“Hey,” I say, “just because I can’t even say Dosty-Dosto—”
“Dostoyevsky.”
“Right, Dostoyevsky, doesn’t mean I don’t find something you’re that enthusiastic about interesting.” That adorable cowlick is begging me to reach out and blend it in with the rest of his hair, but I recall what Reid had to say about my casual touches in front of Emma and I keep my hands to myself with immense effort. Having raised the thought of her in my head, I have to fight the urge to check if she’s even watching.
Graham clears his throat and glances down the table at her. I’m crossing my fingers that he at least forgot all about her for the space of that little literary exchange, even if he’s recalling her existence now. When he smiles and winks at her, I want to emit a sharp little scream and stomp like I used to do as a small child whenever someone told me no. His eyes swing back to mine and I swallow that outburst and smile instead.
*** *** ***
Emma
Graham is leaving California in the morning. I’m enjoying interacting with everyone, celebrating MiShaun’s engagement to David, but I’m hyper aware of the hours and minutes ticking away. His wink is a tiny electrical zap, darting a zing of pleasure through me.
He’s sitting at the other end of the table, with Brooke hanging on his every word, and I’m trying not to be jealous—or concerned.
That attempt isn’t going so well.
I tell myself that I’m only jealous of the time I’m losing with him, which rings half-true and half-hollow.
“Emma, I hear you and Reid are doing Ellen?” Meredith snaps me out of my gloomy trance.
“Yeah, in a couple of weeks. I’m scared to death.”
“No need to be scared,” Reid says, swinging his attention to our conversation. “She’s just as nice in person as she seems.”
“You said that about Ryan,” I accuse, smirking. “Are you going to tell me that every time?”
“I was right, wasn’t I? And no, if someone’s going to be tough, I’ll give you a heads up.”
“Promise?”
He hooks my pinky with his. “Promise. And for the record, I’ve never broken a pinky swear.”
“And how many pinky swears have you made, Mr. Alexander?” Meredith asks, arms folded loosely over her chest as she leans back to watch our discussion play out in front of her.
“Meredith,” he says, “that’s classified information. Top secret. Plus I tried the Boy Scout promise on her months ago, and she promptly accused me of never having been a Boy Scout. Imagine.” He blinks innocently and we can’t help but laugh. This far away from the humiliation of last fall, his wicked reputation feels less personal.
Lips flattened, Meredith says, “Yes, imagine. I’m thinking this is numero uno pinky swear for you, buddy.”
Our fingers are still hooked on the table in front of Meredith, who angles one eyebrow in question before I withdraw my hand and give Reid a stern look. “Okay, I’m choosing to believe you and your pinky swear. Don’t blow that trust.”
He looks back, steadily, suddenly more serious than he was seconds ago. “I won’t.”
***
It takes forever for the hallway in front of my door to clear. Graham’s room is on the same floor, but two turns and a couple dozen rooms away from mine. I text him when everything grows quiet and I haven’t seen a soul pass my peephole in five minutes. It’s nearly 2 a.m.
When he walks up to the door, I swing it open silently, and try to close it just as quietly. He’s wearing jeans and canvas flip flops and holding the ice bucket from his room. “This is your idea of subterfuge?” I whisper, pointing at the bucket and trying not to laugh.
He pretends offense. “The vending area is between our rooms, so I thought it made more sense than pretending to be lurking in the hall for no apparent reason.”
I take the bucket from his hands. “It’s still empty.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, duh, I wasn’t going to waste time getting actual ice.” I’ve left one small lamp glowing in the corner, and his black eyes regard me in the dim light. While waiting for the hallway to clear, I changed into a dark violet shorts and tank set from Victoria’s Secret that Emily gave me before I left town. Purple is the I’m-a-woman version of pink, she cautioned, fixing me with a knowing look. Graham’s slow perusal is like a caress, leaving me breathless and feeling somehow powerful and vulnerable at once. He raises one eyebrow. “Unless we need it for something kinky.”
My blush is immediate, and I turn to put the ice bucket on my sink counter in an effort to hide it, in case the low lighting isn’t low enough. His arms slide around me from behind, his cheek nuzzling and stroking my hair back from my neck. His lips are warm and I’m glad he’s supporting me, because my legs feel boneless as he places light, sucking kisses from the curve between my shoulder and neck to the sensitive hollow behind my ear.
“If I traced an ice cube along this line,” he murmurs, “it would melt instantly, because your skin is so hot.” I gasp lightly, imagining his tongue following a line of icy water sluicing down my neck. Turning me gently, his hands are in my hair and then his mouth is on mine, so gentle and slow that kissing him feels like a dream. I don’t want to wake up.
A minute later, I find my calves hitting the edge of the mattress as they did two nights ago. I scarcely have the capacity to register the question of how he manages to transport me all the way across a room without my notice before he lifts me into the center of the bed, still kissing me.