THIRTY
ELLE
“Can I—” I pause and drag my hand over my face. “Can I get you something to drink?”
It’s still a shock that Graham’s here, sitting on my couch, his dark gaze following me as I pace the living room. “No. Sit, Elle.”
I prop my shoulder against the entertainment system and rake my teeth over my bottom lip. “You should have warned me you were coming.”
“So you could ignore that text, too?” He clenches his jaw, and I dip my head in shame. I’d planned to message him back—eventually. After lunch with my father this afternoon, there was so much on my mind that I wanted to give myself a day or two before I responded to Senator Sexy-Ass. And besides, hadn’t he just spent several days avoiding me?
“I was going to text you back,” I whisper.
“Were you?” He stares at me for a long time, unblinking, face emotionless, before he glances over his shoulder at my front door. “Do you think your roommate will come back anytime soon?”
I shake my head. Blake had excused herself from the apartment around the same time I regained my ability to speak. She swore she forgot she’d agreed to meet a friend for drinks tonight and had waltzed out into the night without a jacket or changing out of her shorts. She was wearing a shit-eating grin, though, so there’s that. She’s never going to let me live this down because the only thing she loves more than hearing about my sexploits is being right about who I’ve been doing them with.
“No, she’ll be out for a while,” I say in a raspy voice.
“Good.” He nods to the empty seat on the couch, then his penetrating gaze probes my face. “Sit down, Eleanor.”
My legs quiver as I walk toward him, and I swallow a gasp when he covers my knee with his hand the moment I ease down on the edge of the cushion. I bury my nails in my palms as a jolt of static rushes through my veins. “I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.”
“Was it all the calls and texts I sent that made you think that shit, Elle?” When I drag in a breath and look at the backs of my hands in my lap, he cups my face and tilts my stare up to his. “I’ve had a hard time staying away from you. It’s … unsettling.”
“Unsettling?” He moves his head up and down, and I nervously lick the center of my lips. He traces his thumb over the wetness, tugging my lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. I let out a noise that burns my insides, my ears, my brain. “I never expected you’d come here.”
“I was drinking,” he starts, and my eyebrow jerks up. For someone who’s been drinking, he looks perfectly composed, dressed like he just stepped out of a board meeting instead of a bar. He reaches up and loosens his blue tie, drawing my attention to his long fingers. “I was drinking because I was pissed you wouldn’t answer. And then this song came on—something about Malibu—and I thought of you. Of that night you were telling me about taking photos on the beach there.”
My posture stiffens. “You remember me telling you about Zuma Beach?”
The smile he offers me is forced and almost pained. “I remember everything you’ve said to me, dove.” When I lean in close to him and inhale, he relaxes and lets out a soft chuckle against my face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Wishing I had a breathalyzer.” He brushes his hand across my cheek and guides my focus up to his again. My lips twitch at the confusion on his bronze features. “You’re listening to Miley Cyrus and thinking of me, so you must be drunk.”
He says nothing for a long pause. His lips move just slightly, the merest tremor that sends butterflies spiraling through my chest. Finally, he scowls. Feathers his thumb over my cheek. And then, he slides away from me, putting several inches of space between our bodies as he zeroes in on the wrapping paper on my coffee table. “Do I want to ask?”
Standing, I grab it and toss it into the coat closet in the front entrance. When I close the door, he angles me with a sharp look. “My brother is fostering a little girl. I bought a gift this evening to send him and his husband to congratulate—”
As I swallow the rest of my words, his dark head jerks back. He follows my movements as I walk back across the room, curiosity tugging at his expression. “Your brother and his husband?”
I flinch. I get foolish when Graham’s around, but tonight it’s worse than ever because he caught me so off guard. I feel bare in front of him, completely exposed, and I cross my arms over my chest and glance down at my pale toenail polish. “Yes, that’s what I said.”
He steeples his fingers against his mouth. “Hmm.”
“If you have something negative to say, I’ll have to ask you to go. I’m sorry, but—” As I walk past him, he stops me, hooking his hands behind my knees. He yanks me down to him, knocking the breath right from my body as he straddles my legs on either side of his waist.
