Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Anastasia
I t starts with a look.
One of those long, lingering ones from across the pool table where Graham is doing his best impression of a man who doesn’t want to be noticed, even though the entire damn room gravitates toward him like he’s the sun in a galaxy of lesser beings.
And me?
I’m the idiot comet barreling straight for impact, fully aware I should redirect but unwilling—incapable—of changing course.
The truth is, I shouldn’t be flirting with him. Not when the air between us still crackles from the fallout of everything unsaid. Not when the whispers in the locker room are starting to bleed into rumors, and certainly not after I overheard Brooke, the team’s PR manager, delicately suggesting to Graham that the optics of our situation might not be great.
Translation? People are talking.
About me.
About him.
About whether my name is being thrown around for the permanent team doctor position because of my credentials or because of my ability to warm his bed.
So yeah, I should absolutely not be standing here, twirling the end of my pool cue between my fingers, throwing Graham little half-smirks just to see if I can make that muscle in his jaw twitch.
But I do.
Because despite all my best instincts, there is something utterly intoxicating about the way his gaze darkens every time I move.
“You’re going to miss the shot if you keep looking at me like that.”
I blink, barely suppressing my grin. “I wasn’t looking at you.”
Graham exhales a laugh, low and indulgent, before stepping forward to line up his shot. He’s loose now, more at ease than I’ve seen him in weeks, but there’s still something sharp coiled beneath the surface.
“Liar,” he murmurs, not even glancing up from the table.
And dammit, the worst part is, I can’t even deny it.
Brady and Nick cash out soon after, exchanging goodbyes before heading toward the door, leaving us standing at the edge of the pool table, surrounded by the kind of electric silence that makes my spine hum.
Graham glances at the half-empty whiskey glass on the ledge behind him. “Another round?”
It’s an innocent question. One that any other person in this bar might take at face value.
But I know better.
Another round isn’t just another drink.
Another round is time.
Time to flirt, to linger, to blur the lines even more than we already have.
Time to pretend I didn’t hear the conversation between Brooke and Graham.
Time to pretend I don’t care.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
His lips quirk. “Because you’ll get drunk and do something you regret?”
“No,” I say, tilting my head. “Because you might.”
And there it is—that flash of something hungry in his gaze.
That push and pull, like we’re both caught in some gravitational force, doomed to collide no matter how many times we veer off course.
I shake my head, stepping back. “I should go.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll walk you.”
I laugh softly. “Chivalrous.”
He lifts a shoulder like it’s nothing. “I have my moments.”
We make our way outside, the cool night air doing little to temper the heat buzzing beneath my skin. The parking lot is half-empty, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement.
He doesn’t ask if I want a ride.
I don’t offer to say goodnight.
We stand there for a beat, a moment too long, until Graham shoves a hand through his hair and exhales like a man who’s running out of patience.
“Come back to my place.”
The words are heavy. Loaded.
Not a casual invitation. Not some open-ended suggestion.
This is Graham drawing a line in the sand and daring me to step over it.
I swallow. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything unwise,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “I just want to talk. You, me, no audience, no locker room politics, no PR spin.”
For a second, I want to say yes.
I want to follow him, to step inside his world, to let myself believe for one selfish night that none of this is complicated.
But then I remember?—
I remember the look in Brooke’s eyes.
I remember the weight in Graham’s voice when he said my name the other night like it was something fragile.
And I remember that no matter how badly I want this, I need to know that if I get this job, it’s because I deserve it. Not because the team owner decided to make it easy for me.
“We can talk at my place,” I say instead. “My roommate’s gone for the night.”
A flicker of something crosses his face—something I can’t quite place.
Then, slow and deliberate, he nods.
“Lead the way, Doc.”
And as we walk toward my car, I can’t help but wonder?—
If I’ve just made the first truly wise decision of the night.
Or the worst mistake of my life.
By the time we make it to my apartment, I’ve convinced myself I’ve made a responsible, adult decision.
One that prioritizes professionalism.
One that keeps us safely within the boundaries we need to maintain.
One that doesn’t involve me straddling Graham Callahan on my very uncomfortable couch while his hands do terrible, wonderful things to my body.
The problem is, I’ve also learned that Graham doesn’t do well with boundaries.
He shatters them.
Crushes them beneath the weight of his presence, his gaze, his stupid, unfair, knee-weakening charm that is only amplified when he decides he’s in the mood to play nice.
