Chapter 2

The next morning I awoke early with self-inflicted anxiety plaguing my mind. I had brought this on myself. Why couldn't I have told Serena, "Oh, a date? No, I'm still pathetically single six years after you stole my boyfriend, so I'll probably die an old spinster while you two live happily ever after." Okay, I'm being dramatic. It can't be that bad, but could I really call her back and tell her that I had lied and suffer even more embarrassment in front of the vibrant Serena van der Woodsen? The same girl that practically reflected the rays of sunshine from every flawless pore and every strand of golden hair.

Here's the thing: I might have an oh-so-slight inferiority complex when it comes to Serena. The girl gets everything handed to her on a golden platter. (Yes, I meant gold because everything about her is warm and perfect. Silver is too cold and ordinary to represent someone like Serena.) Ever since we were children, she's taken everything from me - not on purpose, mind you, but just because of who she is.

In 8th grade, she got the lead in the school play that I spent hours and hours rehearsing for – a role that she didn't want or understand because she never actually opened the script. Our drama teacher, Mrs. Ward, said that she had a natural charisma and presence on stage that would simply "captivate the hearts of the audience." I wish I could say that I supported her and helped her run lines, but, no, I swapped out her script for one filled with nonsensical ramblings. By the time Mrs. Ward realized that she was trying to memorize lines from a phony script, there weren't enough rehearsals left for Serena to properly memorize all of the lines of the leading lady. Instead, opening night, she improvised her lines, but her batted eyelashes and bubbly laughter won over the audience. It was hailed as the best 8th grade production in school history, and Mrs. Ward won an award. I'm petty, but I secretly hoped that it would fall off her fireplace mantle one day and leave a garish bruise on her stupidly huge forehead.

When I was in 11th grade, my mom decided that a Waldorf woman should be the face of her company. She wanted someone with a fresh, youthful look. Naturally, she asked me to model for her new line, and I was thrilled. My mom can be a bit brusque; she doesn't mince words, and she has never spared my feelings when telling me exactly what she thinks about the way I dress, how much I weigh, or how I fix my hair. For years, I sought her acceptance only to suffer a thinly veiled insult, supposedly meant to help me reach my full potential. The fact that she chose me to represent her company, that she had enough faith in me to trust that I wouldn't destroy her business seemed like a spoken acknowledgement that she finally accepted me, that on some level she was proud that I was her daughter. It was the first time that I thought I was actually capable of living up to her absurdly high expectations. Unfortunately, my excitement was short-lived. Serena accompanied me to the photoshoot, and the photographer took one look at her and fell in love with her easygoing nature and confident demeanor. He said that shooting her was like basking in the sunlight on a warm summer day, and in doing so, he convinced my mother to replace me with my best friend. Serena became the face of my mother's spring line, and I remained Blair Waldorf, the girl who lived in her best friend's shadow.

Those memories spurred me to action, and I quickly dressed in a burgundy Carolina Herrera shift dress paired with nude pumps and diamond studs. I pulled my hair back into a neat ponytail, meticulously arranging the curls down my back and topped off my light makeup with my favorite Dior lip gloss, the one that somehow made my lips look poutier than their natural shape.

Drawing a deep breath, I marched across the hall and lifted my hand into a fist. My arm stopped in mid-air, as my mind questioned what the hell I was doing. This man and I have never exchanged niceties. We have never had a pleasant conversation or shared so much as a friendly smile with one another, and I'm going to ask him to attend a wedding on the other side of the country with me? I must be out of my damn mind.

I dropped my hand in defeat and turned back to my apartment. I would have to come up with some reason that my fake boyfriend Chuck couldn't make it to the wedding at the last minute. A horrific case of food poisoning perhaps? Maybe I would make him fall into a coma…well, that probably wasn't the best idea because she would wonder why I hadn't stuck by his side in the case of a medical emergency. I could turn him into a cheater, too, but I'm not seeking pity. Ooh, he could be called away on a last-minute business trip to Japan. That way my boyfriend would be both successful and mysterious. Maybe, I can make up a really intriguing company that -

"Waldorf?"

