Too Hard: Chapter 11

I CAN’T SHAKE SUNDAY OUT OF MY HEAD.

Almost a week of replaying the look that crossed Blair’s pretty face when I pinned her against the wall. The surprise and twinge of arousal in her deep blue eyes. The softness of her skin. How fucking sad she was and how quickly that sadness melted away under my touch.

And damn… she looked so fucking good in my hoodie. So damn sexy with her makeup smudged, hair disheveled, big eyes bright.

I shake off that thought. Girls always look super hot in their boyfriend’s clothes. Nothing extraordi—

A sudden onset of migraine splits my head in two. Boyfriend? Fuck. That’s not how I meant it. She just looked good in my hoodie. End of story. Period. Comma. What-fucking-ever.

The black, soft fabric swished around her thighs, hiding enough skin it could pass for a dress. A far more modest dress than the one she had on underneath… yes. Good thinking. That’s why I couldn’t stand the thought of Blair stripping off my hoodie. Because I’m a gentleman and didn’t want her flashing her firm butt at Brandon.

God, I’m so full of shit.

I know I’m toeing a line I cannot cross. I imagine things that should never enter my mind, but the more I fight the visuals, the more frequent they become. All because of that night when she came over to help with River. I saw a different side to Blair that night, and got a few more glimpses during the graduation party.

The uncertainty as she watched me, realizing my watch was in her small hand. The gratitude when instead of pouring her a full shot, I poured half.

I can’t stop thinking about how she felt, curled in my arms, when I carried her out of Brandon’s house. How my temper raged out of control knowing Alan had her alone in the closet.

Someone’s hands on her body shouldn’t bother me, but the mere idea of anyone touching her has me running around in fucking circles.

Sweat trickles down my temples, stinging my eyes as I sprint up the stairs, heart galloping in my chest. Every muscle in my body screams in agony, protesting the grueling day of construction work. Last summer’s gig under Logan’s watchful eye was a cakewalk compared to what I got myself into now.

I thought managing a team would be easier since I’d have hands on deck for heavy lifting while I delegate tasks.

Yeah… it doesn’t work like that.

Ninety percent of my team are newbies, clueless greenhorns with no idea what they’re doing. Logan insists on making me work my way up the ladder, just like he did.

And I get it.

I’ve had enough handed to me on a silver platter, and my career is something I want to earn. But I never anticipated how challenging it’d be to train my team while trying to manage everything else.

I have skilled workers specializing in plastering, tiling, and bricklaying, but they’re not there to handle the grunt work. That’s the young guys’ job and most of them are either college dropouts or fresh out of high school.

As they grapple with the ins and outs of construction work, I hold their hands at every turn. I work my ass off, teaching as I go. Three months of hard work with Logan and three years of construction management classes in college are finally paying off.

I may be young but I can teach these guys a thing or two.

Once they get the hang of things, it’ll get easier. But for now, I’m drenched in sweat, covered in dirt, and every inch of my body aches. A bath and a few cold beers have been calling my name for three hours now.

With that goal in mind, I climb the last flight of stairs to my condo. As soon as I emerge in the corridor, I stride with purpose, key in hand.

And I’m gritting my teeth, pushing down the sudden prickle of annoyance.

There she is again, like a bad smell that won’t dissipate. The queen of all things wicked, standing in the way of my peace of mind. I constantly remind myself that I hate her.

I do. I really do, but I’m also dying to touch her again.

Dying to see how she’d react.

That’s wrong for so many different reasons.

We’ve exchanged a few casual heys in passing since the party, but nothing more than that. Any interaction beyond hey would be a mistake.

Still, I wait for her to acknowledge me. An unyielding tightness grips my throat, irritation mounting.

I’m losing sight of what’s right. I shouldn’t even talk to her, so why does the lack of that fucking hey drive me up the wall?

Why isn’t she saying it? Have I done something to annoy her? is she pissed off? Does she expect me to take the lead?

I can’t decipher her thoughts, and the uncertainty gnaws like a woodworm on the papermill of my mind.

I won’t say hey first. No way.

I fucking won’t.

We’re not friends. We’re not even friendly. I hate her.

With that little reminder, I open my condo just as Blair’s keys jingle to the ground. Turning to close the door, I find her kneeling on the carpeted floor, shoulders sagged, a tiny shudder shaking her frame.

My own shoulders square back, tension knotting my guts.

I think she’s—

A whimper slips from her lips, confirming what I already know. The thought of tears streaming down her face sets my nerves on edge. Her nails are white as she grips the keys, trying not to drop them again, fighting to keep herself composed, her hands trembling.

An icy shudder sweeps across my skin: goosebumps. My eyes narrow, lips fall apart, but… words don’t come. What the hell would I say?

Are you okay?

She’s clearly not, and I don’t give a fuck why. I really don’t. Honest to God. I don’t.

If that were true, though, I wouldn’t still be here, hand on the handle, door ajar.

She finally finds the right key and gathers herself off the floor. The red dress she wears is as inappropriate as Blair herself. Combing her long dark-brown, almost auburn hair behind her ears, she inhales deeply, pushing the key into the lock, her movements slow and deliberate.

“Show’s over,” she half whispers, half chokes, and the defeat coating her words ices my blood. “Goodnight.”

Without a backward glance, she disappears inside and slams the door shut, the bang knocking me out of my trance. I shut my own door, ignoring a twinge of guilt.

Maybe I should’ve said something. Maybe I should’ve asked if she needed help.

Or maybe you should see a shrink.

Maybe I should. Looks like I’m losing the plot here.

Let her cry. She deserves whatever caused her tears.

I fucking hate that girl.

Tossing my keys into a ball on the narrow side table—something I’ve copied from Nico’s house—I shimmy out of my jacket, hanging it in the coat closet.

The temperature outside hit eighty degrees today, so not jacket-wearing weather, but the early morning rain had me jogging back to grab one as I headed to the site.

I’m not usually one to take a bath, but my muscles burn so badly a quick soak will do me good. I grab a beer, set up my laptop for the Formula One pre-practice show, and get into a tub full of hot water.

Too bad that not even the bliss of cold beer sliding down my throat as my muscles relax can stop my mind drifting to Blair’s tearful voice.