Right now?
I have no idea which version of Graham I’ve just let into my apartment.
I close the door behind us, tossing my keys onto the small console table, and turn to find him watching me.
Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching.
Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll run.
Like I’m the one who needs to be cautious around him.
Which—yeah, fair.
I clear my throat, moving toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Do I need one?”
I don’t look back as I reach for a glass from the cupboard. “I don’t know, Graham. Do you?”
His silence is heavy, loaded. I hear the soft creak of leather as he shifts, the sound of his jacket being tossed over the back of a chair.
And then?—
“You heard Brooke.”
I freeze.
For a fraction of a second, my fingers tighten around the glass, the words burrowing into my skin like an accusation.
I force myself to stay calm, to move like he hasn’t just cracked open the vault on something I was planning to avoid altogether.
“I hear a lot of things,” I say lightly, filling the glass with water. “People talk.”
Graham exhales a laugh, low and sharp. “That they do.”
I turn, glass in hand, and lean against the counter. He’s still watching me, but now, there’s something sharper in his gaze. Something coiled and tense, like he’s waiting for me to strike first.
I don’t.
Instead, I take a slow sip of water and meet his eyes. “Did you?”
His jaw tenses. “Did I what?”
I lift a shoulder. “Did you pull strings?”
There it is.
The landmine we’ve both been dancing around.
Graham doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. “If I had, would it change things?”
A slow, bitter smile tugs at my lips. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
Something flickers across his face—something like frustration, something like regret—but it’s gone too fast for me to decipher.
“I didn’t,” he says finally.
I don’t let myself believe it. Not yet.
“Are you sure?” I ask quietly. “Because I need to know, Graham. I need to know that if I get this job, it’s because I deserve it. Not because you?—”
“I didn’t,” he says again, stepping forward, and closing the space between us. “I would never do that to you.”
And damn him.
Damn, the way he says it, low and rough like the very idea of taking that choice away from me insults him.
Like the thought of me doubting myself—of me doubting him—is worse than whatever hell he’s been wading through since we reentered each other’s lives.
For a moment, we just stand there.
Two people caught in the wreckage of their own making, both too stubborn to look away.
Then, quietly?—
“I need you to believe me, Ana.”
My breath hitches.
Not just from the way he says my name, but from the way he’s looking at me.
Not with arrogance.
Not with that infuriating, knowing smirk.
But with something else.
Something raw and vulnerable and dangerous because it makes me want to do something I shouldn’t.
So I do the only thing I can.
I move.
I set the glass down. I take a step past him. I remind myself why this can’t happen.
But then?—
He catches my wrist.
Light. Barely a touch.
But enough to stop me in my tracks.
Enough to make my pulse skitter beneath his fingers, to send a slow, traitorous shiver crawling up my spine.
I swallow hard, staring at the floor. “Graham?—”
“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he says, voice low.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” he counters, stepping closer. “It matters because every time you look at me, I can see it. Every time we’re in the same damn room, I can feel it.”
My heart is pounding.
“This—” I start, but he shakes his head.
“This is not just me,” he murmurs. “And you know it.”
I hate him.
I hate him for knowing exactly where to aim, exactly where to hit.
Because he’s right.
God help me, he’s right.
It’s not just him.
It’s the way I can’t stop thinking about that night in Cape Town.
It’s the way I can’t stop remembering the way he kissed me.
It’s the way I still wake up some nights with the ghost of his touch burned into my skin, like some twisted, phantom ache that refuses to fade.
And worst of all?
It’s the way I can feel myself leaning into him now.
The way my body betrays me, inch by inch until we’re so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, can feel the whisper of his breath against my cheek.
His fingers tighten around my wrist.
I lift my eyes to his.
A mistake.
Because the moment our gazes lock, the thread snaps.
I don’t know who moves first.
I don’t know if it’s him or me or some inevitable force that’s been pulling us toward this moment from the very beginning.
All I know is that one second, I’m standing there, trying to hold the line?—
And the next, his mouth is on mine.
And God help me?—
I let him.
The second Graham’s lips touch mine, the world ceases to exist.
There is no job.
No rumors.
No carefully constructed walls between us.
There is only this.
This heat. This pull. This impossible, maddening, gravity-defying force that keeps dragging us back to each other no matter how hard we try to resist.
His hands are everywhere—cupping my jaw, tilting my head, tracing fire down my spine as he presses me into the wall.
