Playing With Trouble

by Chanel Cleeton

  The door swung open to reveal Gray’s smiling face. “Hey.”

  Gah. His voice would never get old.

  I lifted the bags in my hands. “I brought Christmas.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I brought Christmas,” I repeated, unable to keep the silly grin off of my face. It had only been two weeks since we’d started . . . whatever it was that we were doing that involved lots of sex and holing up in his apartment, ignoring the rest of the world. I couldn’t call it dating since we hadn’t actually gone out on a date yet, but since I was in love with him, it also felt like a lot more than just sex.

  He stepped back and I crossed over the threshold, the heat hitting me full blast. He took the bags out of my hands, leading me toward the kitchen.

  He set the bags on the countertop, and his arm hooked around my waist, pulling me into the curve of his body. I wrapped my arms around his neck, lifting my lips to meet his, leaving a kiss there. He kissed me back, his mouth waging a soft war upon mine. Our legs brushed against each other, my palms stroking the muscles beneath his T-shirt.

  He pulled back. “I missed you.”

  Gah.

  I’d spent last night having a girls’ night with Jackie and Kate, and it had been the first night since we’d slept together that we’d been apart. It probably wasn’t a good sign that I’d missed him, but I totally had.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I whispered.

  He kissed the top of my nose. “So what does ‘bringing Christmas’ entail, exactly?” he murmured, his lips brushing against my skin.

  I grinned. “First off, cookies. And then Christmas movies. And, if you’re really lucky, I might have also purchased some hot cocoa complete with mini-marshmallows.”

  He laughed. “Sounds perfect.”

  I began pulling groceries out of the bags.

  “So does this mean you’re baking cookies from scratch?”

  I nodded.

  “What kinds are you making?”

  “Snickerdoodles. Press butter cookies. Maybe gingerbread cookies.”

  He leaned over and kissed my neck, pulling me into his arms again. I didn’t know what I’d expected from him, but his affectionate side was seriously surprising. He was sweet. And even though we hadn’t talked about it—and I wasn’t sure I was ready to talk about it—I knew this was more than sex for him. Judging by the way he looked at me, it was a lot more than sex.

  And considering I’d realized I was in love with him a while ago, it was a pretty good thing. A really good thing.

  “You’re amazing,” he mumbled against my skin, his voice thick.

  My heart tumbled over in my chest. Twice.

  “Save it until after you’ve eaten my cookies,” I teased.

  He flashed me a devilish smile. “Oh, I know all about your cookies.”

  I laughed. “Did you just make a dirty joke?”

  He winked as he released me, moved over to the bar, and sat on one of the stools.

  “So how was girls’ night?”

  I started gathering supplies out of the bags. “It was good. Jackie asked me and Kate to be bridesmaids in her wedding.”

  I hadn’t expected it, but the moment she’d asked, it had felt right.

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah, it really is. I know we’ve only known each other a short time, but I love her. She’s really fun and smart. Loyal. She’s the best thing to come out of all of this shit with my dad.”

  “How was it with Kate?”

  I’d told him everything about Kate, so he knew things were kind of weird between us.

  “Okay, I guess. It’s not like it used to be. Not even close. There’s this wall between us, but I don’t know what to do about it because it’s the same wall Kate has with everyone, and it doesn’t look like it’s coming down anytime soon.”

  “Have you tried talking to her?”

  “Kind of. Not really.” I didn’t know how to explain it. “I’m not someone who does well in awkward situations.”

  He didn’t speak, just stared at me, gesturing for me to continue.

  “I hate confrontation. Like am pathologically allergic to it. I’ve tried to broach the subject with Kate a few times over the years, but she shuts that shit down immediately.”

  “And you don’t push.”

  “Not at all.”

  He was quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowed.

  I stared down at the recipe book, trying to focus on making snickerdoodles and not my social dysfunction.

  “You pushed with me.”

  I stilled. He was right. I totally had. Hell, I’d basically thrown myself at him.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “So why can you do it with me and not with the rest of the people in your life?”

  I had no freaking clue.

  “I don’t know. Is this one of those situations where you really know and are just asking me these questions so that I’ll figure it out myself?” I asked, my tone wry.

  He laughed. “Sorry, but no. I can barely get my own shit together, much less psychoanalyze someone else.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I started gathering the dry ingredients together, getting ready to sift the flour, my mind racing, his question eclipsing baked goods.

  “I don’t think I want to rock the boat,” I admitted.

  The corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile. “I sort of figured that out. The question is, why?”

  Because good girls—ladies—didn’t rock the boat according to my mother. They also didn’t drink beer, curse, wear white after Labor Day—not even winter white—didn’t run out on their weddings, or own vibrators that they kept in their nightstands.

  Because my whole entire life I’d been told I had to act a certain way, present a certain image to the world, because I was a Reynolds and my father was someone important, and I had centuries of history to preserve. Because he might run for president someday, and we always had to be the best version of ourselves we could be. Because Kate had cornered the market on rebellious at an early age; because there were cracks in my family that had always been there, the kind of cracks that came with a marriage built on the consolidation of wealth and power and little to do with love. Because it was easier to be a peacemaker and go along with what was expected of me than to fight who they wanted me to be.