“Does it look like I give a fuck what your brother does and who he does it with?” he demands, his lips so close they softly skim mine with every syllable he speaks. I give a helpless sigh, and he groans. “But I think I’ve figured it out. What happened with your father. Why he reacted so … aggressively to that family issue you told me about. Have I, Elle?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I support my brother’s choices and my dad wasn’t happy about that. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. I love Zach—everything about him. My father’s anger doesn’t mean a damn thing to me where my brother is concerned.”
Closing his brown eyes, he rests his forehead to mine and exhales. “Please, dove, never stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” My throat hurts just saying it.
“Pissing your father off. Being a goddamn decent human. It makes you so…” He leaves the rest of his sentence dangling, reminding me of the Graham I sat across from while a pianist played renditions of Rod Stewart and Madonna songs. But tonight is different. Tonight, there are no dirty innuendos or sinful stares.
“It makes me so what?”
Opening his eyes, he gives me a feral look that reels me in. Captures me. And refuses to let me go. “So you, dove.” He reaches around me on the coffee table, grabs the small white box he was carrying when he came inside ten minutes ago, and then presents me with it. “Flowers seemed too cliché,” he explains.
“Graham—” He stops me from protesting, closing my fingers around the corners of the flimsy cardboard. Glaring at him, I open it, half-expecting more expensive Agent Provocateur lingerie for him to rip off just because he can. But I soften when my gaze lands on the small container of fruit at the bottom of the box. “Miley Cyrus, rule-breaking, and blackberries, all on the same night.”
“An apology.” He drops his mouth to my neck, blowing against the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. “For that last night in New York.”
That last night in Manhattan has bothered me for days—has haunted me to the point of contacting my father. Once I knew her name, it hadn’t taken much effort to discover that her last name was Strickland, not Stryker. That my dad was right, she is gone, though I wasn’t able to find anything more than a short obituary. I have a million and one questions, all of them about her, but when Graham releases a warm breath into my skin, and I peer down to see his eyes are closed, I realize they’ll have to wait.
Again.
“You’re still here?” Blake’s eyes pop wide when I creep into the kitchen shortly after midnight. She’s digging around in the refrigerator and shuffling her bare feet. “Figured you took off with the Bathroom Bandit to go to his place.”
I jerk my head toward my bedroom. “He’s … asleep.”
“Oh.” Grabbing a container of leftovers, she closes the fridge with her hip and cranes her neck toward the hallway like she expects him to come strutting down it, naked, at any moment. “You were quiet.”
She sounds impressed, so I quickly shut down her assumptions with a brisk head shake. “He was drunk.” I grab a bottle of water and slide next to her on a barstool, wrinkling my nose as she dips a leftover quesadilla in salsa. It’s been in the refrigerator since the night I returned from Manhattan, but I don’t bother to point that out since she won’t listen. “He brought me blackberries in lieu of flowers, and then he passed out on my shoulder.”
“At least he didn’t vomit on you.” She nibbles on the edge of her quesadilla, makes a face, and tosses it back into the Styrofoam to-go box. “That’s disgusting.”
“Well, it has been in there for days.”
She shoves the container over the side of the counter where it tumbles into the trashcan. The stench of tomatoes and onions penetrates the air, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she places her elbow on the counter and rests her chin in her palm. “So … Graham Delaney. I don’t know whether to point out that I was right or hate your ass for pussy-whipping the sexiest man in Congress.”
“Blake,” I groan. She playfully bumps my shoulder with hers.
“Sorry, I’m trying. He really is gorgeous.” She casts a look toward my bedroom again and clears her throat. “I’ll never look at him the same on the news again. You know that, right?”
I do. Because I can’t see his face or read his name without thinking of his dirty mouth or cocky smirks. It’s been that way for me since the moment I met him in person. I scoot off the barstool, holding my water close to my chest. “Thanks for not making a big deal.”
“Honestly, I’m still recovering.” She grabs a paper towel off the holder on the counter and wipes her mouth, making another face as she smacks her lips to get rid of the old quesadilla taste. “From the shock and the hotness.”
Leave it to her to lighten a tense situation. Offering her a grateful smile, I leave the kitchen, water in hand, and return to my bedroom. I freeze in the doorway when I see that he’s awake. Sitting up in my bed. Eyes narrowed down at my phone on the nightstand. I nudge the door open with my hip and he snaps his gaze up at the creaking noise.
