“Why do you ask?” I hedge, and she does that low-laugh thing, still smiling up at me.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen jealous Graham before.” She squeezes my bicep and arches a brow. “Mmm, very alpha-male.”
When I scowl, she laughs at me again and I take a deep breath, feeling years less mature. “God, am I that obvious?” I start to run a hand through my hair, but can’t. The styling for the shoot looks better than my Bill Collins helmet-do during filming, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, it’s untouchable. “Aauuugh,” I say, and Brooke laughs again.
“So you and Emma, huh?” She selects a Perrier from the ice bucket and fingers through the snacks, choosing nothing. “How long has this been going on?”
I shake my head once. “Not long.”
The photographer calls us for group shots, and I’m happy to end this conversation. Talking to Brooke has had a dual effect. I’m less tense, but instantly worried by the jealousy accusation. Alpha-male? Good God, no. Mom and Brynn would lecture me until my ears rang. Possessive men are at the top of their lists of to-be-scorned things. “A self-possessed man is what a psychologically healthy woman wants,” preaches my mother, the psychologist. “Not some guy who dispenses orders and punishment—whether physical or emotional—and distrusts her every move.”
She brought home enough codependent client stories, a few complete with stalking—two of which turned criminal—to scare my sisters away from those type of guys and scare me away from that type of girl. The type who wants—needs—the jealous boyfriend to prove she has worth. My eyes are on Emma as she talks and laughs with Jenna and MiShaun, and I know she’s not in that category. Compromising and generous, yes. Forgiving, too, I think, watching as Reid moves near her and joins the conversation.
Her response to being held too tightly would be a quick exit.
Her eyes swing to meet mine, and everything in me snaps and sings with pleasure. A slow burn begins at my core and I know it will build until we’re alone in her room again, the rest of the world shut out. There’s a line at the edge of possessive, and she makes me want to walk it. This three-second glance between us reinforces what I know. I love her. Everything else—the ins and outs of my feelings and hers in conjunction with what it all means—can be deciphered in due time. I love her. That’s all that matters, and in this moment, that’s all I am.
***
Brooke
Well, shit. This is more serious than I thought. He may actually believe he’s in love with her.
I’ve put far too many years into this relationship to lose him like this, to her. I care about Graham deeply, but if he pairs up with Emma, what we have will be over. For some reason, I know this. My intuition is screaming it at me—that I’m losing him. I could be what he wants. I could be sweeter and softer with him. Not so hard. God, I’m tired of being so uncompromisingly hard all the time.
If I backpedal and stop this now, linger forever off to the side as his friend and confidant, I could convince Emma that I’m not a threat. I could hold onto his friendship, which means more to me than he’ll ever know.
But, no. Friendship isn’t enough. I want him. All of him. He’s exactly the type of guy I need, and all I have to do is get Emma out of the way and convince Graham that I can be what he needs. Somewhere between Reid and myself there’s enough deviousness to pull this off. And if this has to be an all-or-nothing battle, then so be it. No time to be squeamish. I’ve lied my ass off for worse causes than landing the perfect guy.
Chapter 12
Emma
Getting out of that tiny dress and the five thousand pins they used to fit it to me like a glove took forever, so I’m the last one out of the studio. Three black cars idle at the curb, waiting to transport the nine of us to the hotel. Brooke climbs into the first car behind Tadd, and I’m both relieved and annoyed at myself for being relieved that Graham isn’t with her.
Brooke is a force of nature. The last thing any sane girl would want is to get into a tug-of-war with her over a guy. Graham says they’re just friends, and I have to trust him if this is going to work. No matter how beautiful she is. No matter how familiar her casual touches seem to be. No matter how many times I catch her looking at him like he’s on her room service menu.
As I’m standing near the last car, scanning for Graham as covertly as possible, someone says, “Pssst.” I bite my lip to stifle a yelp when Graham snakes an arm around my waist and drags me into the car. MiShaun, chatting with Jenna a few feet away, raises an eyebrow as I disappear into the back seat, backwards. She bends to see who’s snatched me off of the sidewalk. When she spots Graham, her wide eyes tell me I can expect to be quizzed about this later.
“Graham,” I hiss, laughing. “You just made me look like that hapless character in every horror film who’s dumb enough to stand right next to the darkened basement doorway.”
Grinning mischievously, he kisses the back of my neck, withdrawing his arm before anyone else sees. Thank God for opaque windows. “So you’re the expendable cheerleader, and I’m the demon, or werewolf…?”
“Or the mentally unbalanced guy with the chainsaw, yeah.” Aware that I’ll have to sit up straight and keep my hands to myself once someone joins us, I press back against him for a moment, leaning my head onto his shoulder and tracing the top of his hand with my fingers.
“I was wondering if you’d want to check out Griffith Park in the morning.” His question is a breath in my ear as Jenna moves to stand by the open door, still talking to MiShaun. He flips his hand over and my index finger maps the lines of his palm. “We’d have to go early to get back in time to leave for the second shoot.”