Dammit. Just don't turn around. Pretend you didn't hear him.

"Waldorf?" He rasped out more forcefully, and my feet turned to face him before I could stop them.

"Hmm?" I asked nonchalantly, finding the patent leather of my Louboutins extraordinarily interesting at that moment - so interesting that I didn't even bother looking him in the face. My downcast gaze had absolutely nothing to do with this sheepish feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"What are you doing shuffling around outside my door at six in the morning?" His tone of voice was even more gruff than normal, and for some reason, it sent a chill down my spine. I shivered and dared to raise my eyes to meet his.

Big mistake.

I'd never seen him like this - dressed down, casual, disheveled. His tousled hair fell over one side of his forehead just meeting his thick eyebrows that were furrowed together in confusion. He wore navy silk pajamas with the top two buttons loose at his throat, and I could just make out the beginning of the dark hair sprinkled across his chest. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, and I found myself momentarily mesmerized by its movements.

I shook my head. What the hell am I doing? Looking at his chest hair? Studying his Adam's apple? I must still be half-asleep. Clearing my throat, I put on my best expression of indifference and muttered, "Thanks for keeping it down last night. I actually got some sleep."

"So," His dark eyes reflected something I didn't recognize. Was that amusement or annoyance? "You woke me up at an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning to thank me for not disturbing your sleep. Do you see the irony here?" Yup, that was definitely annoyance causing his jaw to flex like that.

"Whatever," I spat, "Just..whatever." I returned to my apartment and closed the door firmly. Nice one, Blair, I taunted my own idiocy. Still no wedding date, and now Mr. Arrogant Asshole thinks that I'm some kind of psychotic stalker, waiting outside his door.

As soon as I was in the safety of my living room, I let out a scream into an absurdly expensive throw pillow, dropping onto the sofa in a dramatic display of despair. I took deep steady breaths to shake away my growing anxiety. When I had calmed myself down, I heard a light tapping at my door. I shouldn't have answered it, but I'm a glutton for punishment.

There he stood looking completely put together once more in his tailored suit that hugged his body closely, accentuating the muscles rippling in his shoulders. I wonder what he looks like underneath -

Nope. No. God, I need to have sex. It's the only explanation for why I'm staring him down like a starved dog begging for a bone. I mean, sure, he's kinda handsome in a brooding kind of way, but he's not my type. At all.

"What do you want?" I spat impatiently. I was hungry and irritable…and maybe a little embarrassed. I am Blair Waldorf. I don't beg for dates, especially from men who think treating a woman well means leaving a generous tip before kicking her out of bed.

His expression was smarmy - a mixture of cocky and derisive. "What did you want, Blair? I know you were seconds from knocking on my door."

Did he just use my first name? Why am I suddenly so warm? I need to turn down the thermostat. Hopefully it isn't broken.

I sighed loudly, one might even consider it a huff, but I decided it's now or never. Just rip the bandaid off, and it won't sting as bad. "I have a proposition for you."

"Ooh," he purred, "Kinky."

I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore the teasing glint in his, "Not like that, you pervert."

"Then what other services might you require?" His smirk was downright lascivious, and there was no hiding the insinuation in his words.

"I require an…escort to a wedding, and I would like you to…"

"My, my," he narrowed his eyes suggestively, "Are you asking me on a date? You've seen how pleasurable an evening with me can be, and you want to get a taste for yourself?"

"No," I growled through gritted teeth, feeling my treacherous cheeks flush under his gaze, "I do not want to go on a date with you now - or ever, for that matter."

"What then?" he scowled, "You need me to water your plants while you're away?" Sarcasm oozed from his words, and all evidence of his earlier teasing left his face. His expression became unreadable, leaving me feeling a little uneasy.

"I need you," God, why was this so hard. I forced down my pride and continued, "to pretend to be my date to my best friend's wedding. I'm willing to pay for -"

"No," he cuts me off curtly, his eyes blazing, his mouth pulled down at the corners into a slight frown.

