CHAPTER NINETEEN
BLAIRE
"Dracu. Bennet fucking Sullivan."
The voice arrives before the man does, and the man is enormous — a chef's jacket straining across shoulders that belong on someone who lifts cars for sport, the name Monroe embroidered across the chest, and an expression suggesting he's deciding between a greeting and a felony.
"What the hell are you doing in my restaurant, you son of a bitch? "
My eyes go wide. My napkin is suddenly in both hands, gripped like a weapon.
Bennet is already on his feet. "Couldn't tell you, Samson. The food here is shit. When are you going to hire a real chef?"
Samson makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl, and then simply bends down, wraps both arms around Bennet, and lifts him clean off the ground in a bear hug that could restructure vertebrae.
"Fucking hell, put me down, you bastard—"
But Bennet is laughing.
I stop breathing for a second.
Bennet Sullivan is laughing, and it transforms his entire face into a boyish charm I wasn't prepared for.
Samson sets him back on his feet and claps both hands on his shoulders and pulls him in properly, the way men hug when they mean it.
"It's good to see you, mate." He releases him and turns to me, and the shift in his expression is immediate — from gleeful menace to considerably more charming.
"I'm sorry if I frightened you." He has an accent I can't fully place, something Eastern European beneath the British cadence. "You should really evaluate the company you keep." He winks and extends a hand the size of a dinner plate. "Samson Monroe."
I take it. "Blaire Monroe." I pause. "No relation."
He stares at me for a beat and then lets out a laugh so big it turns heads at the surrounding tables.
"No relation. Bennet, I like her already.
" He pulls out the empty chair at our table and drops into it like he's been invited, which apparently he has because Bennet sits back down without comment.
"What are you drinking, Blaire Monroe, no relation? Whatever it is, it's not enough."
"Something strong," I say. "Please."
"Finally, an honest woman." He signals a server with two fingers. "You're in good hands."
I look across the table at Bennet, who is leaning back in his chair watching us with the most relaxed expression I've seen on him since the moment I walked into his building. It does things to my insides that I've been trying to manage all day.
I avoided him after this morning. I had no real reason to be in the Sullivan offices after the board meeting was canceled, so I went back to my apartment and had some quality time with the shower head.
By the time evening rolled around, I was a nervous wreck; the morning replaying on a loop in my head, wondering if it was doing the same in his.
When I opened the door after he knocked, I had to take a quiet second to collect myself.
He was wearing a black Henley, sleeves pushed to the elbow showing off his ink, hair fully up in a bun that should not work as well as it does on a man his size.
A simple necklace sat against his collarbone, two rings on his right hand, dressy black jeans and boots that managed to look effortless and purposeful at the same time.
I stood in my doorway for a minute longer than was strictly necessary before I remembered I was supposed to be functioning.
Everything about this man was designed to make vaginas weep.
Mine included.
"Mrs. Monroe." He said with a smirk, hands in his pockets.
"Mr. Sullivan." I couldn't stop the blush. "Pleasure to see you again."
The ride was quiet, but not with our usual angry tension. His eyes kept grazing my thighs — I'd chosen a burgundy shorts suit, the shorts leaving very little to the imagination, paired with a matching jacket, a white low-cut blouse and stilettos that make my calves look magnificent.
My legs were crossed, giving him a full thigh view, and I could tell he was struggling with it, which I told myself was purely strategic and not at all because I'd learned absolutely nothing.
Now, here we are.
"How is Lauren and the kids?" Bennet asks.
"You're still a rude son of a bitch," Samson scolds, but there's no heat in it.
He turns back to me like he's decided I'm the more interesting conversationalist at the table.
"Bennet and I grew up together. Lost touch for a while around high school when I moved this way with my family, then reconnected when he partnered with my father-in-law to design this very building.
" He spreads his hands. "This guy is one of the smartest men I've ever met. Annoyingly so."
"That's lovely to hear." I reach for my wine glass and keep my voice light, casual, like I'm just making conversation and not registering every word. "So, you both grew up here in LA?"
"No, we were in—"
"Don't you have a kitchen to run, Monroe?" Bennet cuts in. He's looking at Samson with an expression that is warm on the surface and has a very specific message underneath it. "You're ruining my date with this beautiful woman of mine."
"Dracu. Of course." He stands, spreading his hands in mock apology. "Forgive me. I'll come back to check on you both before dessert." He leans down and punches Bennet in the arm — not a tap, a genuine punch, the kind that carries the weight of years of friendship and absolutely no restraint.
Bennet's face scrunches.
Samson walks away toward the kitchen, looking profoundly satisfied with himself.
"Motherfucker," Bennet says under his breath, pressing his fingers to the spot with a wince.
Whatever Samson was about to say, Bennet shut it down on purpose.
