FIVE
ELLE
The challenge of finding a new job isn’t enough to take my mind off Graham, not completely. It does help to make him a little less prominent in my thoughts. But over the next couple days, I can’t seem to escape the fact he exists.
He’s on the news—local and cable—when I’m flipping through channels, his smug smile sexing up my TV screen while he gives a statement on an immigration bill. He’s in my fantasies, too. When I close my eyes at night, the brief moment we shared in the piano bar creeps into my brain, barges into my dreams. Each time that happens, I shudder awake, wanting to tear my pajamas off because my skin is so hot, my heartbeat is so unnatural. And he’s there again, when I grab coffee with a friend after a celebratory lunch Tuesday afternoon. I pass a newspaper rack, flinching because his face stares back at me from an article about student loan forgiveness.
He’s the most quotable and filmable man in D.C. and it’s a damn shame.
“What a bunch of bull,” I say under my breath, rolling my eyes at the paper.
Ruby twists toward me, her mahogany and wheat-colored hair swinging around her shoulders. “Whatever you do, don’t call glorious news bull in front of Mr. Kyler when you start working for him after Christmas.” She wiggles her light brown eyebrows. “He’ll think you’re possessed or something.”
“My dad shunned one of his reporters for an interview a few years back. He probably already thinks I’m possessed.”
She wipes the smear of whipped cream from her upper lip then licks it off her finger. “You’re gonna end up hating me for referring you, I can already feel it. Then you’ll never want to hang out with me again because you won’t be able to look at my face without thinking of the Buzz.”
I highly doubt that will happen. I’ve known Ruby Gardel for years—we attended the same school from kindergarten through twelfth grade. Though she goes to Georgetown and her fiancé, Wes, is close friends with my ex-boyfriend, we stay in touch and usually get together once or twice a month. When I ran into her on Sunday, at the gym, she’d asked if I knew of any journalism friends interested in a job since Wes’s dad’s last assistant quit. I’d never personally met Mitchell Kyler, but his tabloid-centric paper is hot around D.C., so I jumped at the chance to work for him. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m broke.
Mr. Kyler had hired me on the spot at lunch yesterday, but not before letting me know he thought of my father’s politics as certified assholery. I hadn’t told him that Dad once called him a first class nutjob because I was afraid he’d retract the offer.
My hourly pay won’t come close to matching the tips I was making at the restaurant, but at least I’ll be earning something to put toward my installment payments. With the money I already made at 202, combined with the meager checking account my dad hasn’t frozen, I have my January tuition covered.
I’ll figure out the rest before class starts back in a month.
Taking my holiday-themed gingerbread latte off the counter, I leave a couple dollars in the tip jar and walk with Ruby to the parking lot. She stops in front of her car, resting the backs of her legs against the grille of the white Volvo and warming her hands on her cup.
“I know you said you’ve got plans over Christmas, but we should all get together when Blake comes back. Unless—” She screws her face into a frown, and I sigh, preparing myself for what’s coming next. It’s inevitable.
“Go ahead, you can say his name.”
“Unless you don’t want to be around Alex and his flavor of the week.” She smiles apologetically. “Ugh, sorry, Elle.”
Since Alex messaged me for a pre-vacation booty call only a few days ago, I wasn’t even aware he had a flavor of the week. Sadly, I’m not surprised. That was always his thing before we became an official couple, other girls. And though I can’t confirm it, I’m sure there were others when we were together, too.
Now, I’m even more grateful that I ignored his messages last week.
I shrug nonchalantly, hating that the pulse in my chest is so harsh. “We broke up almost six months ago—I think I’ll be okay.” I smile reassuringly. “And I totally agree. We can have a belated New Year’s party at my place. You know Blake is always on board for a good time.”
I don’t remind her about the last time she hung out with Blake. Ruby had projectile vomited like something straight out of The Exorcist because she couldn’t keep up with my roommate’s double Jager Bomb challenge. I can’t either, but I’ve never attempted it.
“Perfect.” She grins, pushing off the grille and hitting the unlock button on her keyfob. “Make sure you call me after Christmas and let me know how things with Mr. Kyler are going. And don’t complain too much because I already warned you the man is off his rocker.”
Backing toward my car, I laugh. “He seemed perfectly sane.”
If sane translates to him spending the bulk of our lunch meeting yesterday telling me how positive he is that Senator Yeats is the star of the most watched video on SmutBucket.com. Mr. Kyler wasn’t fazed when I softly mentioned that Yeats is 82 and missing a testicle because his source swore the swinging balls in the video were CGI’d.
“Mitch Kyler sane?” Ruby snorts, tugging my concentration back to her. “Please. He has enough conspiracy theories to give Quantico, Scandal, and Homeland new material for many seasons to come.” Winking, she climbs behind the wheel of her car and lets down the window. “Good luck!”
