There, underneath the elegant stem of the martini glass, is a folded note, my name on it in Graham’s handwriting.
Drinks and winks and mysterious notes, oh my . . .
My face flushes as I reach for it. He’s going to tell me he made a mistake. He’s going to tell me to go home, change into my snowman-covered flannel pajamas, and embrace my life as a person who is always on the outside looking in.
The cool spring breeze on my exposed arms suddenly feels like ice, summoning goose bumps from my skin. With shaking hands, I unfold the note and read: Go to the restroom.
I wrinkle my nose and murmur, “I already peed before I came up, thank you.” Who knew meeting a man who knew you so well could be so . . . completely unromantic?
But then, this isn’t about romance. This is a business arrangement with pleasurable benefits, and I would be a fool to forget it. The part of me that’s still a young girl with a crush on her older brother’s best friend has to stay out of sight and out of mind. There’s no room for her around here, only for grown-up CJ and her practical and grounded expectations.
I glance around the patio, but there’s still no sign of Graham, and I confess I feel silly texting him to say I don’t have to pee. Seriously, this isn’t a doctor’s visit where you need to whiz in a cup.
I take a small sip of my drink, then a larger one, my foot bobbing as I await the arrival of the man of the hour. The man of the week, who might very well be planting his flag in my moondust before the evening is through.
Cursing under my breath, I down the entire cocktail in one long gulp. Hell, I need it. And—bonus points—I think maybe I can pee now. If I try really hard.
Licking the sea-salty goodness from my lips, I slide off my stool and amble down the hallway toward the restrooms, already feeling looser in my limbs, my equilibrium slightly off in the three-inch peep-toe heels Chloe insisted were the only choice for a “first date.”
More like first bang . . .
I take a deep breath. Then another. “That’s right, cool, easy, and breathing. Always breathing,” I whisper as I squint at the doors on the left, looking for the ladies’ room sign. “You can do this.”
I pause in front of a door marked private. Before my stress-and-martini-affected brain can sort out what’s so hush-hush about this room, the door opens and a familiar hand clamps around my upper arm, pulling me into a darkened room, a private lounge it seems.
I blink, my pulse spiking as my eyes adjust to the dimness, and Graham chastises me in a deep voice. “Don’t ever drink a cocktail that you haven’t personally watched the bartender pour.”
“Then don’t order me drinks to leave with your notes.” I’m impressed with how sassy I sound, despite the hammering of my heart. “And were you spying on me? That’s not creepy at all.”
“Creepy?” He shakes his head in the near darkness as he draws me closer, until the spicy, addictive smell of him swirls through my head, making me even dizzier than I was before. “Miss Murphy, are you trying to hurt my feelings?”
“Never,” I whisper, adrenaline making my chest feel as if it’s filled with a swarm of butterflies on a sugar rush. “I’m going to be very respectful of your feelings. And very appreciative of your time and attention.”
“That’s sweet,” he murmurs. “But before you start thanking me, let me give you something to be grateful for, beautiful.”
My lips part to tell him I?
??m already grateful, but before I can speak, his mouth finds mine, needy, urgent, hungry.
This isn’t a soft and tender first kiss.
It’s a downright claiming.
His big hands cup my cheeks, and as he holds my face, he devours my lips. My knees go weak. Tingles spread everywhere. My insides hum. Holy hell. This is kissing. This is kissing like I’ve never been kissed before.
I feel owned, and I relish it as his tongue explores me, his teeth nipping, his faint stubble rubbing against me. Everything, all of it, sets off a swirl of sensations inside me, making those sugar-rush butterflies spin like they’re caught up in a hurricane.
I’ve spent so many nights dreaming about the taste and feel of him—from the days when I imagined him kissing me at homecoming, to sometime last week when I woke up from a dirty dream starring Graham in a pair of running shorts and nothing else. But no fantasy could ever have prepared me for this. He tastes exactly like I thought he would, like mint and salt and that clove-and-brown-sugar aftershave he wears.
And, oh, how I want to be thinking deep, meaningful thoughts. Or at least taking copious mental notes about how un-freaking-believable this feels, but all I can think is Holy crap, Graham Campbell is kissing me. He’s kissing me, and it’s the best thing that has ever happened to my mouth, bar none. Forget gourmet cupcakes and that chocolate bar from Paris. They’ve got nothing on this man’s drop-dead sexy lips.
You’re going to be hooked in one go, like a drug addict . . .
The thought flitters through my mind, funny and scary at the same time, before I lose the ability to process any thoughts or feelings aside from the intense sensation of heat—sizzling, burning, exploding like a thousand fireworks inside me.
Graham wraps his arms around my waist and tangles his fingers in my hair, holding my mouth prisoner, though there’s no need. I have absolutely no urge to escape.
No, I want to be right here. Right now. With Graham kissing me as if he’s never wanted anything as much in his life. His tongue, lips, teeth, and powerful chest are all pressed to mine, assuring me of his commitment to lesson one.