I pick up my wine and say nothing. I just file it — the way he shut that sentence down, the specific look he gave Samson, the name of the city that almost came out — into the growing stack of things about Bennet Sullivan that don't add up and that I intend to find the bottom of, eventually.
"He seems to love you," I say.
"Yeah,” he nods, “he and his family are great people."
I set my glass down. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah." He takes a sip of wine. "What is it?"
"Are we passed the whole' I don't want to know about you and you don't need to know about me thing?" I use what I now realize is a voice that sounds like a mock Batman, low and graveled, which was not intentional, but I'm committing to it.
He devilishly smirks. “Was that supposed to be me?”
I chuckle. “It was a pretty good impression, if I do say so myself.” I mockingly brush off my shoulders.
"It absolutely wasn't." He laughs — god, I hate how much I love that sound. "But to answer your question. I'm trying to be over it."
"Is it the PR thing? Or have I somehow genuinely offended you? Because I don't understand what got us so angry with each other in the first place."
He stares at me with an unreadable expression, though the muscle ticking in his cheek gives me a reasonable idea of how he feels about that particular question.
"Let's just move forward from here," he says.
Okay. That's not an answer. There is clearly something he doesn't want to say, and just as clearly he has no intention of saying it tonight.
I pick up the menu.
"Forward it is," I say.
***
"Do you have any kids?" Bennet asks.
Dinner has been spent mostly in comfortable silence, though tension was still present humming underneath. The incredible food just made it easy.
Bennet ordered a tasting menu, and they've been bringing small plates to the table all evening, each one explained by a server who clearly loves talking about it.
Between the food and the live music drifting over from the stage, it's just been a genuinely good night.
We even positioned ourselves strategically near the window and caught a couple of clean shots from outside without making it look intentional.
We're nearly through our second bottle of wine, and Bennet has loosened into a more talkative mood; the careful distance of earlier in the evening wearing down into more comfort.
I shake my head. "No. You?"
"No." He looks conflicted. "Never settled down enough for it. Why don't you?"
My heart twists in my chest, and I feel tears threatening. Which was absolutely ridiculous. It’s been five years.
I took a deep breath and let it out in a big sigh. "I had a miscarriage. Five years ago." I pause. Run a hand through my hair. "I guess I should stop calling it that now that I'm no longer bound to that version of the story."
I finish my wine in one long swallow, and when I lower the glass, Bennet is watching me with an intensity that hasn't been there before tonight.
"What happened?" he asks. "The real version."
I shake my head slowly. "Colt Monroe happened.
After his career ended, the drinking got bad, and the violence got worse.
One night we had friends over and I made a joke — something stupid, reading TikTok comments about one of the other players being attractive.
Colt laughed it off in front of everyone. At first, anyway."
My voice wobbles on the last sentence, and I school it back in because I refuse to cry in this restaurant in front of this man.
"He started taking shots. Told everyone to go home.
Then it was just us, and he started with the name calling and yelling.
I was tired that night; I was just so fucking tired, and I yelled back.
" I smooth the napkin across my lap. "Things escalated.
He hit me. Then again. Then again." I stop.
Make myself say the next part. "He kicked me.
Seven times in the stomach. Made me count each one out loud.
If I miscounted or went quiet, he'd start the count over.
Seven times because that's how many times his friends laughed at my joke. "
I pause and take a breath.
"I was four months pregnant." I look up and meet his eyes. "I can't have children anymore."
Bennet is completely motionless across the table. His expression is thunderous, face flushed, jaw clenched tight, eyes hard and flashing with a fury that looks almost personal in its intensity.
"He's still in Houston," Bennet says finally. His voice is eerily quiet.
"Yes."
"This is the first time you've told anyone the actual story?"
"Yes."
His adam's apple bobs as he nods slowly.
"Thank you for honoring me with your truth.
" He tilts his head and studies me for a moment.
"You're a very strong woman, Blaire. I imagine coming from an environment like that could make you feel the opposite sometimes.
" He looks down at his hands folded on the table.
"Don't let anyone take that strength away from you. "
"That's really sweet of you to say, Bennet.
Thank you." I turn my wine glass slowly in my fingers.
"You're right, and I do try to remind myself of that.
Take stock of who I've become versus who I was.
I did some horrific things in his name. Things I'll have to atone for one day.
I'm just trying to be better than the person I was for him. "
His mouth falls open like he wants to pull that thread, dig into exactly what I mean by that, and I watch him compose himself in real time.
"Excuse me for a moment." He sets his napkin on the table and stands. "Just going to run to the men's room." The telltale muscle flexes along his jawline.
I reach for my wine.
There is so much about this man that doesn't add up and tonight has somehow made the pile larger rather than smaller.