Chapter 27
twenty-seven
I should be relieved to wake up alone.
But rolling over to find Graham’s place beside mine empty somehow feels like a betrayal. All the things we did last night… the way I felt.
We have a connection.
Which means I need to get out of here.
Wounded and alarmed, I drag myself up and shake out my hair, hoping to straighten my thoughts. At least he’s not watching me freak out .
I wonder if he left me alone on purpose—if he understands what I need because it’s also what he needs. After a whole night with him inside me, I can honestly say it’s uncanny how often our thoughts align.
So, sure, I feel the need to get myself together before I face the man. But maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way about me.
It doesn’t matter, really. Graham had his one night.
And he used it. And used it. And used it. To unwittingly tear down every last defense I spent the week building.
He took what he wanted. That part didn’t surprise me. Pinchao . He’s a confident, dominant man, clearly used to getting what he wants.
What did surprise me was how much he gave . Nuzzles, whispered praises, massages, and lingering kisses between every round.
Graham Everett can be sweet .
And— ayúdame, Dios —the memories bring an involuntary smile to my face.
After tiptoeing into his bathroom, I rinse my mouth out and run my fingers through my limp hair, smirking at the array of men’s grooming products neatly lined up between two black marble sinks. My reflection peers back from the room’s wide mirror, amber eyes flickering to the love bites clustered on my neck, my shoulder, and the top of my left breast.
Huh . I guess there was a lot of biting. Yet another thing he and I have in common.
Shaking my head, I use the hair tie around my wrist to knot my hair into a low bun. With my clean change of clothes all the way across the apartment, I settle for a lavender button-down I find tossed on top of his laundry hamper.
Buttoning the shirt and rolling the long sleeves up, I make my way out to the great room.
Where I stumble over my own feet, halting on the threshold.
Spoiled, overly coiffed Graham is… cooking ? Breakfast? For me ?
And he told me he doesn’t eat breakfast. The thought brings a smug twist to my lips.
“Good morning, pinchao .”
He cracks a crooked version of my favorite boyish grin. “ Bijou .”
His gaze slides down my body, clearly filling in all my covered parts from memory. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment before he turns back to his work, flipping what appears to be a piece of French toast.
“Far be it for me to disagree with Abuelita,” Graham says mildly, not looking up. “But purple looks lovely on you.”
I recognize the strained undercurrent in his voice. Concern. He worries about the compliment, even as he gives it.
So do I. He shouldn’t be nice to me, and I shouldn’t like it.
But I drift into the room anyway, drawn by the sight of his hard body and silky underwear as much as the mouthwatering scents of bacon and strong coffee.
When I reach him, he pulls the pans off the burners and sets them aside. Grabbing his coffee in one hand and a matching stone mug in the other, he pivots to face me, leaning his hip into the counter, offering the second mug to me.
It’s very strong, bordering on abrasive. Just the way I like it. He watches me take a sip and then chuckles at my startled expression.
“You know me—never one for subtlety.”
I do know him . My eyes flash down to the bulge in his boxers. Very well .
“Hmmm,” I mutter, distracting myself from his package with another mouthful of coffee. “I must say, I’ve never hooked up with a guy who wears fancier undergarments than me.”
I feel his hot gaze trail over my face. “Not all of us can be connoisseurs of quality, I’m afraid.”
The quiet cadence of his voice takes the edge off his taunt. A second later, his fingertips graze my temple, sweeping a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
I resist the urge to jerk away. Affection after the fact is a strict no-no for me. It makes things blurry under ordinary circumstances… And whatever Graham and I have is already more muddled than any of my past hook-ups.
Overreacting will only show him how much he affects you , I tell myself, holding still as he skims his thumb down my jaw and touches my chin.
Brooding bewilderment roils in the black velvet irises staring back at me. “Will you stay for breakfast?” he finally asks.
My focus slides to the side, where a plate of French toast sits innocently beside the pan of crispy bacon. It really looks delicious…
“Yes.”
His perfectly impassive face doesn’t move, but the tumult in his eyes shifts. “And then you’ll go?”
My relief and dread roll into a tangle. I lift my chin and force my shoulders back. “Yes.”
Something about my bearing amuses Graham. His lips curve sardonically. “That was our deal, I suppose.” He turns to retrieve the food and nods at the dining table. “Let’s use that. I’ve never eaten there before.”
A giggle bubbles out of me. “Didn’t you tell me you’ve lived here for, like, two years?”