  Because I was scared. Because it was easy.

  “It’s who I am,” I answered. “It’s who I’ve always been. I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I blinked. My mother would hate Gray. Absolutely, positively, hate him.

  He said exactly what he thought. I thought everything, and said nothing.

  Maybe it was time to take a page out of his book. Maybe it was time to change that.

  Gray

  The girl she described and the girl she showed me couldn’t have been further apart. She hid behind this facade that wasn’t her at all, and I didn’t understand why.

  “Why are you scared to let people see the real you? Why are you scared to be that girl when it’s so obvious that she’s inside you, screaming to get out?”

  “I don’t know.” Blair took a deep breath. “I just . . .”

  It was strange to see her at a loss, searching for words that didn’t come. I knew she was younger than me, knew she had her own shit she dealt with, but I was so used to the girl who stunned me, the girl who always seemed to know exactly what to do and say, that it rocked me to watch her flounder.

  I got up and came around the counter, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her against my body until her head fit under my chin, her cheek against my heart. I held her there, waiting to give her whatever she needed to make this okay.

  Her body relaxed in my arms, the tension sliding out with each moment that passed, until she sagged against me. Only then did I release her, my hand tipping her chin up until our gazes locked and she gave me the rest as it came to her, filling in the remaining pieces.
r />   “I feel like people have this expectation of who I am, of who I should be, and I’m worried I’ll disappoint them. I’m the eldest, so my parents were stricter with me than Kate. My mother immediately made me her pet project—she used to dress me in these ruffled dresses with giant bows in my hair. She was constantly drilling me on how to eat, how to walk. We’d have these family brunches where they’d take us to fancy restaurants and she’d critique our manners. When I was like six.

  “It wasn’t bad. I don’t want to do the whole ‘poor little rich girl’ thing. I had an amazing childhood filled with opportunities most people never get. But I can’t deny that at the same time, it made me who I am. The kind of person who lives her life under a microscope. Who plays a role in campaign ads and interviews. The kind of girl who blends, even when she’s front and center.

  “Once you start to see yourself a certain way, it’s easy to continue to define yourself that way. I was raised with a clear path to follow and there was never a question that I wouldn’t follow it. Maybe that makes me a pushover. It’s who I am, though.”

  Her lips pursed.

  “I thought I was supposed to follow this path, and that it would take me where I was supposed to end up, and that was it. And then I started down the path, and when I got to the end, I realized it wasn’t what I wanted. And somewhere along the way, the person I am on the inside, that little voice in my head that I couldn’t shut off, became completely different from the person I am on the outside. And I don’t know how or why, just that I feel like I’m trapped in my own body. Trapped as this person I don’t want to be.”

  I knew exactly what she meant.

  “The Blair you give me—this girl that’s black lace and baking cookies and a mouth that’s either putting me in my place or giving me the best fucking kisses I’ve ever had—is that you?”

  Her lips curved, and she nodded, her eyes soft.

  “You should let everyone else see that Blair. Not the kissing part,” I amended. “I’m fine with you just keeping that to me. But the rest of it. She’s pretty amazing.”

  “I jumped my professor in his living room at two a.m. I’m pretty sure that kind of behavior wouldn’t go over so well.”

  My hands drifted down to her ass, pulling her tightly toward me. “It went over pretty well with me.”

  She grinned. “Yeah, I guess it did.”

  “Do you regret this?” I asked, my chest tightening.

  She held my gaze. “Not for a second. You?”

  God, I loved this girl.

  “Never. You don’t have to be perfect, Blair. You just have to be you. The people who count will love you for you, not because you’re some freakishly perfect version of you that isn’t real. Don’t be scared to give that to other people.”

  She cocked her head to the side, studying me, a smile playing on her lips.

  “Since when did you become so good at reading people?” she teased.

  “Since you knocked some sense into me and taught me that I didn’t need to be someone I wasn’t to get a girl like you.”

  “A girl like me?”

  “No matter how you see yourself, no matter what you think your faults may be, you have to know that even the most flawed, imperfect version of you is a million times better than anything I’ll ever deserve. Period.”

  She shook her head. “You’re crazy.”

  “About you, yeah. I’m not the hero, Blair. And somehow I still got the princess.”

  She grinned. “Honey, I’m pretty sure you’re the beast. And I am definitely not a princess. I thought we just established that.”

  “You’re my princess. Dirty mouth, naughty lingerie, wicked tongue, formidable temper, and all.”

  A gleam entered her eyes. “Speaking of naughty lingerie. The cookies might not be your only surprise.”

  She slayed me. “Really?”

  “Did you know they make Christmas themed lingerie?”

  A choking sound escaped me. “Like naughty Mrs. Claus?”