"What?" I stuttered, caught off guard by his clipped response.

"I said no," he enunciated slowly as if I would have trouble understanding him. "I have better use of my time than playing your fake boyfriend to soothe your own ego at having to go solo." He turned to leave, but he stopped and let his eyes travel from my ankles to my face in a slow path as if he was taking in every detail. He licked his lips, leaning closer to me as I grasped the door for support. My pulse quickened, and his breath tickled my ear when he whispered, "Oh, and you should probably rethink your attire for the wedding. You look a little…matronly."

Tears of shame burned in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall, refused to show him any reaction. I don't know if I expected him to say yes, but I hadn't been prepared for his anger or his insults. The hatred in his eyes was so obvious that I wondered how I could've thought that this would've worked out in my favor? The loathing was clearly mutual, but it still stung. Chuck Bass, the notorious playboy who'd slept with half of Manhattan, had rejected me.

He called me matronly. That word might appropriately describe my grandmother - God rest her soul - but never me. I'm sophisticated and classy. So maybe I don't wear skimpy, provocative clothing, but that's because I have self-respect. I risked a look down at my dress that hit just above my knees. It might be conservative by some people's standards, but that doesn't make me a prude. I guess whenever you have women leaving their underwear in the hallway, any clothing at all is matronly.

Ugh, my whole body was electrified, and the rage was nearly burning a hole through my retinas. I gave him the most hostile look I could muster and spat, "I hate you."

He regarded me for a moment in a way that made me feel completely naked. His brows raised slightly and his voice was quiet when he returned, "Likewise."

I inhaled in frustration and slammed my door in his face as a childish attempt to get the upper hand. Living next to him for the past few months had been a unique form of torture, but after this encounter, it was sure to be hell.

XOXO

I marched to my closet and dug through my extensive wardrobe for the sexiest ensemble I had that would still be appropriate as daywear. I don't know why I did it, but I couldn't stand the judgemental gleam in his eye when he insulted me. I unzipped the Herrera dress and hung it in the back of the closet, considering for a moment if I would ever wear it again. It really was pretty. Stupid jerk.

I withdrew a coral Alexander McQueen from the closet and examined it closely. It wasn't inappropriate, but the hem was certainly higher and the top lower cut than I typically wore. I had bought it on a whim while shopping with Serena the last time she returned to New York. Serena had gushed over how much the color accented my skin tone and how the nipped in waist accentuated my figure. It's been hanging in my closet for months, and I still haven't worn it. Today's the day, I suppose.

After I changed, I decided that I would burn off the lingering anger and anxiety with another shopping spree - which, honestly, is better therapy than Dr. Atkinson could ever offer me. Before leaving the building, though, I stopped by the concierge desk to see Ronaldo, the residents' manager to let him know that I would be leaving the state soon, so he could keep an eye on things…and, yes, water my plants.

I slid a generous sum of money across the desk in gratitude and smiled back at Ronaldo. The gray-haired man had taken a liking to me early on, and he often went out of his way to do me favors that weren't exactly part of his job description. He offered me a friendly wink as I slung my purse onto my shoulder and turned to leave.

"Blair?" came a vaguely familiar voice. "Blair Waldorf? Is that you?"

My eyes sought out the owner of the voice from the growing crowd in the lobby. I found a dark-haired woman waving dramatically in my direction, and it took a minute for the recognition to settle in. "Oh, my God," I said, walking in her direction, "Kati Farkas. It's been forever."

She wrapped the hand that wasn't holding a grande frappuccino around my shoulder in what was meant to pass as a hug. When she pulled back, she gave me a not-so-subtle onceover and said, "Wow, you've changed so much." Her tone was even, and I wasn't sure if she meant it as an insult or a compliment. I suddenly felt completely exposed in this stupid tiny coral dress. "How've you been?" Her voice was dry and bored, indicating that she didn't really care how I've been, but her social graces mandated that she be polite and courteous to an old friend.