Graham shrugs one of his bare shoulders, muscles rippling down his back. “I don’t entertain much.”
If the array of work papers scattered over the wood surface is any indication, he doesn’t entertain ever .
I swallow my observation with another gulp of coffee. Helping myself, I stretch across the stove to grab the carafe off the coffee maker and refill my mug. Graham’s hot gaze follows my every move, glued to the backs of my naked thighs.
I have to tamp down a smirk, then a wave of self-loathing.
Carajo .
Since when do I like him leering at me?
Clearly, the man makes me lose my mind. I need to get out of here.
Graham retrieves two heavy stone plates that match our mugs. His silverware turns out to be gold . Of course.
I roll my eyes, and he catches me, flashing a sexy grin. “Fancy forks to match my fancy underwear.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I laugh. “I’ve never been more certain I chose the perfect nickname for you than right now.”
Graham sweeps half of the table’s worth of papers into a neat stack. “I noticed that nickname was nowhere to be found last night.”
He doles out our place settings and arranges the food. As we sit, he cocks an eyebrow at me. “Could it be that I pleased you somehow?”
A flush rushes to my cheeks. I focus on smoothing my napkin over my naked lap, sniffing as I reply, “You did fine, pinchao .”
We both know that’s an understatement of the highest order.
Graham gives a snort. “I seem to recall one round that lasted almost an hour. And I’m not counting or anything, but I believe you thought I was doing more than fine multiple times.”
As he serves me French toast, his fingers flash the number four.
Four times in one hour . Carajo . He’s right.
I wiggle in my seat. “So, you were counting, then,” I grouse, snatching bacon before he can offer me any.
He grabs his own and turns to frown at me, confounded. “If I am, it’s only because I’ve never experienced anything like it before.” He drops his eyes to his food as he starts to cut his breakfast. “But maybe that’s typical for you.”
Why would he ask that? Does he want to know if what we shared was… something? Why?
I study his profile for a beat. “No. Not typical.”
My heart gives a pang at the dash of vulnerability that darts over his features. He stares at his plate. “Noted.”
I feel him working up to another question. What if he asks me to stay? Or come back? Am I really going to walk out of here and never see him again?
Until I feel certain I can definitely turn him down, I opt to change the subject. Searching for inspiration, I glance to the side, skimming the nearest document.
A list in his bold, slashing handwriting. More chaotic than his usual work, with unnumbered items piled on top of each other and notations cramped into the margins. The first—and most legible—reads, “ Insurance contract review .”
Gracias a Dios . Something I can actually talk about.
“What’s this?”
Graham freezes. His fork hovers between his plate and his mouth as he stares at the paper in my hand, obviously debating how much to tell me. When his features fill with rueful amusement, a silly flutter trembles low in my belly.
“It’s a list of all the business shit I don’t know anything about,” he admits. “Grayson suggested that the most important thing for my start-up would be recognizing when I need to ask experts for help, so anytime I start to think I’m in over my head, I write it down.”
He shoves a large bite into his mouth and talks around it. “Clearly, spending four years in business school accomplished fuck-all.”
Chuckling, I make my way down his litany of unknowns. Items like, “ Hiring—fuck me, I don’t know—non-compete clauses? Background checks? ” and, “ Drafting agreements for clients who don’t have thirty in-house lawyers like Stryker .”
“Eight,” I correct absently, waving the list before flipping it over to read the back. “We only have eight attorneys in-house.”
“Which is eight more than most people,” he shoots back, biting into a strip of bacon. “I can’t count on all my clients having sexy lawyeresses for me to work with. I’m going to have to draft standard contracts for such mere mortals.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, warding off a giggle and debating the wisdom of the first reply that comes to mind. “You know… That contract I wrote will probably work in most cases. If you change the names and dollar amounts accordingly.”
I expect some measure of surprise, but Graham keeps eating without a flinch. “I know,” he says. “Your contract is exactly the sort of thing I need. But I would never dream of using your work without paying you for it.” He suddenly pins me in place with his bright, dark eyes. “Unless… you’d be willing to let me pay you for it?”
This is exactly the sort of thing I was afraid of. “I wouldn’t feel right, especially since Mr. Stryker already paid me to create it in the first place.”
Graham tilts his head slightly, his expression carefully blank. “Why not? You wrote it. It’s your work. If anyone is going to make money off it, it should be you.”
