SEVEN
ELLE
Agreeing to meet Graham just might be the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done. And, honestly, I’m not too sure what that says about me. The second we disconnected from our second call, I launched into full panic mode. I sat in traffic, biting furiously at my bottom lip, trying to figure out what the hell had come over me. It’s not like Graham has good intentions. He doesn’t even attempt to hide his bad intentions, and that’s alarming. My ex had perfected the act of pretending to be a perfect gentleman, a boy my father approved of. With Alex, an invitation to dinner translated to sex. An offer to catch a movie meant a hand job in the theater—and on the way home. And a late night text to check in on me was an opening for a quickie before class.
But Graham Delaney is not a boy. He’s had no issue telling me every thought on his filthy mind so far, so as I drive into the garage of my building, I tell myself that maybe he genuinely wants just dinner. Nothing more.
I’m laughing by the time I park.
“Nothing more, my ass,” I mutter. I grab my phone, prepared to call him back with an excuse, but my fingers tingle when I notice he’s already anticipated that. He had texted while I was driving.
Graham Delaney: Stop second-guessing your decision because I’m not going to buy any bullshit about suddenly coming down with the flu. I’ll see you at nine.
I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek. Senator Sexy-Ass is alarming, all right. One conversation. After one conversation, he’s already figured out my next move like he’s known me for years instead of days. I write him back, I’ve already had the flu. I’ll be ready at nine, and then head into my apartment.
“Do you plan to continue this outrageous game, Eleanor, or are you ready to settle this situation like adults?”
I wince, almost dropping the phone from its spot between my ear and the crook of my neck. Stupid. I am absolutely stupid for not looking at the screen before answering. In my defense, it’s a quarter before nine. Although I’ll never, ever admit this to him, I’ve thought of Graham entirely too much since I responded to his last text this afternoon. When my cell rang in the middle of pulling my dress over my head, I immediately assumed it was him and had accepted the call. Instead, as I sit down on the end of my bed, I hear the controlled breathing of the last person I want to talk to.
My father.
“Eleanor?”
“Yes, I’m here.” I grab one of my strappy, black pumps from the floor by its four-inch heel and slip it onto my foot. I squint down at the peep toe, relieved I didn’t smudge the nude polish I brushed on last minute. “Look, I really don’t have time for this tonight. I can call you tomorrow or Thursday, though, if that works for you.”
“Hmm.” Lord, I hate when he does that because it means some asshole comment will follow. Sure enough, a second later, he says, “If you want your life back, you’ll make time.”
I shouldn’t let that get to me—after all, I’m speaking to someone who’s spent the majority of my existence making me feel inadequate. Still, it’s hard to think of anything else other than hanging up on him and blocking his calls for assuming that, now that he’s cut me off, I no longer have a life.
Jabbing the speakerphone button, I toss the phone on my bed, where it lands on the ivory sweater dress I decided against wearing. “I thought I was settling things like an adult when I told you that Zach’s happiness means more to me than your image. My opinion isn’t changing. I’m not going to distance myself from my brother or beg him not to love someone, just because it doesn’t fit your agenda. Sorry, Dad, it’s never going to happen.”
He snorts, and I can vividly picture him in his old world style office half an hour away in McLean, smoking a cigar and cursing the day he brought me home from the hospital twenty-two years ago. “This all just seems damn convenient since I recently announced I’m considering a bid for 2020.”
He’s not just considering it. He had narcissistically told us on Thanksgiving that he is the future of this country—a visionary with a winning smile, a fat bank account, and a set of values that would make a nun weep tears of joy.
Releasing a bitter laugh that stings the center of my chest, I shove my other foot into its shoe, my fingers shaking while I secure the strap behind my ankle. “I’m sorry you feel your gay son is going to ruin your chance at becoming president.” Standing, I smooth the black dress down over my hips. “He’s not, and you should be ashamed of yourself for making him feel he has to hide who he is.”
“You didn’t mention yourself and your … activities.” I freeze. I shouldn’t care what my father thinks about who I see, or what I do while seeing them, but the first thought that comes to mind is Graham. Had word gotten back to Dad about the drinks I shared with him Friday night?
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask defensively.
“That in the last four or five years, you’ve changed beaus like underwear.” Dropping my shoulders, I roll my eyes. In the last four years, I’ve had two short-term boyfriends and, most recently, Alex. Whom I had dated for two of those years while Dad constantly praised his excellent morals and background. And really, who the hell even uses the word “beau” these days?
My father clears his throat before asking, “Did you know they were getting married? Did they tell you what they planned to do before they went through with it? Did you tell him you approved?”
“Yes,” I snap. “And if Zach asked me again what I thought of it, I’d tell him to—” The doorbell rings, and my heart catapults into my throat. Graham’s here and I’m still in my bedroom, arguing with the most stubborn man in this country. “I’d tell him to go for it. Zach could ask me a hundred times on a hundred different days, and my answer would always be the same,” I finish, noticing the anger in my voice has dulled in my eagerness to see the person I’d been prepared to cancel on just a handful of hours ago.
