Then yellingfuck you, Blaire Alexanderat 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 herfor herwench waysthat 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 iskiss 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.
