CJ

Best. Sleepover. Ever.

Spending the night with Graham was never on my sex ed agenda—I figured that belonged in a relationship class rather than a seduction course—but now I can’t imagine my lesson plan being complete without this extra session. Drifting off in his arms, waking up with his lips warm on my neck and his husky voice asking if I want coffee, meeting his eyes in the mirror as he shaved and I swept on a coat of mascara—it was all wonderful. Perfect. A lesson in intimacy and the “morning after” that I won’t soon forget.

Because I’ll be repeating it tonight.

And the next night, and the next, and the next.

Then I’ll be moving into his guest room . . . I guess. Once the seven days of sex-cation are over, and if my apartment is still under construction . . .

I knew from the start that we had an expiration date, but when Graham said that last night, about me staying past Monday since he has plenty of room, it hurt a little. I didn’t realize how upsetting it would be to imagine a future without his kiss, his touch, or the new closeness that’s growing between us. I’m seeing sides of Graham I never knew were there, and experiencing the pleasure of his company in ways that go beyond the physical.

Though that’s quite nice, too. If “nice” means absolutely toe-curlingly incredible.

I’m daydreaming about everything we did to each other last night—about the moment when I made him lose control in my hand, and how much I want to do that again—when we step out of the elevator into the lobby. Graham stops dead, cursing softly beneath his breath.

I follow his mildly horrified gaze to a leggy woman posed near the front desk. Everything from her hot-pink raincoat, skin-tight pink skirt, scandalously low-cut gray blouse, and sky-high stilettos screams, “Look at me!” Add in the bouncy blond hair and expertly made-up blue eyes, and she’s probably one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen in real life.

But there’s something . . . not right about her smile, something that reminds me of what it feels like to be the last kid picked for volleyball in gym class every single day.

Anything with balls, I’m bad at. Which reminds me . . .

Note to self: research how to correctly play with a man’s balls so you have something new to show Graham tonight.

“Hey, G-man,” the woman purrs, eliminating any doubt that she’s exactly what she looks like—one of Graham’s women. I’ve only met a few of his former girlfriends, usually in passing at a reception or event, and they’ve all been stunning to the point where other women feel like trolls in comparison.

“Lucy.” Graham’s voice is clipped, brimming with irritation. I glance up at him, my eyes wide.

So this is the woman Graham said turned stalker on him after their breakup a few months ago.

Ouch.

I glance back at her, trying to hide my knowledge of her past misdeeds—who buys an ex-lover a plane ticket to Barbados or takes up running solely for the opportunity of bumping into him on his morning jog, for goodness’ sake? Running is abhorrent. But I school my expression, keeping my face neutral, since I don’t want her to feel embarrassed. I’d be deeply embarrassed if I knew an ex of mine had been talking about me with his new lover.

“Hey, I know this is kind of out of the blue.” Lucy’s eyes flit from Graham to me and back again with a nervous laugh. “And I’m sorry to, um, interrupt your morning. I just, I think I left my scarf at your place. You know, the black silk I always wear with this outfit?”

She motions down at her décolletage—which is impressive, borderline inappropriate if she’s on her way to the office, and could definitely benefit from a scarf tied at the neck to help conceal some of the extra boobage going on—but Graham’s eyes remain fixed firmly on her face.

“I don’t have anything of yours in my apartment, Lucy,” he grinds out through a tight jaw. “It’s all gone, and I would appreciate it if you would honor the boundaries we talked about.”

Her brows pinch. “I know you said I shouldn’t come over,” Lucy says, her voice creeping half an octave higher. “But I was just a couple blocks away and I thought—”

“Think again next time,” Graham says. “You should know by now I don’t say things I don’t mean. So I would appreciate it if you would take me at my word. Like when I texted you the other day, and asked you to stop contacting me. I meant it.”

Hurt flashes across Lucy’s features, her emotional pain so obvious, I can’t help but flinch in empathy. God, this poor woman. She’s a wreck. Like a very beautiful, well-put-together addict hunting for a fix she’s never going to be able to lay her hands on again, no matter how finely she dresses or how hard she tries.

The thought sweeps through my head followed by an eerily clear mental image of me standing where Lucy is now, clutching my suitcase and thanking Graham for a great seven days, when all I really want to do is cling to his leg and beg him to let me stay a little longer.

Maybe a lot longer.

My stomach churns at the thought. This is precisely what I promised myself I’d avoid. This is what I’ve been determined to keep at bay.

Lucy apologizes softly, her eyes shining with tears, and as she hurries toward the door, I realize how easy it would be to get hooked on Graham. Hooked just as hard. I already crave his touch, ache for his laughter, yearn to be wrapped up in his arms at the end of the night and wake there in the morning.

“Sorry about that,” Graham murmurs, lifting a hand to the man behind the lobby desk as we move toward the revolving doors. “She doesn’t seem to be getting the message that it’s over.”

I force a sympathetic smile. “Well, hopefully she will now. You were pretty firm.”

He grunts. “I have to be firm. I was pretty damn clear the other day, too. We moved past the let-her-down-easy phase a long time ago.”

“I get it,” I say, though of course I don’t. I’ve never had that kind of relationship before, the kind that leaves you so desperate you’ll keep rolling over and showing your vulnerable underbelly, no matter how many times you’re kicked to the curb. I cringe at the thought, and the stark realization that I don’t want to experience that kind of devastation. I don’t want to become Lucy. “See you tonight?”

“Tonight.” Graham leans down to kiss the top of my head. “I’ll be home by six thirty. I’m going to skip the run today.”

“Same here. I’m too beat for biking. I’ll probably be back around six thirty as well. Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Letting you stay.” He chuckles as we emerge into the cool spring morning and he starts toward the town car parked at the corner. “You say that as if it’s some sacrifice on my part. You know I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He pauses, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder as his brow furrows. “Do you need a ride? We can swing by your office first. It’s no trouble at all.”

I wave a hand and continue backing toward Chelsea, buttoning my jacket. “No, it’s fine. I want to walk. It’s not far, and I do my best brainstorming while walking.”

“Are you sure?” He narrows his eyes with a smile, looking so handsome, so tempting, that I almost reverse direction and hurry into the car beside him.

But in the end, I shake my head and wave. “I’m sure. Have a great day.”

I need to walk, to think about the work ahead and what to tackle on my agenda. The cool air usually helps clear my head. But by the time I reach the door to the space Love Cycle shares with several other up-and-coming designers, I’ve barely been able to think about sample shots or inventory. All I can think about is Graham, and how deep into the water I’ve waded with him already, so deep I can barely keep my head above the surface.

It would be dangerous to tread any deeper. My gut is issuing a red alert, and my heart is hammering out a careful, careful, be careful rhythm that makes it impossible to focus on my to-do list.

I know what I need to do. As soon as I reach my desk, I lock myself in my office and search for a hotel room for the next week.