He says this as though he’s ever in his life flown hungover, which I doubt. I’ve seen Graham under the influence, but never smashed. This is just another of his always-in-control qualities—one that used to bother me, when I was in my phase of going hard and getting as trashed as humanly possible. I wanted him to join in. I didn’t see then that getting liquored up and trying to seduce him was never going to work. Graham doesn’t do drunken hookups.
Ding.
Oh shit. Are he and Emma hooking up tonight? Is that what this is about? Is this the first time, or a repeat? This could affect my best laid plans—so to speak. I can’t imagine how to discover the answer to that question, though. Damn, damn, damn.
I fight to keep my voice even while my brain is going a hundred miles per hour. “So you’re going back home tomorrow, then. Did you miss class this week?”
He rests his chin in his hand, too. “Yeah, but two are independent study, and the other two gave me a pass because I completed research papers early. So it’s all good.”
We’re in this mirrored pose, a foot apart, over the corner of the table. I ask him about his final classes, as though I’m interested in the specifics of them—and perhaps I would be, if I knew enough about literature to know what the hell he’s talking about. I’m listening just closely enough to reply and form questions while I’m cataloguing details I haven’t had the chance to savor in a while.
I’ve said that Graham is the best-looking guy in the cast—a towering claim considering the fact that Reid, Quinton and Tadd are no fugly ducklings and are constantly publicized as Hollywood’s hottest young celebs. Quinton is solid, cut musculature while Tadd embodies the buff surfer look, and Reid is so beautiful that sometimes I’m jealous of the perfection of his face.
But Graham is all dark, smoldering male. In the hazy, subdued light of the bar and against his lighter-toned skin, his dark chocolate hair and smoky eyes are almost black. He’s wearing his usual expression—cool and easygoing, but shuttered. My God, he’s hot, and though he must have some idea of this, he rarely exhibits that cocky veneer that comes second nature to Reid.
He’s rattling off something about Dostoyevsky and existentialism when suddenly he stops mid-sentence and runs a hand through his hair. One lock of hair sticks straight up in front. “Sorry. That can’t possibly be as fascinating to you as your acting skills indicate.” His smile is self-deprecating, lashes sweeping down as he sighs. “You should stop me before I get that far.”
“Hey,” I say, “just because I can’t even say Dosty-Dosto—”
“Dostoyevsky.”
“Right, Dostoyevsky, doesn’t mean I don’t find something you’re that enthusiastic about interesting.” That adorable cowlick is begging me to reach out and blend it in with the rest of his hair, but I recall what Reid had to say about my casual touches in front of Emma and I keep my hands to myself with immense effort. Having raised the thought of her in my head, I have to fight the urge to check if she’s even watching.
Graham clears his throat and glances down the table at her. I’m crossing my fingers that he at least forgot all about her for the space of that little literary exchange, even if he’s recalling her existence now. When he smiles and winks at her, I want to emit a sharp little scream and stomp like I used to do as a small child whenever someone told me no. His eyes swing back to mine and I swallow that outburst and smile instead.
*** *** ***
Emma
Graham is leaving California in the morning. I’m enjoying interacting with everyone, celebrating MiShaun’s engagement to David, but I’m hyper aware of the hours and minutes ticking away. His wink is a tiny electrical zap, darting a zing of pleasure through me.
He’s sitting at the other end of the table, with Brooke hanging on his every word, and I’m trying not to be jealous—or concerned.
That attempt isn’t going so well.
I tell myself that I’m only jealous of the time I’m losing with him, which rings half-true and half-hollow.
“Emma, I hear you and Reid are doing Ellen?” Meredith snaps me out of my gloomy trance.
“Yeah, in a couple of weeks. I’m scared to death.”
“No need to be scared,” Reid says, swinging his attention to our conversation. “She’s just as nice in person as she seems.”
“You said that about Ryan,” I accuse, smirking. “Are you going to tell me that every time?”
“I was right, wasn’t I? And no, if someone’s going to be tough, I’ll give you a heads up.”
“Promise?”
He hooks my pinky with his. “Promise. And for the record, I’ve never broken a pinky swear.”
“And how many pinky swears have you made, Mr. Alexander?” Meredith asks, arms folded loosely over her chest as she leans back to watch our discussion play out in front of her.
“Meredith,” he says, “that’s classified information. Top secret. Plus I tried the Boy Scout promise on her months ago, and she promptly accused me of never having been a Boy Scout. Imagine.” He blinks innocently and we can’t help but laugh. This far away from the humiliation of last fall, his wicked reputation feels less personal.
Lips flattened, Meredith says, “Yes, imagine. I’m thinking this is numero uno pinky swear for you, buddy.”
Our fingers are still hooked on the table in front of Meredith, who angles one eyebrow in question before I withdraw my hand and give Reid a stern look. “Okay, I’m choosing to believe you and your pinky swear. Don’t blow that trust.”