I can’t disagree. “If I were to sell it, I would rewrite the whole thing. Even if it winds up being similar, re-doing the work would keep my conscious clear.” Sensing the dangerous bent of our conversation, I add, “But, like I said, Mr. Stryker pays me well. I don’t need to do any freelance work.”
He bores his gaze into mine, undeterred. “But you could, right? Stryker mentioned that your non-compete doesn’t apply to me since I’m not a competitor.”
He’s feeling me out . I shove a big bite of French toast into my mouth to buy some time while I chew. “Even if it’s technically allowed, I bet Mr. Stryker would be less than thrilled by anyone working for another company on the side.”
Instead of looking discouraged, Graham’s lips turn up at the corners. Maldición .
“Not an issue. I spoke with him about it last week. He suggested Dominic, but I think I have the perfect person for the job right here. If past performance is any indication…”
The suggestive gleam in his eye is not lost on me. Nor is the strange somersault in my stomach.
Clever pinchao .
Devising a way for us to spend more time together in a professional capacity—likely because he knows I’d entertain a working relationship before I ever considered a personal one.
“Keep dreaming,” I snort, draining my coffee and rising to refill the mug.
Graham leans back in his chair, brows raised. “Why not? It will only take a couple of weeks to get everything I need sorted out. And I’ll pay you. A lot.”
Part of me—the thrifty, desperate part that still washes out plastic bags to reuse them—pauses at that.
How much? I wonder.
Would it be enough to hire an immigration lawyer immediately? I have a savings plan… but what if Graham’s money could get Mami here now ? How could I say no, then? Especially if Mr. Stryker really doesn’t mind.
Staring down into my fresh cup of coffee, I realize he’s tricked me. The bastard .
Pissed, I shoot him a glare from across the room. “Do I seem like the sort of person who would abandon their principles for money ? I told you that you could have one night and you’ve had it. We’re done. I’m not going to become your legal counsel concubine. I don’t care how much you offer me.”
Graham crosses his arms over his chest, bare pecs and biceps flexing. He narrows his gaze at me. “Who said anything about sex? I want to hire you. To work . Because you’re very good at what you do. And, sure, we fucked. That will always be there between us, I guess, but you’ve made your boundaries exceedingly clear. One night. And I agreed.”
He looks mad . “Do you think I’m the sort of person to ignore a woman’s boundaries? Or go back on his word? I want you, Juliet, but I respect you, too. We made a deal for last night, and we can make another if we work together.”
My teeth grind as everything inside of me splits down the center.
The louder—panicked—part sounds alarm bells. Like a cornered animal, I have the sudden, frantic urge to do anything to get away. It takes a moment for me to smother the voice shrieking at me to get out now .
After a few deep breaths, my rational side crowds in; and it actually argues in Graham’s favor.
He has a point, damn it. I do trust him. After spending the night with him, I’m more certain than ever about his capacity for goodness. He simply reserves those depths for people he cares about.
And I’m starting to suspect that I may be one of those people.
I think of the way he listened to my mother’s story. The shame in his expression, how he instantly tried to offer help, even though he didn’t know what that help might look like. The way he watched me while we were in bed together, paying close attention to my every cue. How he got up and made breakfast without complaint, with no expectation of anything in return.
I believe him; he does respect me. He won’t fight me on a firm boundary.
Which makes the practical part of me wonder—why can’t I work with him? As long as we agree not to break my one-time rule, I can still make a clean getaway.
It will just be a few weeks later, and I’ll be a few thousand dollars richer.
If I can resist him.
A little extra cash isn’t worth putting myself through the temptation. But if the money would truly make a difference in my plans, I’ll force myself to muster more self-control and soldier through.
So, I come back to the dining table and stand at the opposite end, locking gazes with Graham. “How much?”
His eyes turn to cool fire, somehow pinning me with smoldering sensual interest and businesslike detachment. “Two weeks. Fifty thousand dollars.”
Fifty.
Thousand .
My tongue feels numb and thick in my mouth. “I’m sorry— what ?”
Graham’s gaze holds steady. “You’ll come here every night after work and maybe one afternoon each weekend for two weeks. Less if we finish up early. Either way, I will pay you fifty thousand dollars.”
The staggering amount sends my mind reeling. It’s almost half of my annual salary. More than enough to retain an immigration expert for Mami. Maybe even enough to pay for the entire Green Card appeals process.
Graham watches me decide. Triumph glimmers in his eyes. “What do you prefer, bijou —cash or check?”