Wait For Me (The Sullivan Empire #1)

PROLOGUE – Ten Years Ago

"Michael, right?" I look up from my notebook, and I'm immediately blinded by the sun.

By the sun, I mean Blaire Alexander.

"Uh, yeah." I fumble my pen. It rolls off the table, and she's already leaning down to pick it up before I can process the sequence of events that led to Blaire Alexander crouching at my feet in the school library.

I can already feel the blush in my skin starting to betray me.

Yes, I am in love with Blaire Alexander. I have been since freshman year.

Yes, she is objectively, categorically, cosmically out of my league. These are established facts I've made my peace with.

"Here you go." She sets the pen on the table and smiles at me.

Good God, she’s smiling at me. Stay calm. STAY CALM.

And it’s not even the polished one she uses in the hallways, the reflexive, maintains-social-order smile she gives to teachers and underclassmen. She’s always smiling to cover up some kind of pain; I just wish I could be the one to take it away.

But this smile? This one actually reaches her eyes, and it’s directed at me.

Fuck, my heart is doing something medically concerning.

“I was wondering if you could help me study for the AP exams. They're closing in and I'm nowhere near ready."

I hear the words. I cannot process them.

Blaire Alexander is, by broad consensus and my own extensive observation, the most beautiful girl in this school.

Possibly in the greater Houston metropolitan area, though I don't have enough data points to confirm.

Long, dirty blond waves that look effortless and probably aren't. She has the kind of presence that reorganizes an entire room just by walking into it. Every guy in this school has noticed her, so I’m not special for noticing her, too.

What I am is six-five and a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.

All sharp angles and limbs that don't know what to do with themselves.

I trip over my own feet in the hallway. I've eaten lunch alone in the library three out of five days a week since I stepped foot in Lee High, and I've always been okay with that.

I was just never willing to change who I am just to fit somewhere I don't.

"The AP exams," I repeat.

Very smooth. Very natural progression of the conversation. No need to panic.

"Chemistry, especially." She pulls out the chair across from me and sits down like I've already said yes. "I've been staring at my notes for two weeks and none of it is sticking. Someone said you basically run the curve."

"Someone said that?"

I’m going to have to use more words.

"Is it not true?"

It's true. "It's — I mean. It's AP Chem. It's not exactly—"

She reaches across and lays her hand on my forearm. "Please, Michael?"

Alert.

A-fucking-LERT.

She’s touching me.

Her hand is on my skin.

"I, uh, yes. Of course." What was that sound? Was that me? I clear my throat. "When do you want to start?"

There’s that smile again; it’s even wider this time. "How about now?"

I nod, my mouth is so dry I can't get words out. Not that I was using them, anyway.

"Yay! Perfect!" She stands, comes around to my side of the table and hugs my neck, and I sit there like a very tall statue because my arms have apparently forgotten what they're for. "You're a lifesaver. I'm going to grab us coffees from the cart."

Thankful for a moment to process and remember how breathing works, I watch her bounce off toward the coffee cart at the other end of the library.

White jeans that hug every curve. Short red top. Ponytail dancing with every step.

I've watched Blaire Alexander from a careful distance for four years — peripheral, measured, the way you look at someone you know you can't have without making it obvious that you know.

Close enough to notice things. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's thinking.

The way she laughs differently depending on who she's with.

I open my notebook to a fresh page.

Then I close it.

Then I open it again.

She's coming back with two coffees and that smile. I am in so much trouble it's almost funny.

Almost.

***

April 2016

"That's what they meant," she says. "Why didn't the textbook just say that?"

"Because the textbook was written to make people feel stupid."

She points at me. "Yes. Exactly. Thank you." She writes something in the margin of her notes and I catch a glimpse — big looping letters, little stars dotted between lines like she can't help decorating everything she touches. "Can we do equilibrium next?"

"Sure." I pick up the textbook and open to the marked chapter. When I look up, Blaire is watching me with an expression I don't immediately know what to do with.

"What?" I swipe at my mouth. "Do I have something on my face?"

She starts to blush. The prettiest shade of pink I've ever seen on another person. "No. I was just thinking that you're handsome. I like your face."

"I like your collarbone," I say with a coy smile.

She rolls onto her back and laughs so hard her hands go to her stomach.

Over the past month, we've built something I don't really have a clean word for. Friendship is the closest one, and I hate it, but the reality is that she still belongs to Colt Monroe. At least that's what he likes to remind me of every time we pass each other in the hallway.

You have my permission to tutor my girl. But don't you fucking forget who she belongs to, Gumby.

A couple of weeks ago, we moved our sessions from the library to our houses.

Sometimes her bedroom, sometimes mine. Because of the way Blaire laughs, the librarian kept losing patience with us.

Being alone with her in our rooms has been its own particular brand of torture, but one I'd endure on a loop just to stay near her.

"I can't believe you remember that." She's still on her back, looking up at me over the top of her head. "What an odd thing to compliment a girl on."

"Well, it's true."

She grins at the ceiling. "Wanna take a break and watch a movie?"

I wake up three hours later, laying on Blaire’s bedroom floor, her head on my chest and her arm draped across my stomach.

The next morning, I received a message - Blaire: You have a snuggle buddy for life. Best nap ever. Also, you should never be allowed to pick for movie night again. Hope you have a reason to smile today.

***

May 2016

"Can I ask you a question?"

Blaire is in the bathroom washing off her makeup before we get started.

She seemed off all day — quieter than usual, distracted in a way she was trying to hide — and I haven't been able to put my finger on why.

Even now, she's never done this before a study session.

It feels less like a routine and more like she needs something to do with her hands.

"Sure."

"How did you get your scar? The one over your eyebrow and cheek."

Silence. Long enough that I start backpedaling immediately. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that. It's personal. I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's okay." She steps out, and my breath catches completely.

I've never seen Blaire without makeup before.

She's so fucking beautiful it almost hurts to look at directly.

She crosses the room and sits on the bed across from me, pulling her knees up. I'm leaning against her headboard with my notebook forgotten in my lap.

"It's not some grand story." She looks down at her hands. "Just a bike accident that ended with my face planting into a glass window." A pause. "I cover it because my mom tells me how beautiful I'd be if I hadn't ruined my face."

What a bitch.

"God, what a horrible thing to say." I set my notebook aside. "I'm so sorry, Blaire. I hope you know how beautiful you are. I've always thought so."

She worries her bottom lip. Her eyes turn soft and uncertain in a way I've never seen from her before.

I lean forward, closing the distance between us.

It probably looks like I'm about to kiss her, and god I wish I could.

Instead, I cup her jaw gently in my hand and bring my lips to the scar.

I kiss every inch of it, long and intentional, and then I kiss away the tears that have started to fall before she could stop them.

I pull back just enough to look at her, keeping my hand on her face.

"Fucking beautiful," I say. "Every single inch."

She holds my gaze for a beat. “You’re my reason to smile today.”