“So you told him to go through with this disg—”
“Dad,” I say through clenched teeth, “if you say what I think it is you’re about to say, you can count me out of your life for good. I’m not kidding.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Then you really don’t know me all that well.” Grabbing my clutch from my dresser, I take one final look at myself in the mirror. I’d channeled Holly Golightly in pearls and a black, curve-hugging sweater dress, leaving my long ebony waves loose around my shoulders. “They got married, they’ll hopefully stay married, and I’m happy for them. Please … just stop.”
“You’re still a child,” he says. “You don’t even know what makes you happy.”
“Right. Bye, Dad.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Eleanor,” he says harshly, and I draw in a breath, even though those five words shouldn’t faze me anymore.
I’ve heard it all before, especially over the last few years. When I chose GWU over his Ivy League alma mater, after he found a box of condoms in my bedroom drawer when I was nineteen, when Blake took me bar-hopping for my twenty-first birthday and my photo and a blurb wishing me a good one made it onto the front page of a society editorial.
The list goes on and Dad’s displeasure never ends.
“No, not just disappointed,” he continues. “I’m ashamed of you.”
The doorbell chimes again, and I hurry from my bedroom, the frantic drum of my heels on the carpeted floor matching my heartbeat. “Well then, I won’t feel too bad for having to hang up. I’ll call your scheduler so we can eventually sit down for that grown-up conversation you want,” I say stiffly, even though I’m pretty sure they’ve just adjourned until January.
“Eleanor, don’t you dare hang up on me!”
Turning off my phone, I toss it in my bag and rest my head against the door. I’m not going to let him ruin my night. He’d already screwed up my holiday break, but I won’t bring my dad to dinner with Graham. Smiling, I fling the door open.
“You’re early, Delaney.” The words fade to a whisper when I spot an incredibly tall, blonde woman dressed for business in a black blazer and matching wide-leg pants. From the other side of the hallway, I hear the sound of my neighbor’s customary Friday night party—they’re blasting Bebe Rexha and G-Eazy’s “Me, Myself, & I.” I can make a guess as to why she’s here even if she is dressed differently from the usual stoners who mistake my door for his.
“Sorry, Jason’s place is right there.” I point across the hall.
A hesitant smile plays on her lips. “Elle?”
I pause from shutting the door and arch an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I’m Veronica, Graham’s assistant. He was tied up in a meeting and sent me.”
Veronica. This must be who he was speaking to while we were on the phone earlier. “He sent you to tell me he wouldn’t be able to make it?” Before I can stop myself, I let my shoulder droop against the doorway. I’m not sure if it’s in relief that I might have wiggled my way out of dinner or regret at not getting to see him.
The corners of her glacier gray eyes crease into a frown. “He didn’t tell you I was coming?” When I give her a brisk shake of my head, she pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “Of course he didn’t. He sent me to bring you to him.”
“Oh.” I straighten, holding my purse close to my body like a shield. My heart races against my hand. “I could’ve just driven to him. He didn’t have to put you out of the way.”
Her smile is back, but it’s forced. “He insisted, so I’m ready whenever you are.” She examines my attire and one of her cheeks draws in like she’s biting it. “It’s cold out tonight, so you might want to grab a coat.”
The silence between us is heavy and awkward as she leads me to—what looks and smells like—a brand new white BMW 7 series. Sitting next to her, I twist my hands together, trying to make sense of the sudden frigidity behind her tone right before we took off. What the hell had Graham told her about me?
Wetting my lips, I’m grateful I opted for gloss instead of lipstick so I don’t show up with pink-stained teeth. “Do you know where he’s taking me?”
Piercing eyes glance over at me. “His place. He had a chef prepare dinner for you.” I notice she grips the steering wheel tighter, and I feel the sinking sensation that Graham and his aide might have been more at one time. Veronica is drop dead gorgeous. More runway model than any political assistant I’ve ever seen. She’s got the whole Charlize Theron Atomic Blonde look to her—right down to the short platinum hair and annoyed expression.
Navigating through D.C., she says little else to me until her phone beeps while we’re inside the elevator of a luxury high-rise condominium building that overlooks the Potomac River. “He just messaged. He’s already inside, so you can go right in once we get up there.”
I nod, feeling warmth—a combination of confusion and embarrassment—swell over my skin with each floor the elevator ascends. Surely he wouldn’t do something as calloused as sending a woman he’s screwed to pick me up, would he? But when I glance over at Veronica, who’s glowering a hole into the elevator panel, it’s more than obvious that something is wrong.
And with a reaction like that, a failed office romance is the only thing that makes sense.
When we stop on the twelfth floor, she points at the door directly across the hall. “That’s his condo.” While her tone isn’t as cold as before, it’s still detached.
Rubbing my hand anxiously over my chest, my fingers catching one of the buttons on my trench coat, I step out of the car into the dimly lit hallway. The sound of my heels seems to echo off the gleaming hardwood and scratch loudly when I pivot around to look at Veronica. “Thank you again. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name?”
“Delaney. It’s Veronica Delaney.” Giving me a final smile that looks like it hurts her face, she punches a button and the elevator doors start to slide together. “Have a nice night, Elle.”