Graham Blackpool is at my apartment.

He stands in the hallway in his impeccable suit, wool winter coat draped over his arm.

I thought this apartment building was nice until I saw him standing in it.

Like this.

Like that.

Now all I can see is the paint peeling around the trim of our doorframe and the way the carpet is slightly lighter in the middle from all the people who go back and forth from their doors to the outside world all day and night. Someone is cooking—it’s a spicy dish and the air is redolent with it.

My face gets hot.

At least I’m dressed well enough to look him in the eye.

I step toward him, out of the elevator, and he notices me, straightening his back. A lovely little dance goes on in his face. First, the little quirk of the eyebrows, oh, a person is here, then his lips parting, oh, she looks good, and then a little smile of recognition.

I like it.

I can’t help myself.

I’m utterly drained from two different interviews today, and while Graham might be an asshole pretending to be in love with me, he’s the only constant. And I know, at some level, he wants me—even if it’s only in a needy, sexual way. I felt that in his kiss.

“What are you doing here?”

I don’t know what to do with my hands. Should I just...get my keys and unlock the door? I snug my purse up on my shoulder.

“Nice to see you too, sweetness.”

I force myself to keep my eyes on his, even while a flushing pleasure moves down my spine. That pet name—God. It’s hard enough to admit to myself that I like it, in a perverse, fall-on-my-knees kind of way.

Especially after that kiss.

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

Sober, the walls between us are back up.

But they seem thinner, somehow. Less durable. Less insurmountable. Like the Graham who made me laugh at the engagement party is just beneath the surface, if I can only find a crack in his defenses. The Graham who kissed me like that in front of his parents has a weakness that I could find, if I looked hard enough.

Not that I need to do that—of course not.

“I’m here to see you.” Graham steps closer and I breathe in the soap and leather smell of him. “Am I not allowed to visit my fiancée?”

“Oh, stop. There’s nobody here to photograph you.”

He puts a hand on his chest. “Ouch.”

“Aww.” I put a hand on his cheek and stick out my bottom lip. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

He narrows his eyes. “Feelings? What would make you think I had feelings?”

“You’re right. You’re a stone-cold bastard.”

He laughs out loud. “Might as well be.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He leans down and kisses my cheek, and it sets my heart racing. I wasn’t screwing around—there is no one here to see us. He’s not obligated to play this role when we’re not strictly in public. But maybe it’s easier for him to stay in character. “You look tired.”

I pretend to fluff my hair. “So kind of you to notice.”

He grins, and for a moment I get a flash of Graham as a teenager, carefree and funny. He must have been that way once. I can see it in his face.

“You all right?” His tone is gruff, and oh—oh. He’s really asking.

It makes me nervous, these glimpses of a kinder Graham; one who cares about more than his business ventures. My first instinct is to lie, but I won’t have that. We can do small talk and light conversation all day, but who would I be if I got into the habit of lying casually all the time? Right—I’d still be Bellamy Leighton, because Graham Blackpool looking at me this way has always been a lie. “I’m a little worn out.”

“Long day at the office?”

“Two different offices.”

His eyebrows go up in surprise. “You had interviews today?”

“I had interviews. I won’t get callbacks.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I laugh out loud. “One of the hiring managers was so nervous about me that she asked me each of the questions twice, and the other one wanted to know how long I’d really be available at the firm.”

Graham shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t you be available?”

I let out another laugh, but it’s from the tight space at the back of my throat, where all the disappointment of today is stored up and ready to be unleashed in a torrent of tears. “The wedding.”

He blinks. “What wedding?”

“Our wedding.” My voice rises. Damn it—I am not going to lose it in front of him. Not today.

“Oh, shit,” Graham says, and then his face changes, emotions flickering through his eyes faster than I can keep up. “Are you hungry?”

“Did you come here to talk to me about something? Because if you didn’t—”

He puts his hand under my chin and tilts my face up to his. “Food. Have you eaten?”

I sigh. “No.”

“Then come with me.”

* * *

He takes me to the tiniest Italian restaurant I’ve ever been in. The size, in this case, truly doesn’t matter—every inch of it is magnificent, gleaming. Tables and chairs in dark, polished walnut, under pristine white tablecloths. We’re seated at a table in the back, and when the waiter asks if the location will do, Graham nods. “This is perfect.”

“I’ll be back with our wine selections.” The waiter is tall and lanky, and looks positively skinny next to Graham’s muscular frame.

But I shouldn’t be paying attention to his muscles.

We sit and look over the menus.

After a minute, I realize he’s staring at me.

“What?”

“You look different.”

“I thought I looked tired, you charming man, you.”

“You do.” He’s honest, but not malicious. “But you’re also....” He screws up his lips, searching for the word. “You look confident.”

“It’s the suit.” This is the custom skirt suit I spent a fortune on at the tailors on Connecticut Avenue. I was sure it would get me a job, just based on how killer I look in it. “And…the hair, and makeup.” Disappointment crowds in at the corners of my eyes, and I press my fingertips there, willing the tears away. “I went all-out.”

“I can see that. Are you sure they’re not going to call you back?”

I look at the ceiling. “I’m sure. I could practically hear them whispering liability before I was even out the door.”

Graham turns his menu over. “I hate to pile on.”

That makes me laugh. “Do you really?”

He looks me in the eye, and the gleam in his makes me wish we were sitting on the same side of the table. “Tonight I do.” Then he barrels on without waiting for another snappy comeback from yours truly. “My brother needs more from us.”

“Not possible.” I cut a glance to the tables around us, to be sure nobody’s listening. “Unless there’s something really kinky I should know about him.”

A dangerous grin lifts the corners of Graham’s mouth. “I thought we weren’t supposed to be discussing...things of that nature.”

“This is about your brother, not us.”

“And that’s better?”

I have to be stupidly red right now. “You’re right. This is not better. Let’s—let’s focus on what you came here to tell me about. It’s bad news, right?” A tiny, nameless dread comes to life at the back of my mind. “Am I getting fired?”

“From what job?”

“From being your—” I bury my face in my hands. “Oh, my God. I don’t even want to say it.”

“Then don’t.” Graham puts his menu flat on the table in front of us. “I told him you wouldn’t be interested in this. I know you’re going to hate it. But the President of the United States is asking us to move in together.”

I have to close my eyes. “Move in together? As in, live together?”

“Yes.” Graham nods solemnly. “I knew you’d be opposed. Especially because he wants us to live in New York City.”

It would have sounded absurd, a month ago. Before the papers started calling me America’s Sweetwhore. Before I lost my job at Capitol Bean. Before I looked into Graham Blackpool’s eyes and fell beneath the surface, never to recover.

But now?

Washington D.C. is a claustrophobic hell. Manhattan, with all its filth and flaws, couldn’t be better. I can disappear there. We both could disappear there. Even if I have to move in with Graham—and God, I can’t even think of how it would feel to be so close all the time—at least we could roam freely through the city.

I could get a job. I could do what I set out to do.

“That’s perfect.” Graham’s mouth drops open in shock. “When do we leave?”