CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR BLAIRE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BLAIRE
Bennet comes out of his bathroom with no color left in his cheeks, and I didn't expect that. I don't know why I told him all of it — I just needed to voice it somewhere, and he was the closest vessel. I didn't think it would land on him the way it clearly has.
He walks to the chair across from the bed, sits with his elbows on his knees, and his head hangs between his shoulders.
"I'm sorry I upset you, Bennet."
"You didn't." He shakes his head without looking up. "Not in the way you think." His voice is gravelly. "Let's just call this weekend, and I’ll walk you back to your place. None of this other shit matters right now. We can take stock of everything next week."
I try to hide my disappointment, and then immediately wonder why I'm disappointed. I was oddly looking forward to this weekend. To him, maybe, if I'm being honest with myself, which I'm trying not to be.
"If that's what you want," I say, with the softest smile I can manage.
He finally looks up, his eyes red rimmed. "Do you want to stay here and hang out with me? I just figured that was a lot, and I'm probably the last person you want to be holed up with right now."
"I could use the distraction. And a stiff drink." I laugh, and it comes out more genuine than I expected. "But I understand if I dropped too much on you. It seems to be our running theme."
"How about we drink heavily and dump all of our baggage." Something shifts in his expression, lighter than anything I've seen on him since I arrived in Los Angeles. "We can leave it all this weekend and never look back."
He stands and crosses to the bed, holding out his hand.
I take it and he pulls me to my feet and then he's right there, close enough that I have to look up to find his face, and he reaches up and brushes my hair back from my forehead with the same unhurried care he used at the gas station this morning.
"You in?"
God, this man.
I nod.
He smiles — the real one, the one I've only seen a handful of times — and says "good" and then he's out the door without another word, leaving me standing in the middle of his apartment feeling dizzy from how close we were just standing.
From how much I wanted him to close the distance the rest of the way.
But he's being kind because I'm not okay, and I know the difference between kindness and wanting. I'll take what he's offering and be grateful for it.
Soon, Bennet Sullivan will go back to being the biggest pain in my ass.
I resist the urge to snoop and make my way to the living room instead.
His place is at least five times the size of my loft and breathtaking.
It’s clean and modern, and even has artwork on the walls.
The living room features an open-plan kitchen at the far end, which is enormous, complete with a huge island in the center.
The open-plan kitchen runs along the far wall, enormous, with a huge island anchoring the center and beautiful bronze barstools lined up beside it.
Past that, a sunken living room with a couch that could fit eight people comfortably, and a spiral staircase rising to the floor above.
I'm still taking it in when the door opens and Bennet shoulders through it with a bucket and a grin so wide it stops me mid-thought.
"They almost caught me." He upends the bucket onto the coffee table, and bottle after bottle of mini shots tumbles out — tequila, whiskey, gin, vodka, and a few things I can't immediately identify. A small, beautiful landslide of bad decisions.
I stare at the pile. Then at him, thoroughly pleased with himself, color back in his face like the last hour didn't happen.
"You stole these?"
"Liberated." He picks up a tiny tequila and holds it out. "There's a difference."
"You are a billionaire."
"Who moves fast." He shakes the bottle. "You in or not?"
I stare at him.
"I own the building, Blaire. I just went down to the bar and grabbed a few bottles." He laughs, pulling his shirt over his head and leaving on the tank underneath. "Let's get white boy wasted."
I can't help but grin. "White boy wasted. Wow." I look at him. "Who are you and what have you done with Bennet Sullivan?"
Something moves across his face — serious, just for a beat, his eyes dropping to the floor like I accidentally said something true — and then it's gone as quickly as it came and he's hopping onto the couch, grinning again like none of it happened.
"Dealer's choice." He holds a bottle up like a game show host. "Baggage story, embarrassing story, or sad story. We dump it all, leave it in the weekend, walk into Monday ten years lighter." He tilts his head at me. "What'll it be, my lady?"
I study his face for a moment, this version of him I didn't know existed until today. Then I take the bottle of tequila from his extended hand.
"Embarrassing story. Wait — do I have to match yours or do I choose next?"
"Match, then choose. Deal?"
I twist the cap. "Deal."
We clink the tiny bottles together and throw them back simultaneously.
The burn is immediate and deeply unpleasant.
"Ugh. That's fucking horrible."
"I never said it was the good stuff." He's already reaching for another one, completely unbothered. "Ladies first."
"Okay," I point at him. "You can’t laugh."
"No promises."
"Bennet."
"Fine. No laughing. Go."
"About five years ago, I flew to Sydney for a PR conference as keynote speaker.
" I grab another bottle and hold it for moral support without opening it.
"With delays and missed connections, I arrived with minutes to spare, ran to the restroom.
Rushed straight back out to the podium just as they were announcing me.
I put my bag down, took my coat off, and walked on stage.
My skirt was tucked into the back of my stockings the entire time I spoke.
The entire...time. Nobody came up to me afterward.
Not one person. Not my assistant, not the conference organizer, not a single soul in that room of four hundred people pulled me aside and said a word. "
His lips are pressed together so hard they've gone white. He's maintaining eye contact with concentrated effort. I narrow my eyes at him. He holds both hands up, making a sound that is almost a laugh, then converts it aggressively into a cough.
"You know how I found out?" I continue.
He doesn't risk opening his mouth. Just nods, eyes wide, holding it together by a thread.
"It was on the goddamn news when I got back to my hotel room."
He loses it completely.
The laugh that comes out of him fills the entire room. I grab a couch pillow and throw it at him; he catches it still laughing. "Four hundred people," he finally gets out.
"Four. Hundred."
He shakes his head, still grinning. "That's the most horrifying thing I've ever heard."
"Your turn." I open another bottle and hand it to him. "Match it."
"You've seen my file, take your pick." He considers for a moment.
"But I'd say having my ass and dick trending globally takes the cake.
I'm pretty sure I was roofied that night because I definitely didn't have all my faculties.
" He chugs his whiskey. "The amount of men sliding into my DMs afterward became genuinely comical. "
I haven't touched my shot. I'm a little lost somewhere I shouldn't be.
"Sorry." His smirk finds me. "I've embarrassed you. I don't think I've seen that particular shade of pink before."
"Don't flatter yourself." I wave him off and throw back my tequila in one go. "I was just thinking it could have been worse. At least you have a nice ass and dick."
What the hell, woman.
His eyes go wide. A slow, deeply satisfied smile spreads across his face, and I am fairly certain I definitely have invented a new shade of blush, because I can feel it from my chest to my hairline and there is nowhere in this apartment to go.
"I mean—" I start.
"No, no." he holds up a hand. "Let's sit with that."
"I was being objective—"
"Objectively."
"It was a clinical observation—"
"Clinical. About my nether regions."
"Don’t call it that."
“My manly pleasure garden.”
“That either.”
"The main attraction. The headline act. The emotional support equipment."
"Bennet."
"The executive branch. The undercarriage—"
"I will leave," I chuckle.
"You won't." He's grinning so wide it's almost blinding. My thighs clench involuntarily. I love this new banter. It's dangerous, but I love it anyway. "Your turn to choose. Baggage, embarrassing, or sad?"
"Baggage." I pick up another bottle. "And stop smiling like that."
He settles into a smirk and a wink, which is somehow so much worse than the grin.