"Mikey." She breathes my name between kisses, her fingers sliding into my hair. She rolls her hips again, slower this time, and the friction is devastating. I am eighteen years old and I have wanted this girl since the ninth grade. I am absolutely not going to last.
"Blaire—" Her name comes out fractured.
"You feel so good." She kisses get more feverish. Deeper. She starts moving against me with a rhythm that makes my head fall back against the couch. Her breath catches as her body goes taut. I crash my mouth against hers, bucking up against her harder, losing myself completely.
“Oh, my god.” She moans against my lips, her hands gripping my hair so hard it’s nearly painful. But that’s all it takes to push me right over the edge. I bury my face in her neck and I come in my pants with her name in my mouth and my whole body shaking. She is still moving, slower now, and she makes a sound I feel more than hear, and for about ten seconds the world is perfect and warm and I am not nobody. I am the guy that Blaire Alexander wanted.
Ten seconds.
Then the lights come on.
The fluorescent overheads flood the pool house with white light, and I blink against it, disoriented. The first thing I register is the faces. A wall of them. Several cheerleaders and damn near half of the football team. And there is Colt Monroe, front and center, with his arms crossed and a smug smile. Someone is laughing, someone else has a phone up with the flash on recording, and I hear the wordbetbefore I understand what's happening.
I look at Blaire. She's still on my lap, her eyes fresh with unshed tears.
Colt is already talking. "Told you she could do it. Pay up."
The laughter is getting louder, and I feel the wet fabric against my skin, and I understand, all at once, every single thing.
It was all a joke. The past three months. Her acting like she liked me. Being her boyfriend. Every study session, every coffee, every text, every movie on her bedroom floor. An elaborate senior prank at my expense, and I walked into it with my whole chest, like the naïve, lovesick idiot I apparently am.
I take a deep breath and stand up. She slides off me and immediately makes her way over to Colt. Because of course, they are still together. How stupid was I.
The guys start pointing at the wet spot on my tan cargo pants as the laughter doubles. I stand there in the middle of it and let it wash over me because there's nothing else to do.
Colt pulls Blaire into a deep kiss, grabbing a handful of her ass under her skirt. His eyes never leave mine.
I don't tell them all to fuck off. I don't say a single word.
I just walk out the door into the thunderstorm pouring overhead and start the long walk home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BLAIRE
Twenty minutes. It took twenty minutes for Bennet Sullivan to bring me to tears. I'm so much better than this — I've sat across from people three times as difficult and walked out without a scratch. But on the heels of everything life related right now, I am apparently not as armored up as I thought I was.
When he called me a vulture, it landed exactly where he aimed it.
What I can't make sense of is the vitriol underneath it. It doesn't feel like a man who resents being managed, which I've seen before and know how to handle. It feels personal. Targeted in a way that has nothing to do with PR strategy or board directives or the Meridian deal. Like I walked into that room already owing him something I don't know about.
I was grateful when Mark asked for a moment because the last thing I needed, on top of everything he implied in that conference room, was to start crying in front of a client.
I don't cry in front of clients.
I don't cry in front of anyone if I can help it. Ten years of marriage to Colt Monroe will teach you that crying in front of people gives them something to use.
I find a quiet stretch of corridor, set my back against the wall, and give myself exactly sixty seconds.
Then I put my face back together and wait.
When the conference room door opens, Bennet walks out with a blank expression and moves in the opposite direction without seeming to notice me. One of the board members follows close behind him. Mark, I think.
I give it a moment, then peek my head back into the room.
"Mrs. Monroe, please take your seat." Frank is already standing, gesturing toward my chair.
"Thank you."
