48 | The Hamptons, Part 2

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Blair Bakhtiar wasn't one for apologies. Coming from her they were half-assed, insincere, and only given through coercion. But tonight, that hadn't been the case. For once in her life her apology had been one hundred percent genuine, and she had given it to the last person she ever thought she would.

And, dare she say, it had actually felt... good.

Maybe asking for forgiveness, even if it wasn't going to be given, was the way to go. Not that she ever planned to do it again or anything.

Blair let her eyes slide shut as she reclined on the couch, delightfully warm from the whiskey and conversation. She could hear the boys being rowdy in the front hall, a sound she found oddly soothing, and for a moment she was back in time—back when she and her boys were the best of friends, and she couldn't imagine a moment when they'd ever be apart.

But nothing lasted forever.

It wasn't the thought that made her crack open an eye, but the sound of footsteps drawing closer. She could still hear Jacob and Marcus horsing around, and even Jude's maniacal laughter at what was happening, but two voices seemed to be missing from all the commotion.

At first she didn't see him standing there, but when she was finally able to focus on the doorway, Blair allowed herself a small smile, glad it was this one of the missing two boys.

He took a slow step into the room, taking care to close the door behind him, drowning out the noise from the rest of the house. Suddenly, it was very quiet.

"Blair."

"Michael," she purred, lifting her arms above her head in a languid stretch, and she could feel his eyes trace the lines of her stomach as her shirt inched upwards.

You may hate me, but you can't resist me.

His hazel gaze was tinged with amusement. "You're drunk."

She attempted to sit up, but found it far harder than she anticipated. Her head was spinning by the time the feet hit the floor, a giggle bubbling up from her throat. "It would appear I am."

"Good. I've always liked you better that way."

She rolled her eyes and got to her feet, planning to head to the wet-bar for a glass of water. The last thing she wanted was to be hungover and miserable in the morning, especially around people who were bound to judge her every move.

"Yeah," she tossed over her shoulder as she grabbed her glass, which still had a corner of whiskey in it, "I always liked you better when I was drunk, too."

The sound of his chuckle had an unfamiliar sensation rolling down her spine, and if she wasn't discerning she would have thought that feeling might have been lust. But that couldn't have been it. She hadn't felt anything like that for Michael since—

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