Still smiling, I turn to my burgundy Fusion and dig in my pocket for my keys. My pulse quickens when a card comes out and flutters facedown to the ground. I know whose card it is, and even though I should walk right over it—and maybe stomp it into the asphalt, just for good measure—I can’t. Graham Delaney and his dirty mouth have spent too much time occupying the space inside my head since I last saw him.
And that pain in my ribcage that came with thinking about my ex? Well, now it’s a soft flutter and it’s all thanks to the good senator and the business card he’d given me along with a handful of words that set fire to my blood:
I’m going to leave you with my number, and a few days from now, you’re going to call me if you’re still thinking about me.
When hadn’t I thought about him since he walked me to my car on Friday night? The fact he seems to pop up everywhere has made pretending he’s nobody damn near impossible. Groaning, I pick up the card from the blacktop and climb into my car. For the longest time, I sit in the parking lot, waiting for the inside of the Fusion to warm as I stare down at the number typed along the embossed paper. I give myself a hundred and one reasons why I shouldn’t dial those ten numbers.
He and my father are in the same line of work—in the same party, for that matter.
He’s high profile and over ten years older than me.
He called me a liar, and even though he was right, it was still rude.
With a mouth like his, he’s probably screwed half the city.
That mouth. Period.
And then, I think of the one reason I should call. Why I need to call.
I honestly haven’t been able to get him out of my head and won’t be able to until I’ve spoken to him and heard his voice.
Sighing, I slap the card down on my center console. My face pinches a little more with every key I tap, but I exhale and press the dial button. He answers on the third ring. “Elle.” Heat flares down my spine at the confidence behind his deep voice. The sexy growl. “You’re a day late.”
I turn off my car radio, drowning out Selena Gomez mid-“Fetish” and frown. “I figured you’d be a tad more cautious about how you answer your phone.” I put my car in reverse and, after checking my surroundings, back up. I’m enjoying my ability to drive it while I can. Knowing my dad, it’ll be the next thing he confiscates just because he wants to prove another point.
“Why should I be more cautious?” Graham demands.
“I could have been a reporter?” Lord knows they’re drawn to him, considering the number of times I’ve seen him in the news since Friday. His answer to every question could be “go fuck yourself” and they’d still broadcast his face and response because he’s that charming. That irresistible. “Did you stop and think that I might be someone else?”
“This is my personal number, so relax, you’re safe. Besides, there are thousands of other women named Elle in this city. It’s a popular name. But, if it makes you feel better, I won’t use your name … dove.”
He’s using that nickname again. To point out what he started to tell me at the piano bar—that compared to him, I really am pure and sweet. And it irks me.
“Elle works just fine, thank you.” Waving at the driver of the sedan who slows down enough for me to pull into traffic, I snort at his words. “And I’m sure you would know just how popular ladies’ names are, but thanks for making me feel so very special. Do you always carry around cards with your personal number?”
“Would you rather I wrote my number on your breasts? I have to admit, I greatly prefer them over a boring piece of cardstock. They’re very—”
“I’m in the middle of a restaurant,” I blurt out, interrupting him because I’m afraid of my body’s response to whatever he was preparing to say next. It’s bound to be dirty because that’s Graham. Dirty. And it’s scary I know that much about him after just one evening in his presence.
“Did you know your voice deepens when you lie? And you lick your lips, too. And that you narrow those blue eyes just slightly?” When I gulp, he chuckles. “What time are you available tonight?”
“What makes you think I’m available? I mean, I haven’t given you a single thought until today when I found your card in my coat pocket.”
“The lies, beautiful. You wouldn’t have called if you weren’t available and hadn’t thought of me, so let’s not waste time with ridiculous back-and-forth. You want to see me, and I definitely want to see you. What time should I pick you up?”
“You’re over-confident.”
“Yes, I bathe in it every morning right after I piss excellence. Now, Elle, the time?”
After I stupidly tell him I’ll be home all night—because what’s more interesting than a twenty-two-year-old woman who sits around during holiday break flipping back and forth through travel channels—and give him the address to my apartment, he says, “I’ll see you at nine.”
My head spins because this entire exchange has gone so fast. I went from calling to hear his voice, so I wouldn’t think about him, to jumping at his dinner invitation. “Wait! Where are you taking me?”
“Does it matter as long as I promise to keep you safe?”
“That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard.” Braking at a red traffic light, I catch a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror. I’m flushed, go figure. “Of course it matters.”
He laughs again. It reverberates through my body, tightening every muscle down to my core. Damn, why does he have to have such an effect on me? “I’ll see you at nine, Elle.”