“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 t
hought 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.
Chapter Fifteen
Graham
My phone bleats with a code red text.
That’s Luna speak for a massive shopping emergency.
Even though I have a shit ton of work on my desk, I won’t ignore my friend. I call her while tapping out the last line of an email to our design team, approving the quick garter fix they worked up this morning. “Talk to me.”
“I’m stuck.” It comes out in a long, needy whine, and I strain to make out the sounds behind her, the clicking of shoes, a few can I help yous, the ding of an intercom.
In my best stay-calm voice I say, “Tell me where you are. Are you stuck in the linen department at Bloomingdales again? Are you rocking in a corner yet, or are you still upright and semi-functional?”
She chokes out several miserable-sounding sobs. “Yes. Bloomingdales. Upright. But just barely. Shopping is so awful. How do you people manage this?”
“By ‘people’ do you mean men?”
“Everyone. Men, women, children. This is the worst. I can’t do it, Graham. Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”