Chapter 41
forty-one
Abuelita is secretly overjoyed.
Graham not only eats his entire platter of Colombian delicacies but half of mine as well. I don’t mind. I have trouble shoveling food in my mouth while translating our entire conversation both ways; though, after her outburst, I suspect maybe Abuelita understands a lot more English than she lets on.
After all, they got along without me for who-knows-how-long before I woke up…
I still can’t believe she let him in.
I can’t exactly blame her for falling under his spell, though. In his pinstriped pants, velvet vest, and rolled shirt cuffs, Graham looks sinfully handsome.
His hair is combed back the way I love. A week’s stubble darkens the sharp slash of his jaw…
Truly, the man is as dark and charming as the devil himself.
A devil who does dishes .
Without any prompting, he suddenly whisks our plates into a stack and carries them to the sink. He pushes his sleeves further up his muscled forearms and starts cleaning.
Abuelita’s jaw drops. She blinks at his back, astonished. It occurs to me that he’s done the dishes every single time we’ve eaten together at his apartment, too; including the morning he cooked for me.
He clearly isn’t the spoiled misogynist he pretends to be. He knew where to find me last night when no one else did. He knew I needed support today. He even knew how to get on Abuelita’s razor-thin good side.
By all accounts, he truly cares for me.
But I’m sure my mother once thought the exact same thing about my father.
Moving with his usual slouchy elegance, Graham scrubs the dishes and arranges them on the drying rack. Abuelita eventually turns to me, her face conveying a wealth of meaning.
She doesn’t want to like Graham, either.
But she does .
As soon as he finishes his task and returns to the table, she makes a big show of covering a supposed yawn. “You fed,” she says, using her stilted English. “Bed now.”
Graham bites the inside of his cheek, holding back laughter at her unintended innuendo. Glowering at him and my grandmother, I argue, “Abuelita, it’s only eight.”
She shrugs, stands, and touches her shoulder. “I old woman. Need sleeps.” She pauses between our chairs and fixes Graham with a sharp look. “You go soon, pinchao .”
Graham’s devastating grin always gives me a little buzz, even when it isn’t directed at me. “ Sí, senora . Thank you for dinner. And fixing my suit.”
Her eyes flick over his outfit, then over to me, and back again. “ El traje es hermoso . Debes cuidar las cosas hermosas.”
My heart squeezes. She pats both of our cheeks and shuffles down the hall to her room. I notice she’s left her door ajar, and my lips curve even as my chest throbs.
Graham’s midnight eyes meet mine. “What did she say?”
“That your suit is beautiful,” I sigh. “And you must take care of beautiful things.”
He stares into me steadily. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Before I know what hits me, he grasps both of my wrists and tugs me onto his lap. His arms envelop my body, pulling me tight to his torso.
I’m too confused to fight him, especially when it feels so good to turn my face into his neck and breathe in his cologne. He arranges us comfortably and skims his hand up my spine to cradle my nape.
“What happened, baby?” His low voice sends a flurry through my abdomen, settling in a pool of heat between my hips. His fingers begin kneading the base of my skull. “Tell me.”
I’m weak. Weaker than I ever thought possible. As his other hand finds the curve of my jaw and his lips brush over my forehead, I sink right into him.
“My dad,” I reply, not bothering to stem the tears clogging my throat. “He came to the office again.”
“Marco told me,” Graham murmurs. He rests his chin on the crown of my head. “What did your dad say?”
I can’t even be mad at him for talking to my cousin behind my back. I know he only did it out of genuine concern. And, at the moment, the comfort he’s offering is just about the only thing holding me together.
I spill the whole sordid story, rehashing it all word for word, including my father’s insistence on getting the fifty thousand.
Beneath me, Graham’s body stiffens. “I’m assuming you told him to go to hell?”
“Yes,” I whisper to his collarbone. “But he threatened?—”
His fingers clutch me tighter. “You?”
I shake my head. “The baby. He basically implied that if I didn’t give them money, he would make Lucia give it up. And she looked horrified. She’s got to be almost to term; they’ve picked out a name for him already.”
I huff. “I know I shouldn’t feel any sympathy for my father’s mistress, but it isn’t just her—my father is acting like his own child is a dog he can rehome because he doesn’t want to pay to feed it anymore.”
The same way he treated me. Like a pet he could desert at the pound .
“So, give him the money,” Graham growls. “I told you I’ll help your mom. Hell, I’ll help your dad, too, as much as I hate the bastard—and then you can keep the money you’re earning for yourself .”
His generosity touches me. I sniffle again. “Thank you for offering, but it’s not necessary.”
A tremor sneaks into my voice. “I thought she wanted to move here to be with me , but now I understand—she wanted to be with him . And she knows if she comes now, she’ll have to watch the man she loves raise a baby with someone else...”
The sad, stark truth sends a shiver down my back. Graham chases it with his hand, murmuring one question. “She’s not coming, is she?”
Crying in earnest now, I barely choke out, “No, she’s not,” before collapsing into sobs.
Tears soak into Graham’s fancy shirt and vest. And I don’t stop. I weep into his shoulder like an absolute loser, and I can’t even feel embarrassed about it. Because Graham holds me with fierce protectiveness and hums calming words the whole time.
When I finish, he releases the claw clip from my hair and combs through the tresses. Eventually, he gives a gentle tug and brings us face-to-face, pressing kisses over the tear tracks wetting my cheeks. His dark eyes roam across my features, consternation clear in their depths.
“I’m sure I look great,” I mumble, snorting back snot.
Graham’s sensual mouth quirks into a ghost of a smile. He pitches his voice low for privacy. “You are truly the only woman who could cry for half an hour and still look beautiful enough for me to fuck senseless.”
He always knows what to say to put me back on my game. A watery laugh escapes me. I tip my chin up to meet his eyes. “Is that a promise?”
Heat sparks in the black pools, but the rest of his expression remains wry. “Here? Abuelita would beat me to death with her spatula.”
He has a point. Yet—even without the remote possibility of sex—he dragged himself all the way out to my borough, after a long week of work and in the midst of his own personal crisis. Gratitude rolls over me. My fingers grip his velvet vest.
“Thank you for coming out here.”
Graham flashes a wide, white smile. “I like it here. The food is fantastic .” He fingers a strand of my hair. “Nice view, too.”
He considers me a moment longer. “You look tired, though.” His face softens while he skims his fingertips under my left eye. “Come on.”
Holding me in his arms, he stands so suddenly that I have to swallow a squeal. In five strides, he crosses into my bedroom. There, he pauses and looks around.
“Huh. I thought it would be purple.”
No mention of the fact that it’s smaller than his master bathroom. Or how none of the furniture matches. Or even my yellowed lace curtains.
He carries me to my bed, depositing me on it before pulling my covers over my lap and perching on the edge of the mattress. He gives a bone-deep sigh and a shake of his head. “I can’t believe I’m tucking you in without even copping a feel. Who am I?”
That’s a good question. Because he isn’t the man I met in the elevator anymore.
He holds me when I cry, washes my dishes, and listens to every word I say with an intensity that makes my heart skip.
But, on the other hand, he’s still every bit as intriguing as that dark-eyed, audacious stranger. The suits, the feral grins, his impatience and dominance.
How will I ever send him away? Do I want to anymore?
I don’t have any answers for myself, but I know exactly what to say to him. Picking up his hand, I bring it from my lap to my boob, raising an eyebrow at him. “You’re Graham Fucking Everett.”
The very best version of his smile—a boyish, heart-stopping one—spreads over his face. His fingers curl around my breast, giving me a sound squeeze. “Bet on it, bijou .”