"Oh, I've been great," I answered with a sugary sweet smile, "Just trying to establish myself as a future fashion editor. I got an assistant's position, and it's really -" She stifled a yawn and her eyes seemed to glaze over. "Anyway, how are you?"

That's what she really wants to talk about because her eyes lit up and a grin spread across her cheeks showing small dimples on each side of her upturned mouth. "I've been wonderful," she squealed, holding up her hand, "Devin and I are engaged," she jutted out her abdomen to reveal the tiniest little bump beneath her blouse, "and we are having a baby!"

"Oh, wow," I stuttered in shock. We're 23. That seems a bit… I shook my head free of all the questions and doubts because she's staring at me expectantly. "Congratulations!" I pulled her into another haphazard hug because the situation felt awkward, and I didn't know how else to react.

"So," she asked, her eyes shining, "You're going to Serena's wedding?"

My heart started beating too hard, making me yearn to rub the aching beneath my chest. I needed to get used to this because it was the first of many encounters I was sure to face in the coming weeks. Everyone would want to know how poor little Blair Waldorf is going to handle her best friend marrying her former knight in shining armor. I held my chin high, arching my eyebrows, and smiled brightly, "Of course. I'm the maid of honor."

"Oh," she said hesitantly, "I wasn't sure after…I mean, is that going to be hard for you standing beside her while she marries him?"

"I -" my feigned confidence faltered, and I could feel stubborn tears pricking my eyes for the second time this morning.

"No one would blame you, you know," she offered as if it was some kind of consolation, "If it was too much to handle seeing your ex-boyfriend marry -"

"That's all in the past," I replied meekly, wanting to crawl under the desk, anywhere to get away from her sympathetic gaze. I cannot handle people feeling sorry for me; it makes me feel weak and powerless - two words that I don't ever want associated with my name. "We've all moved on."

"Oh," her eyes narrowed, "You have a boyfriend? I hadn't heard anything -"

"I -" Shit, shit, shit. I shouldn't care what a girl I went to high school with six years ago thinks, but I do. "Yeah, he's -" I trailed off, looking for a quick explanation.

"Right here," I felt a strong arm link around my waist, and I whipped my head around in time to see the last person I expected. My mind was spinning, and I couldn't understand what was happening. He was so close, and he smelled so distinctly masculine. "I've been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart," he prompted, leaning closer to my ear. I could just barely make out the words when he whispered so quietly there was no way Kati heard him, "Play along."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I forced a grin at him, my heart no longer beating rapidly but now pounding in a rhythm that felt like it would break through my chest cavity at any moment, "I just ran into Kati. We went to high school together."

He smiled pleasantly and reached out a hand to her, which she took tentatively, still eyeing him suspiciously. "Chuck Bass," he said smoothly, causing my stomach to do somersaults, "It's nice to meet you."

"You, too," she responded, letting her eyes travel shamelessly over his form. When her eyes met his again, it was clear that she appreciated what she saw. "Will you be accompanying Blair to the wedding?"

"Of course," he nodded, pulling me closer against him with his hand resting on my hip. I could practically feel the heat radiating from his hand searing an imprint into my skin. "I can't risk some other jerk sweeping her off of her feet, now can I?" He winked, and I had to force my jaw from hitting the floor.

"Well," she said a little unsteadily, as if she couldn't quite figure out what she was seeing, "I better go. Devin's waiting for me to meet him for brunch. I'll see you in a few weeks." She waved and quickly headed out the door.

When she was clearly out of earshot, I stepped as far away from Chuck as I could and glared at him angrily. "What the hell was that?" I seethed.

"Me coming to your rescue," he answered smugly, "A little gratitude would be nice, but I suppose we could come up with a number of more creative ways for you to thank me -"

"Shut up!" I held up my hand, "Again, why did you do that?!"

His eyes narrowed, "So now you don't want my help? After practically begging this morning?"

