Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
the ambush
MATTY
I’ve been staring at my phone for what feels like hours, my thumb hovering over the screen, willing those little grey bubbles to appear.
The ones that show Blair’s typing, that she’s at least thinking about responding to one of the many texts I’ve sent this morning.
I keep refreshing the screen, hoping for a reply, but still nothing. Just the same empty silence.
My heart feels like it’s lodged in my throat, a mix of frustration and something sharper swirling in the pit of my stomach like a brewing storm.
I know she’s seen my texts. The ‘delivered’ status taunts me every time I glance at the message thread.
I have the right number– I’m sure of it, because she’s called me out on texting her before.
She’s clearly choosing not to answer, and that stings more than I care to admit. Especially now, after we…
I heave a resigned sigh, reaching over to set my phone down on the bedside table.
Maybe if I stop staring at it, she’ll finally respond.
Raking a hand through my hair, I lean back against the headboard and stare up at the ceiling, trying to shake off the tension that’s been coiling tighter in my chest with every second that ticks by since I sent that first text this morning.
Damnit, I can’t just keep laying here waiting.
I need to do something– anything– to take my mind off the persistent silence from Blair.
Hitting the showers is out of the question, since the locker room will likely be crawling with co-eds at this hour, but I suppose I could go down to the gym for a workout.
Lifting weights may help burn off some of this frustration.
It might help me get out of my head for a while.
I keep wondering whether I made a mistake last night by choosing to give Blair space rather than chasing after her or blowing up her phone.
I told myself she probably needed time to sort through her feelings about everything, but the more I wait, the harder it is to tamp down my own aggravation.
She’s not the only one caught up in this mess.
I’m here, too, and I’m getting sick and tired of sitting around waiting for her to decide when we can talk.
Why is it always on her terms?
The sudden buzz of my cell phone breaks through the silence like a shot, my heart stuttering in my chest as I lunge for it.
Of course, I knock everything off my nightstand in the process.
My clock crashes to the floor, a water bottle rolls under the bed– but none of it matters once I’ve got the phone in my hands.
I swipe it open, my pulse pounding in my ears as I read the message on the screen.
Blair
Not going in today, just gonna work remotely from my laptop and I’ll drop the completed files in the drive.
That’s it. No, ‘Hey, I saw your texts,’ no acknowledgment of anything my other messages contained.
Not even a, ‘Sorry, I’ve been busy’ or, ‘Sure, let’s talk.
’ I re-read it over and over, thinking maybe I’m missing something, but no such luck.
Her long-awaited reply is just work, kicking us right back to the aloof, professional relationship we maintained before things got complicated.
Fuck that.
I shove up from the bed with an annoyed grunt, shoving my phone into my pocket as I stand.
Pacing across the room, I grab my laptop off the desk and toss it into my backpack before slinging the straps over my shoulders.
If Blair wants to stay locked away in her dorm and bury herself in work, that’s her prerogative.
But if she’s not going to meet me halfway, I’ll just bring the damn work to her.
Exiting my room with a purposeful stride, I head toward the dining hall, the thud of my footsteps echoing down the empty hallway.
Passing by the laundry room is a special kind of torture.
Memories of what we did in there last night come flooding back in exquisite detail, to the point where I have to re-adjust myself in my jeans before stepping into the dining hall.
I make a beeline for the coffee bar and grab two cups, sipping one of them on autopilot while making my way back to the dorms to ambush Blair.
When I finally reach her door and stop in front of it, my breathing stalls, chest tightening with trepidation.
I momentarily hesitate, hand hovering in front of the door before I reach forward to rap my knuckles against it.
“Just a sec!” Blair’s muffled voice calls from inside, and I wait for what feels like an eternity before the lock turns over and the door cracks open.
Her espresso eyes widen in surprise when she sees me.
“Matty,” she breathes, running a hand through her raven hair.
She’s wearing a cropped t-shirt and a sinfully small pair of cotton shorts, her feet bare and her face free of makeup.
She clearly wasn’t expecting visitors, but something about seeing her like this, in her most relaxed state, has my pulse picking up speed.
“What are you doing here?” Blair asks, her voice edged with agitation.
“I came to work,” I reply casually, motioning to my backpack straps. “And I brought coffee.”
I extend one toward her in offering, but she doesn’t even glance down at it. Her eyes stay locked with mine, narrowing in suspicion. “What part of my text was an invitation? And how’d you even know which room I’m in?”
I flash a grin, trying to play it off. “Lucky guess?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, her expression deadpan. “Uh huh.”
“You gonna invite me in or what?”
Blair grips onto the edge of the door tighter, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she considers. Then she heaves a sigh, stepping aside and giving me a small, reluctant wave to come inside.
I stride past her into her dorm room, my gaze sweeping over the interior as I enter.
It’s completely different from my own space.
The same layout, sure, but there’s an undeniable warmth in Blair’s room; a sense of life that my own seems to be lacking.
The walls are decorated with an eclectic mix of art and pictures framed in mismatched styles; a faint scent of lavender lingers in the air.
Her bed is unmade, her laptop sitting open atop the rumpled sheets, and laundry litters the floor.
She’s messy.
