CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE BENNET #2
Today's public appearance is Santa Monica Pier and a hotel room that Blaire's schedule has been building toward all week — being seen having fun together, me showing her the sights, the whole performance.
When I agreed to the itinerary, I hadn't accounted for this past week. For the way things have shifted between us in the space of a few days and some text messages, I've been looking forward to more than I'd like to admit.
I spent most of last night staring at the ceiling, cycling through the same loop.
Wanting to go knock on her door after the Colt interview yesterday.
Then telling myself I was getting soft. Then getting angry at myself for getting soft.
Then, wondering if maybe, at eighteen, it was just two teenagers making terrible decisions at the behest of someone who had more control over both of them than either of them knew.
Then yelling fuck you, Blaire Alexander at my ceiling and starting the loop all over again.
It was a long night.
Now I'm standing outside her apartment door, and I am both excited and dreading the moment it opens. I’ve fucking missed her the past few days.
I've missed her this week. I haven't laid eyes on her in four days, and I feel like a junkie who's been counting down to my next fix, and I hate myself for it.
I hate her for her wench ways that make me feel anything outside of pure, uncomplicated hatred. I had a system. It was working.
She opens the door, and the air leaves my lungs and every other thought I had evaporates completely.
The only one that remains is kiss me.
Her hair is braided in two loose plaits that fall over her collarbone. She's in a white sundress that fits at the top and flows at the hips, and flats. I'd forgotten how short she actually is without the heels.
She's looking up at me like she's waiting for something.
And there are things I could say. That she looks beautiful.
That the way she did her makeup today makes her look exactly like the girl I loved in high school, like no time has passed at all.
That I couldn't stop thinking about her lips all fucking week.
Fuck you, Blaire Alexander.
I clear my throat, reach down and take her overnight bag. "Let's get this over with."
Her expression flickers.
"Good morning to you too," she says, and steps out into the hallway.
She walks ahead, and by the sheer force of her footsteps, I can tell I've already pissed her off.
Well. Welcome to the goddamn club, wench.
We step into the elevator, and she jabs an angry finger at the lobby button.
I watch the professional composure slipping in real time and feel the first thing resembling amusement I've had all morning, because feisty Blaire is considerably more interesting than composed Blaire, and I hate that I think so.
I press the garage button and recall the lobby. A feature I had specifically engineered into this building and am intensely proud of.
She stares at the panel. "Are we not going to the lobby?"
"We'll drive ourselves today."
She turns and looks up at me.
"Why?"
I hold her gaze for a beat. "Because I said so."
Her jaw tightens. She faces forward and folds her arms across her chest with a petulance that is so specific and so familiar, it makes me smirk.
The elevator descends.
I look straight ahead and say nothing. I feel her irritation radiating off her in waves and think that this is safer than last week — her annoyed and me difficult, and both of us exactly where we're supposed to be.
This, I know how to do.
We exit the elevator into the garage. "Which one is yours?" she asks, still walking ahead.
"All of them. We're taking the black convertible at the end."
A slight shake of her head, but she doesn't comment.
I started collecting cars when I made my first official million. It's frivolous, and I know it, but it's the only thing I've ever spent money on purely for myself without a practical justification attached.
I unlock the car and open her door, then drop both bags in the trunk. By the time I get around to the driver's side, she's already sitting with her legs crossed and her arms folded, looking out the windshield at the garage wall like she’s waiting for it to open.
"About a forty-five minute drive." I tell her as I settle into the driver’s seat.
She nods.
And I don't know why that bugs me. It shouldn't bug me.
Silence is preferable to conversation, and conversation is how I ended up hating her less than I should — how I ended up forgetting exactly who Blaire is to me and what she did and what I'm supposed to be recovering from.
She can sit there with her arms folded and her cute fucking braids and her sexy fucking flats and her stupid fucking silence and that is fine. That is ideal, actually.
I pull out of the garage.
She still hasn't said anything.
It bugs me.
Once we leave the garage, I pull into the closest gas station to fill up.
"Do you want anything from inside?" I ask.
She doesn't answer, just opens her door and walks past me into the store.
I follow behind, not looking at her ass, and work my way through the aisles grabbing drinks, chips, candy, a couple of things I can't justify nutritionally but intend to eat, anyway.
Mostly so I can eat my feelings on the drive without having to explain it.
I pile everything on the counter.
"God, what do you feed yourself?" She asks from beside me.
I look at her haul. Kombucha, a granola bar, a fruit cup, and a water.
"What do you feed yourself?"
"Things that aren't entirely composed of dye and sugar."
I give her a deadpan look. "Didn't you polish off an entire tiramisu this week single handedly?"
She looks at the pile. Looks at me. Reaches out and picks up a bag of gummy bears without a word and adds it to her side.
I look at her.
She looks at the cashier. "Together, please."
I pull out my card before she can, and she makes a sound of protest that I ignore completely.
We walk back out into the morning, and she tears the gummy bears open before we've reached the car.
"Don't say anything," she says.
"I wasn't going to."
She leans against the car while I fill the tank, eating her gummy bears and looking out at the street.
I find myself looking at her braids and thinking about the convertible and the forty-five minute drive, and before I've made a conscious decision about anything, I've clicked the automatic feed on the gas pump and walked over to her.
I pull the rubber band from the end of one plait.
Her eyes go wide. "What are you doing?" She slaps my hand.
I slap hers back. "Stop moving."
"You stop — give that back—"
"Hold still."
"Bennet—"
I unravel the second plait before she can intercept me, and her hair falls loose around her shoulders in soft waves. I run my hands through it and I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing at this point.
But I was right. I hate that I was right. It's going to be beautiful in the wind with the top down, and I have made a catastrophic error in judgment coming over here.
She's staring up at me with her mouth open and her hands raised mid-protest, frozen. I realize my hands are still in her hair, and I’ve been staring at her lips.
I step back.
"Top's going down for the drive." I say, a hitch in my voice. "It will feel nice with your hair down."
The gas pump clicks off.
I walk back around the car without looking at her again.