Chapter 15
fifteen
Graham drags me past the elevators, over to the service stairs in the back of the lobby.
Once we make it through the door, he releases my hand and turns away. Pretending to be busy with a button on his suit jacket. Thinking I need privacy.
“I’m fine,” I growl, but my throat constricts on the words, turning them into a squeak. I have to sniffle before continuing. “You don’t need to wait here with me. It was just a—” My voice cracks. “Shock.”
Graham’s tense figure spins suddenly. He unwinds, reaching for me, but I step back to put more space between our bodies.
His jaw clenches at my movement. Taking in my tears, his dark eyes flash.
“ Bijou .”
I looked up the word on my subway ride home last night. It means “jewel.”
Now that I hear him say it again, curious warmth licks low in my belly. The sensation makes me weak—and, just for a second, I soften.
Graham doesn’t miss his opportunity. He closes the gap between us and cups my cheek with his large, long-fingered hand.
“You’re tired,” he whispers, skimming his thumb over the dark circle beneath my eye, collecting the tears gathered there.
It isn’t a question, but I nod.
“And now, your dad turned up with bad news...” Graham’s dark, slashing brows knit. “But there’s something else. What is it?”
Is this really only our third meeting? He already seems to know me.
While I debate how much to tell him, he pulls the red handkerchief from his breast pocket and dries tears off his fingers and my chin. The tender gesture takes me by surprise, and I blurt out my response without polishing it.
“Mr. Stryker asked to see me at three today. Alone. I can’t figure out why… unless he saw us yesterday and wants to fire me.”
Every part of Graham goes eerily still. Seconds pass. His eyes don’t so much as flicker, but I see the wheels of his mind spinning. Finally, he blows a slow breath out through his nose and folds the red cloth back into his pocket without meeting my eyes.
“I’ll handle it.”
A bitter laugh scrapes up my throat. “If you think I’m some sort of damsel in distress who’s just going to sit on my hands while you charge off to fight my battles for me, you’re delusional.”
I square my shoulders. “My father had me at a disadvantage, showing up unannounced—when I’m about to be fired—telling me I’m going to have a sibling because he’s taken another mistress. Just because I lost my grip for a second doesn’t mean I need you to swing into my boss’s office and defend my honor.”
Graham’s exasperated expression is distinctly at odds with the way he holds my face. His features say he’s at his wit's end. But his touch is gentle, almost reverent.
“Stubborn woman,” he grinds out, smoldering those midnight eyes into mine. “Why do I want to fuck you every time you argue with me?”
“So all the time?” I ask, sniffing back the rest of my tears.
His crooked, boyish grin heats the air between us. “Something like that.”
A shadow suddenly crosses his features. He raises his other arm and glances at his wrist, frowning. “Damn. We only have fifty minutes. Less, by the time we make it upstairs.”
The thought of returning to the executive floor with tear-stained cheeks mortifies me. “Can we not?”
Graham’s hand falls from my face. He gives a brusque nod. “Understood. We’ll go out.”
A small smile plays at my lips as I stride past him. “Amazing,” I mutter. “I think we just agreed on something.”
The small dim sum restaurant tucked around the corner happens to be one of my favorites. I’m pleasantly surprised when Graham leads me into the cramped bistro and waves at the hostess like he knows her.
I want to believe I’m ready to resume our usual animosity, fully guarded against his charms. But then he flashes his roguish grin and pulls out my chair for me.
And something in my middle flips .
“Best dumplings in Midtown,” he boasts, folding himself into the seat opposite mine. “For those of us with taste.”
Graham could not look more out of place. His tweed-and-camel outfit reminds me of Downton Abbey and British country fashions. He looks like a debonair lord about to mount a horse and ride off for a hunt.
His appeal is undeniable.
Annoyed by his general handsomeness, I narrow my eyes. “I thought you didn’t eat lunch.”
He shrugs with his trademark indolence. “You do.”
My stomach gurgles, agreeing with him. Maldición . Straightening my posture, I pretend to scan the menu.
“So,” he offers conversationally. “Still hate me?”
The question catches me off-guard. My eyes fly to his, finding one dark brow arched in a gorgeous mask of mild curiosity.
I open my mouth to issue a sound jab, but my stupid brain chooses that moment to recall the feel of his hands holding my face. My gaze drifts to the red handkerchief in his pocket.
With a sigh, I have to admit, “No. I don’t.”
He gives a single nod, his face carefully impassive while he looks back at his menu. After a moment, he considers me with a new, wicked gleam in his dark eyes. The look turns his next question into a challenge. “What type of dumplings do you like?”
“Shrimp and pork, of course.” As if there are other worthwhile dumplings.
His grin widens. “Fried or steamed?”
“Fried for the shrimp, steamed for the pork. Obviously.”
Graham’s gaze never leaves my face, even when the waitress appears at his elbow. “Two orders of fried shrimp and two orders of steamed pork,” he says, then cocks his head at me. “Obviously.”
His humorous regard has me biting back my own smile. And issuing myself a stern reminder.
You may not despise him, but this is still not a man you can afford to like, Jules. Get back to business .
I gesture to his bag. “So, lay it on me.”
Graham’s heated smile curves higher. “You’re going to want to rephrase that.”
I glower. “Graham.”
“ Bijou ,” he returns.
His grin fades, leaving his expression intense while he stares me down. “I was wrong yesterday, about acting like nothing happened. We can get back to work and do our jobs. I’ll sit here and eat lunch with you and act like a civilized adult. But I can’t pretend yesterday didn’t happen. I won’t. It happened. I had my fingers inside of you, your hands on me. I’m not going back to the way we were before.”
Well, shit.
What can I say to that ?
My attitude feels childish in the face of Graham’s unflappable calm.
Much to my horror, he does have a point. It did happen. As a lawyer, I can admit how silly it is to quibble about facts.
And the fact is: Graham and I made out. After I kissed him, he kissed me back and put his hand up my skirt while I stroked his cock through his pants.
“All right,” I sigh. “That’s fair.”
Satisfied, Graham extracts my files from his bag. He sets them on the table between us, then flattens his palm on top. “The contract you wrote is very good,” he praises, solemn and unwavering with his intent stare. “ You are very good.”
I’m used to people being surprised when I turn out not to be an airhead. I shoot him a smug look over my glass of water. “Thought I’d have boobs-for-brains?”
He glances at my breasts, then back into my eyes. “It’s unusual to meet anyone so smart and so sexy.” A sardonic smile plays at his full, soft lips. “Yet another thing we have in common.”
Just days ago, it felt like we had nothing in common. How could we? He’s a wealthy guy who grew up in penthouses with hired cars and an Ivy League education. And I live in a shoebox with my grandmother. He has everything gift-wrapped and waiting for him while I continue to scrap for all the things I want.
It made sense that we would be opposites, at first.
Now? I’m not so sure.
I pry the contract out from under his hand, surprised to see my draft annotated with slanting cursive in the margins. Some of the notes are terse, but most just offer simple explanations. There are even some questions and— shocking —a couple brief compliments.
“I take it this means that—assuming I still have a job by the end of the day—we can work from my version instead of yours?” I do my best not to sound too haughty.
Graham leans back in his chair and pretends to pick lint off his jacket. I recognize the sheepish gesture from yesterday. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”
“All right then, pinchao ,” I reply, smiling despite myself. “Let’s get to it.”
He smirks. “Again, bijou . Poor choice of words.”