Not that I pegged her as a neat freak, but seeing where she lives is like getting a peek behind the curtain at who Blair Montrose really is. She’s brilliant and interesting and artistic and… messy.
When I pivot back around, I find her watching me intently, brows pinched and posture tense. “Uh, I guess you can sit there,” she murmurs, gesturing to her desk with a quick flick of her hand.
I nod, grateful for the space, and move toward it to get set up.
She follows me, reaching out to snatch up a shirt that’s carelessly draped over the back of the chair and tossing it toward her laundry hamper.
Then she steps over to her bed, climbing on and settling in with her legs crossed and her computer on her lap.
Setting my own laptop on the desk, I take a moment to organize the clutter of papers and books strewn across the surface. “You want the coffee?” I ask, glancing back at Blair over my shoulder.
“I’m good,” she mutters, not even looking up from her screen.
I drop down into her desk chair with a sigh, going through the motions of getting set up for work. As I do, my eyes keep drifting over to Blair. She looks so effortlessly at ease here, comfortable in her own space. It makes me feel like an intruder.
“So, last night…” I start, trying to find the right words, but she cuts me off before I can get any further.
“Never happened,” she quickly finishes, as if she’s been rehearsing that response.
I frown, shaking my head. “No, we’re not doing that again.”
“That’s how it has to be, Matty.”
“Why?” I challenge, a rough edge of frustration creeping into my voice. “I like you, Blair, and I know you like me. Why can’t you just admit it and stop fighting this? Why can’t–”
“You’re a human,” she interrupts, her voice strained. “I’m a shifter. It’ll never work.”
“Why not?” I scoff. “It seemed to work pretty damn well last night.”
She scowls, averting her eyes as she shakes her head. “Last night was a mistake.”
“Was it?” I fire back, arching a brow.
Blair stares back at me, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She always does that when she wants to say something, as if she’s actively trying to bite back her words.
I scrub a hand over my face, shaking my head. “Don’t act like it wasn’t great.”
“Of course it was great!” she exclaims, punching her fists against the mattress on either side of her hips. “That’s the problem, don’t you get it? Fucking a hunter is like stomping all over Dylan’s grave, and actually enjoying it is like spitting on it as an added ‘fuck you’.”
Well shit, that hits harder than I expect. I freeze, staring at Blair, searching her face for any hint of what she’s really feeling. Survivor’s guilt, sure, but is it truly regret?
I don’t think it is. I think she’s just scared to admit what she feels.
“So, what? You just never get to be happy again?” I grumble.
She scoffs a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Who said I was ever happy before?”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I just stare at her for a long moment, completely dumbfounded. Then when I open my mouth, everything just comes tumbling out.
“You can be,” I say, holding steady eye contact.
“I could make you happy, Blair. I really think I could if you’d stop pushing me away and give me a fucking chance.
Let me take you out on a real date, prove it to you.
And if that doesn’t change your mind, then fine, at least I tried.
But there’s something here and you know it. ”
Blair’s lashes flutter as she blinks back at me– and while I should be glad that she’s not immediately popping off with all the reasons we can’t do this, her silence is unnerving.
Then she laughs. It’s sharp and bitter, but a laugh, nonetheless.
“When would we even have time to go on a date?” she snorts, rolling her eyes. “We’re always working, Matty.”
“Then we’ll make time,” I say firmly.
We stare at one another for a long moment, my heart beating a riot in my chest.
“Okay,” she finally whispers, dipping her chin in a barely perceptible nod before dropping her gaze back to her computer screen.
My heart trips over its valves.
Did she actually just agree to go out with me?
We’re doing this kinda backwards since we already fucked, but shit, I’ll take it.
“For the record, I’m agreeing to a date, not to let you get in my pants again,” she murmurs absently. “Last night was an anomaly. I’ve never done that before.”
I hesitate, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Me neither,” I admit quietly. “Pretty epic first time though, right?”
Blair’s fingers still on her keyboard as she jerks her head up, dark eyes locking with mine. “What do you mean?”
I riase a brow, leaning forward slightly. “What do you mean?”
She straightens, her posture rigid and a flicker of confusion crossing her features. “That I’ve never done the whole random hookup thing.”
I lean back in my chair. “Neither have I,” I reply casually. “I wasn’t intentionally waiting or anything, I just never met the right–”
“Hold up,” Blair interrupts, throwing up her hands and staring at me like I just grew a second head. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That you’ve never…” she trails off with an adamant shake of her head, expression twisting with disbelief. “No, there’s no fucking way!”
I can’t fight the grin that spreads across my face as pride unfurls in my chest. “So guess I did alright, then?” I drawl.
“You’re fucking with me,” she scoffs.
I furrow my brow, tilting my head. “Why would I joke about that?”
Blair stares back at me, chest steadily rising and falling with her breathing as she studies my face for any hint of a lie. Then she exhales slowly, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. “Holy shit, you’re not kidding.”
“Nope,” I reply, still grinning like an idiot.
She tosses her laptop aside with a frustrated groan, flopping back onto her bed and throwing her arm over her eyes dramatically.
“What?” I laugh, shaking my head at her theatrics.
She scrubs her hands over her face, muttering, “Now I’m definitely going to hell.”