“You’re looking through my phone,” I say in a dull voice.
The corners of his mouth twitch into a sardonic smile. “I haven’t touched it. Your father texted, by the way. That’s what woke me up. He wants to know if you’ve given up on the Charlotte bullshit and if you’re ready to focus on what’s important.”
“Graham,” I whisper, but he’s already out of my bed, jerking on the white button-up I’d shrugged off him earlier as I coaxed him into bed. I knew how stupid it was for him to spend the night, for him to invade my space, but I hadn’t had it in me to bother him. And now, he’s glaring at me like I’ve just shot him in the chest. “Please … just wait.”
He goes still when I cross the room and my hand falls on his arm, but he doesn’t push me away. He only stares down at the backs of my fingers, the veins in his neck taut. “I’m a fucking idiot. You say please, you look at me, and I don’t think right.”
“I shouldn’t have looked her up, I should have—” He turns into me, cutting me off by slanting his lips over mine. He still tastes like bourbon, but it doesn’t matter as his hands splay over the small of my back, crushing me to him. His kiss is angry and brutal, and when he’s done, when the warmth is gone, I stumble back, bracing my hands on the dresser behind me. “I’m sorry,” I say despite the lump in the back of my throat.
His laughter is harsh. So rough my chest caves like I’ve just been punched. “You shouldn’t be.” He raises brown eyes to mine, and I drag my hand over my throat. “You’re not the one who did anything wrong. That blame is on me and your father.”
My heart jolts. “What?”
He stalks closer to me, catching my breath with every step. “You want answers.”
“Yes. No filter.”
He rakes his hand over his face and breathes heavily into his palm. “Charlotte was my fiancée.” A moment of silence passes where painful electricity sparks between us and his gaze holds mine hostage. My stomach burns, my legs shake, but I hold steady. Waiting. Always waiting with this man. “My mother said it wouldn’t have lasted—she would’ve paid anything for it not to last—but it’s not like I’ll ever know that.”
Bile rises in my throat because I know where this is going. “What did he do? My dad, Graham … what did he do?”
He drops his hand from his mouth and closes the remaining space between us. I cry out like a wounded animal when he pulls me into him, hands on my waist, mouth lowered to my hair. “He threatened her into doing what he wanted. She wasn’t like us, Elle. She didn’t come from empires, so she believed he was powerful enough to hurt her. That he’d ruin her career if she didn’t fuck him and she’d never stand a chance in this town.”
“Graham,” I whisper, but he continues, tearing me apart with each and every word.
“Your father is a hypocrite.” His voice hitches on that last part, emotion breaking through the hard facade. “He got her pregnant, told her to get rid of it, and then did his best to ruin her life when she wouldn’t. Your father did that, Elle. The future of this goddamn country.”
I squeeze my fingers into his upper arms, closing my eyes as I struggle for breath. I wish I could be shocked. I wish to God I could be horrified and defend my dad, but no words come when I open my mouth. Because I can still picture Dad’s reaction to Charlotte when I asked about her. Because I know what kind of man my father can be. Because I believe Graham.
“When she told me, the only thing I could think of was my ego. That my fiancée was knocked up by some other motherfucker. I didn’t think about what she was telling me or about anyone but myself to ask what had happened. Typical Graham. If I’d asked, I would’ve known that it was one time. That she let him get into her head and scare her. Instead, I told her to get the fuck out of my face because I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—waste my time with a cheating bitch.”
A shudder ripples through his body and echoes through mine. He draws in his cheeks, nostrils flaring, face contorted in pain. When he says it, I already know what I’ll hear, but it doesn’t rock my world any less.
“She killed herself a week later.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He buries his face in my hair, inhaling me deeply as I repeat over and over how sorry I am. At first, he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even move. Once his breathing slows though, he pulls away from me. In a split second, he goes back to looking at me like the politician—not the man—and I lift my hand to his face. He curves into my palm, releasing a harsh breath against my skin.
And my heart, oh my heart, swells.
“Please don’t go, Graham.”
When those four words leave my lips, when I hear my voice, I realize that I’ve violated another rule of our arrangement. That four-letter word he told me had no room whatsoever in our relationship.
I am in love with Graham Delaney.