  Blair gave me a flirty wink. “Something like that.”

  She grabbed a bag from the counter, pulling out something small, red, and edged in fluffy white.

  My blood pressure shot up as I backed her into the countertop. I buried my head in the curve of her neck, her perfume sending another spike of lust through me.

  “Am I getting a show later?”

  Her hands came down between us, stroking me through my jeans, and a groan escaped my lips as I jerked against her touch, my body already hard and ready.

  “If you can handle waiting for cookies, I might be able to give you a preview now,” she teased, her mouth hot on my ear. Her teeth nipped down on my lobe, sucking it into her mouth and I rocked forward another inch, pinning her to the countertop.

  I could definitely wait for cookies.

  I wrapped my arms around her waist, lifting her in the air while she squealed, draping her over my shoulder, my hand on her ass, her breasts smashed against my back. I grabbed the bag with the magic lingerie and carted her upstairs, where we celebrated Christmas in our own inimitable way.

  Three times.

  Hours later, we stumbled downstairs, and Blair baked Christmas cookies, wearing only an apron and a mischievous smile that had me utterly and completely wrapped around her finger.

  The snickerdoodles were every bit as amazing as she’d said they would be. Dessert was even better.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Rumor has it there’s a controversy swirling on the Senate Intelligence Committee . . .

  —Capital Confessions blog

  Blair

  The first Monday back to school after Christmas break was brutal. Absolutely brutal. I sat in Con Law II wishing I was anywhere but there. Most of our substantive courses—constitutional law, contracts, property, and torts—were over a full year, spilt into two courses. This semester we added criminal law to our course list. Hannover had hired a visiting professor who was handling our Torts II class and Gray was teaching two 3L seminars.

  I sat sandwiched between Caitlin and Adam, a few rows away from the back. In the beginning of my 1L year, I’d been the type of student who sat in the front. Always. Thanks to the dreaded seating chart we had assigned seats, and I’d learned the hard way that there would be days when I’d need the anonymity of the back, so my seating habits had changed out of necessity.

  Myers lectured from the front of the room, and I fought to stay awake. Con law was bad enough, but con law first thing in the morning was absolute torture.

  In undergrad, the first day of classes usually involved going over the syllabus, maybe a short, introductory lecture from the professor. In law school, the first day of classes meant jumping immediately into questions about the two hundred pages of reading we were assigned for the first day back. No easing your way back into the academic pool; they threw you in headfirst with weights tied around your ankles.

  Myers called on Adam and my entire row sat up a little straighter—he had a habit of annihilating us rows at a time. I began flipping through my casebook, looking for the sections I’d highlighted, trying to guess what he’d ask me.

  Adam stumbled over the question, setting off a flurry of page flipping. Our communal terror was palpable, the entire row ready to pick up where Adam left off if he couldn’t answer the question.

  And then we all looked up from our books, the freak-out spreading as Myers walked up the stairs, heading toward our row.

  What the fuck?

  He stopped next to our row, his gaze firmly fixed on Adam.

  “Where’s your brief?” he asked, his voice booming through the auditorium-style room.

  Oh, fuck.

  A look of utter panic came over Adam’s face.

  “Here,” he pointed at his book, his finger—and voice—shaking.

  Book briefing was the perfect shortcut when you needed to brief a case and didn’t have time to actually type it all out. It involved lots of highlighting and scribbling in margins and sometimes if you were r
eally lucky and found a used book, the brief was already laid out for you. Which was awesome.

  Professor Myers’s eyes narrowed. “Was I not clear in the beginning of last semester?”

  His gaze whipped to me which I was pretty sure was no accident considering he definitely thought I was the weakest link in the class.

  “What did the syllabus say about your case briefs, Ms. Reynolds?”

  Fuck.

  My voice shook as I saw the path we were headed down and realized it led nowhere good. “You said we needed to bring our written briefs to every class.”

  When you read ten cases on average for every class, and you had five of them, and some opinions could be upwards of twenty pages—especially when the dissent rambled on or multiple justices dissented (and rambled on)—handwritten briefs took fucking forever.

  I understood why they wanted us to do them; written briefs helped us identify and analyze the salient points in each opinion. But after a semester of it, and never having the briefs collected, a lot of us—most of us—had stopped doing it. I’d stopped doing it.

  Fuck.

  Professor Myers turned away from our row, taking the steps down two at a time, until he’d reached the front of the room again.

  Seventy-five students waited with bated breath to see what he’d do.

  He glared at the class. “If you have a written, printed brief, you can stay for the remainder of the lecture. If you do not—if you book briefed”—he said “book brief” with a level of disdain that had me fighting a snort— “Leave now.”

  Oh shit.

  Murmurs went up throughout the class, one brave soul daring to utter the question, “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Seriously. Show of hands, who doesn’t have a written brief?”

  I watched as slowly hands started to go up in the room, mine included. When I looked around, there were hardly any students left whose hands weren’t up in the air.

  Surely, he wasn’t going to kick out sixty-something students.