her eyes dart to my biceps and away.
When she speaks again, her voice has taken on an edge. “Right. I suppose you would have a lot of practice in defending yourself against outbursts of physical aggression. It must be a bit of an occupational hazard, huh? From being such a terribly unpleasant person, and all.”
It seems almost unbelievable that in the space of a three-minute conversation, this woman has told me I sleep in a coffin, provoke unprecedented acts of violence, subsist exclusively on repression, am a “terribly unpleasant person,” and that my face looks like a butthole.
And, what’s worse, it isn’t even close to the record number of insults she’s managed to pack into a brief conversation with me in the week since we met.
“The courses, Blair,” I remind her, dragging us back onto the topic at hand with a heavy sigh. “When are you starting them?”
Her answering smile is coy. “I’m not sure,” she muses, turning the spoon between her fingers. “I’ll definitely let you know, though.”
There must be a long list of people before me who tried to get Blair Porter in line and caved from sheer exasperation. That evasiveness might have worked for her in the past, but it won’t today. “Go get your computer. Now.”
Gazing at me thoughtfully, Blair takes her time bringing another bite of ice cream to her mouth. The noise of pleasure she makes isn’t obscene, and yet it has an immediate and powerful effect on my cock.
Fucking hell. Enough.
“Blair,” I snap, more irritated with myself than her, now. “Let’s get this over with. I have better things to do than watch you eat that.”
Nevertheless, my eyes seem magnetized as the tip of her tongue darts out, licking away a tiny drop of cream that clings to her plump upper lip. After a sufficiently obnoxious amount of time has passed, she lets out a long, mournful sigh, pouting. “I lost it.”
“No,” I counter at once, “you didn’t.”
“I’ll look for it! You know, at some point.” She winks, scraping her spoon against the bottom of the bowl. “Pinky promise.”
It hasn’t escaped my awareness that, as this conversation has progressed, I’ve somehow lost the upper hand. I had her off balance with my unexpected arrival, but now she’s flipped the script, toying with me for the sheer amusement of it.
Christ, she’s impossible. I’m done playing her games.
Seething, I start moving, striding right past her and out into the hall, which runs the length of Thornhurst’s ground floor.
There are four sets of staircases in this house, and I make for the closest one, heart pounding as I jog up to the second floor.
Emerging in the upstairs hall, I turn right, walking over the plush, carpeted runner toward Blair’s bedroom.
Despite having been at the door every morning for a week, I’ve never actually entered Princess Porter’s inner sanctum.
The door is open, and I stride inside, pausing when I’m struck by the scent of apples and honey hanging in the air.
It takes me by surprise, muddling my intention for being here, as—just as I did when listening to Blair’s singing a moment ago—I find myself searching my memory for how I know it.
It takes a moment, but I manage to shake myself free from the state of déjà vu, looking around.
The space is just as I’d expect it to look: luxurious with minimal personal touches, just like the rest of the house. The bed is unmade, but apart from some clothes thrown over the back of a chair, the space is clean.
Her laptop is clearly visible and resting atop her desk, plugged into its charger beside a bottle of green nail polish.
Little brat.
Still holding my breath to avoid inhaling the intoxicating scent of whatever it is she’s spraying in here, I stride toward the desk and snatch it up. Gritting my teeth, I leave the way I came, half expecting to encounter Blair in the hallway, on her way to stop me.
She isn’t there, though, nor is she in the kitchens when I arrive back downstairs, setting the computer down on the counter beside her empty ice cream bowl.
“Blair!” I bark, striding over to the pantry and the adjacent bathroom, only to find both rooms dark and empty.
Is she fucking kidding me right now?
A few more minutes of fruitless searching of Thornhurst prove that Blair is most certainly not kidding.
She’s vanished, likely taking refuge in some unknown corner of the house, and my temples throb as I return to the kitchen, irritated beyond belief at being forced to engage in a game of hide and seek with a grown woman.
What am I supposed to tell Porter? That I couldn’t speak to his daughter because she’s hiding from me? For Christ’s sake, that would make me look incompetent, and Blair probably knows it. My eyes find the laptop, resting innocently on the kitchen counter, and I feel my lips twist.
Fine. If she wants to play games, we’ll play games.
Moving over to the device, I open it and stare down at the input field for a password. I frown, wondering what a self-centered, careless brat who has never had a true worry in her life would use to protect her sensitive information.
1-2-3-4
It’s a shot in the dark, and I’m not actually expecting it to work. When the password screen vanishes, however, and I find myself looking at Blair’s desktop—which is supremely cluttered—I scrub my hand over my face, almost overcome with exasperation. Unbelievable.
Her internet browser has no fewer than thirty tabs open, but it still takes me less than sixty seconds to find the email from Candice amidst a mountain of unread marketing for luxury clothing brands.
The course offering is branded as a refresher for adult learners who are returning to their education after some time away.
I scroll through the registration paperwork and overview, finding it to be all very reasonable and well laid out.
There are weekly “support group” meetings offered with other students and courses dedicated to everything from developing effective study habits to technology usage.
The program is part-time and only supposed to take a few hours a week.
As I read through it, I find myself more exasperated with Blair than ever before. For someone who didn’t go to college, this is a good opportunity. Considering her daily schedule is wide open, and she spends her time doing absolutely nothing, I can’t understand why on earth she’s so opposed to it.
God forbid she improve herself.
Shaking my head, I move through the registration form, adding Blair’s personal information, and requesting a start date of Monday.
She’s going to be furious with me when she realizes what I’ve done, but I couldn’t care less.
A part of me—one I pointedly refuse to examine very closely—even welcomes her inevitable fury.
When the course is confirmed, I straighten up, smiling grimly to myself as I head for the door.
“You start classes on Monday, Blair!” I call, raising my voice so it carries through the surrounding rooms, and hopefully into whatever corner of the house she’s hiding. “I’ll be sure to let your father know you’re very excited for the opportunity!”