"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 islandin 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?"
