There is a sting behind my eyes that I'm working really fucking hard to contain before it spills over into something I refuse to give her. She gets nothing from me. Not my tears, not my business, not another single thing she hasn't already taken.
The door opens, and I know it's Jackson before he even rounds the corner. Marcus Jackson has worn a lot of titles over the course of our friendship — best friend, personal trainer, CFO, certified pain in my ass. He was the first real friendship I built when I got to Los Angeles, which says something about both of us.
He leans his back against the wall with his arms folded. "What the hell was that, Sullivan?" He catches my eye in the mirror. "I get not wanting to be managed, but holy fuck, man. Could you have been more of a dick?"
I hang my head between my shoulders.
"I know her. From high school." I keep my eyes on the drain. "She doesn't recognize me. I can't work with her, Jackson."
He's a couple of inches shorter than me, clean shaven, one of those blond haired, blue eyed fuck boys that women fall over themselves for. But he can be intimidating as hell, even with fifty easy pounds between us.
"I hate to say this." He pushes off the wall and puts a hand on my shoulder. "But I'm going to say it anyway because that's literally my job. You've got hurt feelings from shit that happened a decade ago, and I understand that. But if you don't put your big boy panties on and deal with this, you're going to lose Meridian." His grip tightens. "She's the best. Her firm is the best. You don't have to like her. You have to let her work." He meets my eyes in the mirror. "Your anger or your career, man. That's the only choice on the table right now."
With that, he pats my shoulder a couple of times and walks out.
And the tears I've been desperately trying to manage start to fall.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BENNET
Ten Years Ago
"Are you sure nobody saw us come in here?"
I ask it with barely contained eagerness while Blaire writhes on my lap, and even as the words leave my mouth, I don't actually care about the answer.
Last week she invited me to this party as her boyfriend, and we made it official by kissing in the middle of the hallway against my locker. Blaire Alexander is my girlfriend. I've said it to myself approximately four hundred times since she said yes, and it still doesn't feel entirely real. I keep waiting to wake up, or for someone to tell me there's been a mistake, or for the universe to correct whatever glitch in its programming led to this specific outcome.
The universe has not corrected anything.
Blaire's here. On my lap. In the poolhouse. My girlfriend.
Holy shit.
"I'm sure, Mikey."
Fuck, I love that nickname. She started calling me that a couple of months ago, and I've never loved anything more than hearing it come from her lips specifically. It sounds different when she says it. Like it belongs to her.
She kisses my neck, just below my jaw, and her hips roll against mine in a slow, deliberate grind. She has to feel how hardI am. There's no hiding it. My whole body is a live wire, and she is the current running through it.
I swallow hard.
My hands are on her waist — have been since she pulled me in here, since she closed the door behind us and the noise of the party dropped to a muffled thrum. My thumbs press against the strip of bare skin between her skirt and her top, and I am trying very hard not to think about the fact that this is the most I have ever touched another person in my life. That every single point of contact between us right now is uncharted territory, and my nervous system is fully aware of that.
"Good," I manage. My voice comes out lower than I expected.
She pulls back just far enough to look at me. Even in the dark I can make out the line of her smile, the glint in her eyes. Her hair is braided down the middle, both plaits falling over her shoulders. I reach up and slowly unravel them, one by one, while she watches me do it. I run my hand through her hair and it's silky and warm and falls through my fingers like sand.
"You're so beautiful, Blaire."
Her brows crease. When she kisses me again, I stop thinking entirely.
She tastes like whatever fruity drink she was holding when she found me near the back fence five minutes ago and said,there you arelike she'd been looking. Her mouth moves against mine with a confidence I try to match and mostly do, and when her tongue brushes mine, my hands tighten on her waist without permission.
She makes a small sound against my lips.
Something about that sound dismantles me from the inside completely.
