“Sure you’re not.” His eyes are locked on mine.
Then he turns and is the first to leave.Again.
I blink. My mouth opens. Closes.
“I… I…” I stammer, trying to piece together a comeback. Anything. But it’s too late. He’s gone. And I’m still standing there like an idiot, trying to remember how to breathe.
I’m usually quick with comebacks.
But apparently not when it comes to him.
I hate that he had the last word.
Worse, I hate that he knew he would.
That smug, cocky, insufferable smirk of his is probably tattooed behind my eyelids now.
God, I need a drink. Or a lobotomy. Or both.
I clutch my phone like it personally betrayed me and spin on my heel, muttering under my breath, “Men like that should come with a warning label.”
Hours later, I’m lying in bed, replaying what happened with Calvin. I hate that he has the power to confuse me so much. That he can somehow dictate my mood with a single look. What does that say about me? I bury my face into the pillow, trying to erase all those images from my head. I’m so ashamed I can barely handle it.
I squeal when I hear a knock on the door and jump off the bed. In my haste, I trip over the clothes and shoes scatteredon the floor, falling hard. “Fuck.” Could my life get any worse? Probably not…
“Are you alright?” Calvin’s concerned voice comes from the other side of the door. I hesitate to answer, still on my hands and knees, the wind knocked out of me. Apparently, lifecanget worse, because this is the last thing I want right now. A part of me wants to pretend I didn’t hear him, or that perhaps I’m not even in the room. Surely he’ll leave me alone.
I stay still, holding my breath.
“Blair?” he calls out, but I remain silent. “I’ll have to kick down the door to make sure you’re okay if you don’t answer in five… four… three…” he threatens with a touch of drama. I roll my eyes. A part of me wants to push him to see if he’ll actually break down his expensive door. “Two…” comes out sounding like a warning. Reluctantly, I answer, making sure my annoyance is palpable in my tone.
“I’m fine!”
Now, it’s him who hesitates for a moment. “Are you ready for dinner?” I almost forgot.
“Uh, yeah, but don’t worry. I’ll take an Uber; I know my way around Boston. I grew up here,” I reply, not wanting to be alone with this man any more than I need to.
There’s a brief silence and then I hear footsteps retreating. Breathing a sigh of relief, I get dressed in a soft pink and white, fitted, sleeveless, spaghetti-strap dress. I do my makeup and call for an Uber. As soon as I receive the notification that my ride has arrived, I head downstairs, then stop in my tracks when I see Calvin casually standing by the elevator waiting for me.
“For such a tiny person, you sure take a long time to get ready,” he remarks, his voice laced with that effortless arrogance he wears like a tailored suit.
He’s not wrong. Even with my height of 5’6, he towers over me, but I don’t dignify the comment with a response. I just stare.
This is a dangerous game he’s playing. Every comment, every glance, every step closer, it’s… wrong. It’s as if he knows exactly which buttons to push to get under my skin.
And it’s working.
I hate that it’s working.
I want him to leave me alone so I can bury this ridiculous crush six feet deep. It’s childish, wrong, inconvenient in all the ways that matter. And yet, the more I try to snuff it out, the more it flares. It’s like he’s lit a match and left it burning in my chest just to watch me squirm. I keep my eyes on his, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I have an Uber waiting for me, so I should…” I start, attempting to sidestep him, but he steps directly in my path, blocking my way.
“If I let you go in an Uber, I won’t be able to live with myself. Please, allow me this,” he pleads, charm dripping from every word.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