I crossed my arms over my chest because he had a point. "Fine," I growled, "Why did you change your mind when you were so adamantly against it this morning?"

"I was afraid you might die from embarrassment, and I didn't want that hanging over my head," he smirked, and I wanted to hit him. Hard.

"I still hate you," I pouted, unsure of what else to say. He had done me a favor in getting me out of that conversation, but he was still a narcissistic prick.

"I wouldn't expect anything else." He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking a little unsure of himself for the first time since I'd met him. "Give me all the details."

"Come on," I said, glancing around at the crowded lobby. "This isn't a conversation I want to have here."

He followed me to the sidewalk in front of the building and asked, "Would you like me to call my driver?"

I looked up at him curiously and shook my head. "No, we're just going right around the corner. We can walk."

I led him to a small cafe that I had frequented with my father as a child. I didn't have a whole lot of fond memories from my childhood, but our scheduled father/daughter dates were always the highlight of my week. In our hour together, my father would forget about everything else - work stress, fights with my mother - and just focus on me. He would ask about my hopes and my dreams, and we would spend our time creating elaborate stories of what my future may look like. I already miss him.

We settled into a booth at the back of the cafe and placed orders for coffee and pastries. Neither one of us seemed too terribly hungry. He ordered his coffee black, and I couldn't help but comment, "Black like your heart. Seems appropriate."

He smirked softly, but it wasn't the sardonic smirk I usually got from him. This one was filled with genuine amusement. It made me uncomfortable because it felt too familiar, too different from our typical banter. I had to look away. Seeming to sense my discomfort, he changed the subject, "When's this wedding?"

"In three weeks, but I need to fly out in two for the week of wedding festivities. I'm the maid of honor, so it's kind of my duty."

"Fly out?" He questioned. Oh, yeah, I guess I left out a pretty important detail.

"Um, it's in California…LA," I took a generous sip from my cup waiting for him to back out at any moment.

"I haven't been to the west coast in a while," he nodded, as if to accept the absurdity of the entire situation. "So," he asked steadily, carefully even, "You're in such desperate need of a date because your best friend is marrying someone you dated? At least that's what I seemed to gather from your conversation with the woman at the Palace."

I shook my head in affirmation. "Yeah, he's my ex-boyfriend." I left out the part where he cheated on me while I shed my clothes for a room full of people.

"Wow, you really know how to pick friends and lovers," he snarked, but there was something softer hidden beneath his response.

"I must have a huge sign on my back that says 'Betray me. I forgive easily.'" I huffed, stuffing a too-big bite of my blueberry scone into my mouth.

He observed me closely, mulling something over in his mind. "You aren't weak, Blair." Oh, there's my name again. No one else says it the way he does.

"Just stupid," I answered absently.

"No, not that, either," he narrowed his eyes toward me, and I looked up at him, waiting for him to continue.

When he didn't say anything else, I cleared my throat and said, "I guess we need to book our flights soon -"

"No need," he cut me off.

"What?" I asked in confusion.

"We don't need to book flights," he reiterated quietly. "I've got it covered."

"You've…got it covered?"

"Yes, I've got it covered."

"You mean, you've got SkyMiles or -"

"I mean, I've got it covered. Just trust me on this one, okay?" he growled in exasperation. "Or don't. Just go ahead and stubbornly book those flights that we won't need. You know, you're a real pain in the ass."

"Me?" My voice was shrill, and a few heads turned in our direction. "I'm a pain in the ass?"

"Yes, you're a pain in the ass, and you're stubborn as hell." He took a sip of his dark coffee and watched me grow flustered in irritation, but he gave me no indication of his thought process. He lowered his voice and said, "By the way, the change of attire suits you well."

Feeling another flush spread through my cheeks, I stood up abruptly and tossed money on the table before he could offer to pay. "We'll leave Monday, the 27th at 8 am. I expect that you will make arrangements for our flight. Don't make me regret trusting you with this."

Without another word, I left the restaurant, but I could feel his eyes boring into my back as I walked away.