Dirty Little Blair

~BLAIR~

Hi, I’m Blair Willow.

Weird way to start my story, isn’t it?

Anyways, I’m 22, and honestly, I think I have a big fucking problem.

Now, you might be wondering what kind of problem a twenty-two-year-old girl could possibly have. Maybe it’s normal girl trouble, a terrible breakup, some cheating bastard who deserves to have his balls chopped off, or perhaps I’m hopelessly in love with a man who doesn’t even know I exist.

Well, honey, I wish my problem were that fucking normal, because how exactly am I supposed to explain that I’ve spent almost an entire year obsessing over my father’s best friend?

And when I say obsessing, I don’t mean occasionally thinking about him whenever somebody mentions his name. I mean checking his I*******m like it’s my morning newspaper, staring at his pictures for an embarrassing amount of time, and imagining situations that would probably make my father question every single parenting decision he’s ever made.

Crazy, right?

Exactly.

And you know what’s even crazier? I don’t feel fucking guilty about it. I really don’t, okay? I’m not some innocent little angel who spends her afternoons reading holy scriptures and pretending she’s never had an inappropriate thought in her entire life.

Fuck that shit.

I’m a grown woman, and I happen to think that whoever invented the idea that women should act innocent whenever they find a man attractive seriously needs to get a life.

And before you start judging me, babe, save your fucking breath, because I’ve heard worse things from women who pretend to be saints in public and then spend their evenings sending desperate messages to married men.

At least I’m not pretending to be anybody’s innocent little angel.

Besides, I have enough embarrassing secrets hidden inside my bedroom to make my father call an emergency meeting with our family priest.

Actually, scratch that, because Daddy would probably faint before anybody even finished explaining what half those things were.

And the funniest part is that he paid for most of them.

Not knowingly, obviously.

I mean, imagine Alpha Daniel Willow opening his credit card statement and discovering that his precious only daughter had been spending his hard-earned money on things that definitely weren’t handbags.

The man would fucking disown me.

But anyway, my collection of questionable purchases isn’t even the problem here.

The problem is the man I keep thinking about whenever I’m alone in my bedroom.

Alpha Tristian fucking Harrington.

And did I mention that he’s my father’s best friend?

Gosh, have you fucking seen that man? He’s forty-three years old, ridiculously gorgeous, and somehow looks better than half the men my age who spend their entire lives taking shirtless pictures at the gym.

And those hands?

Jesus Christ.

I don’t know what kind of agreement that man has with the universe, but somebody needs to explain why a forty-three-year-old Alpha has absolutely no business looking that fucking good.

I mean, I’m twenty-two. I should be worrying about my future, finding a job, or doing something productive with my life.

Instead, I’m sitting here wondering whether Tristian Harrington has ever considered dating a younger woman.

Preferably one who’s five feet tall, has expensive taste, and answers to the name Blair Willow.

What?

A girl can dream.

And yeah, you might be wondering what I’m doing while telling you all this.

Well, I’m currently lying on my bed, scrolling through Alpha Tristian Harrington’s I*******m pictures like I haven’t already memorized every single one of them.

Seriously, somebody needs to take this phone away from me.

I’ve been staring at the same picture for almost ten minutes, and the worst part is that I’m not even embarrassed.

He’s standing beside his swimming pool, wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking like the kind of man who has never had to repeat himself twice.

God, those fucking hands.

Look at the veins on that man!

“Fuck,” I groaned, burying my face in my pillow before looking at his picture again.

“Blair, behave yourself,” I muttered, attempting his deep voice.

“Oh, shut up, Tristian. You’re not my father,” I answered myself.

Then I started laughing because, seriously, WHAT THE FUCK WAS WRONG WITH ME?

Imagine having a whole conversation with a man’s I*******m picture and still managing to lose the argument.

At this point, I needed professional help.

Or maybe I just needed Tristian Harrington to look at me for longer than five seconds without asking whether I’d gotten myself into trouble again.

Honestly, either one would work.

I was still lost in my completely inappropriate thoughts when I heard a noise outside my bedroom.

“Oh my God, Tristian, you’re driving me crazy!” I groaned at my phone, throwing my head back dramatically.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“BLAIR WILLOW! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!”

My soul nearly left my body.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!

“SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!”

I stared at the door, then at my phone, then back at the door.

That was my father.

And he was standing outside my bedroom while I had his best friend’s I*******m open on my phone.

Oh, I was finished.

I was so fucking finished.

Because how exactly was I supposed to explain this?

Hi, Daddy! Funny story, actually. Remember your best friend Tristian? Well, I’ve been secretly crushing on him for almost a year, and I’m currently considering whether it would be inappropriate to ask him out on a date.

Nope.

Absolutely fucking not.

I would rather swallow my entire phone.

Okay, okay, okay! What the fuck am I going to do?

Think, Blair. Fucking think!

Maybe I could pretend I had a cold. Yes! I’d tell him I was sick, and that was why I’d locked my door.

Wait, no. Knowing my father, he’d probably call the family doctor before I could even finish explaining.

Okay, scratch that.

What if I pretended I’d just woken up from a nap?

YES!

That was perfect. People woke up looking terrible all the time, right? My hair was messy, I’d been lying in bed for hours, and I’d taken forever to answer the door. Everything made sense.

“BLAIR! I’M NOT GOING TO CALL YOU AGAIN!”

“COMING, DADDY!”