I gasp against his mouth, and he takes it as an invitation, deepening the kiss, making me feel like I’m plummeting, untethered, into something I should have never let myself crave.
I fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to drown in him.
And he lets me.
He lets me take.
Lets me have.
Like this is something inevitable—something written in the stars long before either of us knew how dangerous it would be.
His grip tightens, fingers digging into my waist, and I arch into him, aching, desperate, lost.
Then, suddenly?—
“Ana.”
Graham’s voice is hoarse, barely a whisper against my lips.
But it’s enough to break the spell.
Enough to make me realize?—
I am lost.
And if we keep going—if we let this spiral without stopping, without thinking?—
I may never find my way back.
I press my hands to his chest, pushing slightly, and he stills immediately, his breathing ragged.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and what I see in his face nearly undoes me all over again.
Heat.
Need.
And beneath it all, something deeper. Something raw and unguarded and dangerous because it makes me want to throw caution to the wind and forget—forget everything but him.
But I can’t.
Not this time.
“We should stop,” he says, his voice low, strained.
And for once, I don’t argue.
I agree.
“Yeah,” I whisper, my hands still resting on his chest, feeling the unsteady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palms.
We stand there, breathing hard, caught in the wreckage of what almost happened.
Graham closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before stepping back, putting space between us.
I don’t know if I feel relieved or devastated.
Maybe both.
I swallow, pressing my fingers to my lips, still swollen from his kiss. “We need to talk.”
He nods, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. We do.”
I move to the couch, curling my legs beneath me, and he follows, sitting across from me, his elbows braced on his knees.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then—
“I heard Brooke.”
Graham’s jaw tightens.
I push forward, needing to get this out. “I heard her talking about the rumors. About how it looks that I might get the permanent team doctor position because of you.”
His gaze snaps to mine, sharp and unreadable. “Ana?—”
I shake my head. “Just let me say this.”
He clenches his jaw but nods.
I take a breath, steadying myself. “I need this job, Graham. Not just because I love it, but because I earned it. I need to know that if I’m chosen for the permanent position, it’s because of my work, not because of who I am—” I break off, voice faltering.
His eyes darken. “Not because of who you’re sleeping with?”
I flinch, but he’s not wrong.
The words hang between us, heavy and suffocating.
Graham exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Ana, I didn’t do anything. If you get this job, it’s because you deserve it. Not because I pulled strings. Not because of us.”
My throat tightens. “I want to believe that.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see the sincerity in his expression. “Then believe it.”
I exhale, my fingers curling into the hem of my sweater. “It’s not just the job, Graham. It’s everything. It’s—” I hesitate. “It’s what you said before. About me being immature.”
His shoulders tense.
I force myself to hold his gaze. “That hurt.”
Graham lets out a slow breath, his face drawn. “I know.”
The silence between us stretches, thick with unspoken words.
“I wasn’t fair to you,” he says finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I was angry. Frustrated. And I lashed out. You didn’t deserve that.”
I study him, trying to parse out the truth in his expression.
I find it.
I nod slowly, exhaling. “I’ve spent this month apart thinking about what I want. Really thinking.”
Graham’s lips press into a line like he’s bracing for something he won’t like. “And?”
I hesitate, then say the only truth I know.
“I want you.”
His breath hitches.
“I don’t know how to make this work, and I don’t know if it even can work,” I continue, my voice softer now. “But I know that no matter how many times we try to walk away, it never sticks.”
Graham stares at me, his expression unreadable.
Then, finally?—
“I’ve been thinking too,” he says, his voice rough.
I blink. “You have?”
He nods, shifting forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “I’ve spent a month trying to convince myself I can let you go. That it would be easier that way.”
He drags a hand through his hair, his eyes locking onto mine.
“It’s not.”
I inhale sharply, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Graham exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to move forward either, Ana. But I know I want to.”
My throat tightens.
Because there it is.
The terrifying, impossible, undeniable truth we’ve been circling for months.
We want each other.
We just don’t know how to make it work.
Not yet.
I let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly. “Okay.”
Graham watches me for a long moment.
Then—
“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs. “One way or another.”
His words shouldn’t make me feel lighter.
They shouldn’t make me feel hopeful.
But somehow, they do.
Because for the first time, we’re not fighting.
We’re not pretending this doesn’t matter.
We’re choosing to try.
And maybe—just maybe?—
That’s enough.
For now.