Oh, fuck. The evidence!

I quickly grabbed my phone and closed I*******m before tossing it onto the bed. Then I pulled my blanket into place and hurried toward the mirror.

Jesus Christ.

My hair looked like I’d been electrocuted.

I ran my fingers through it, rubbed my eyes a little, and tried to look like someone who’d just been rudely awakened from the best nap of her life.

Okay. Good enough.

“BLAIR!”

“OH MY GOD, DADDY! I’M COMING! CAN YOU GIVE ME TWO SECONDS?”

I took one last look around my bedroom to make sure nothing was lying where it shouldn’t be.

Everything looked normal.

Well, normal enough.

I hurried to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open while pretending to yawn.

“Daddy?” I mumbled, rubbing one eye. “Why are you screaming? I was sleeping.”

My father stood outside with his arms folded across his chest.

He looked at my face, then glanced past me into the bedroom.

“You were sleeping?”

“Yeah.” I yawned again, although I was beginning to think the second one was a little too dramatic. “I was having a really good nap, actually, until somebody decided to start banging on my door like the police.”

He didn’t smile.

Oh, come on. That was a little funny.

“Blair, we need to talk.”

I blinked at him.

“About what?”

“Thirty-eight thousand dollars.”

Oh.

That.

Fuck.

“What about it, old man?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe. “Thirty-eight thousand dollars? Daddy, please. That’s practically pocket change for you.”

My father stared at me.

“Pocket change?”

“Exactly! See? You get it.”

“Blair, what the hell did you spend thirty-eight thousand dollars on in eleven days?”

“Shopping, obviously. I got this gorgeous pair of Christian Louboutin heels, and Daddy, you should see them. They’re the limited-edition Swarovski crystal ones, and I swear they’re so beautiful I almost cried when I opened the box.”

“Blair.”

“And I got a few things from Hermès, some dresses, a new handbag, and—”

“BLAIR!”

“What?” I threw my hands up. “You asked me what I bought, and I’m literally telling you!”

“Do you have any idea how much money thirty-eight thousand dollars is?”

“Of course I do, Daddy. I’m twenty-two, not five.”

“Then why are you spending it like it grows on trees?”

“Well, technically, you’re an Alpha with several businesses, so I assumed it was growing somewhere.”

“You know what, Blair? I’m tired of this. I’m genuinely tired of you behaving like a spoiled little brat who thinks money is something she can throw around whenever she feels like it.”

I blinked.

Well, damn.

Good afternoon to you too, Daddy.

“I have tried my absolute best to teach you responsibility,” he continued, pacing in front of my bedroom door. “I gave you a position in one of my companies because I wanted you to learn how to manage something for yourself, but you couldn’t even handle that!”

“Daddy, that’s not—”

“Do you remember why I fired you, Blair? Because you were completely irresponsible! I had to replace you with someone who actually understood what the hell she was doing.”

Okay, ouch.

Did he really have to bring up my unemployment history?

“That was one mistake, Daddy.”

“One mistake?” He laughed without a trace of amusement. “You barely showed up to work, you spent more time planning shopping trips than attending meetings, and whenever I asked for a report, you had absolutely nothing useful to tell me!”

I pressed my lips together.

Well, when he listed everything like that, it sounded terrible.

“All you know how to do is shop, shop, and fucking shop!” he continued. “Chanel, Dior, Hermès, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Valentino, Saint Laurent, Bottega Veneta! Every single week, another delivery arrives at this house, and somehow you still complain that you have nothing to wear!”

“PAPA BEAR!” I gasped, pressing both hands dramatically against my chest. “That’s not fair!”

My eyes immediately filled with tears.

And yes, I was being dramatic, but excuse me for having feelings!

“Don’t you dare Papa Bear me, Blair!”

I gasped again.

Oh, wow.

He was rejecting Papa Bear?

This was serious.

“Daddy, you’re making me sound like some horrible daughter who does nothing but spend money!”

“Then tell me what else you do!”

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it.

Because why the fuck would he ask such a difficult question without giving me time to prepare?

My father shook his head.

“You’re twenty-two years old, Blair. Twenty-two! At your age, I was already working my ass off to build something for myself, and you can’t even go eleven days without spending thirty-eight thousand dollars!”

“Daddy, I—”

“No. I’m done listening to excuses. You know what? I think I finally know exactly what you need.”

I frowned.

“What I need?”

“Yes. You need discipline, responsibility, and someone who won’t fall for those ridiculous tears every time you don’t get your way.”

I sniffled.

“They’re not ridiculous tears.”

“Blair.”

“Okay, fine.”

He pulled out his phone.

“And I know exactly who would do a great job teaching you how to behave like the responsible daughter I’ve been trying to raise.”

“Daddy, who are you talking about?”

He looked up from his phone.

“Tristian Harrington.”

I froze.

Wait.

What?

TRISTIAN FUCKING HARRINGTON?

And there you have it, folks. That was the beginning of my story.

So grab your popcorn, get comfortable, and prepare yourselves, because I have a terrible feeling that my life is about to become one gigantic fucking disaster.

And if you think I’m already a handful, wait until you see what happens when I end up working for the very man I’ve spent almost a year fantasizing about.

The same man who thinks I’m an irresponsible little brat.

The same man who happens to be my father’s best friend.

And the same man who has absolutely no idea what kind of trouble is coming his way.

Anyway, enjoy the show, bitches.