Chapter 17
17
Asha is finally back in the office when Monday morning rolls around. I’d intended to spend the morning sending confirmation emails to vendors for a wedding we’re hosting this Friday night, but when Graham texts that he has a 10 A.M. tux fitting, I volunteer to tag along. Wedding planners typically don’t come for fittings, but I insist my presence is necessary to “make sure he sticks with the selected color scheme.” Asha gave me a strange look when I announced my change in plans, but since her face is still carrying a slightly green tinge, I imagine she doesn’t have the strength to protest.
When Graham steps out of the dressing room wearing a fitted black suit with a black bow tie, my mouth drops open.
“Wow,” I say. “I didn’t realize they were already casting the next James Bond.”
Graham grins, a blush creeping along his cheeks.
“I know we’re going to do sage accessories, but I thought I’d at least show you the black tie first.”
I nod, smoothing one hand over the lapels, aware of Graham’s heartbeat drumming beneath my palm. “I can see why you like this, but I think it needs a quick adjustment. Can I get a closer look?” Then I grab him by the tie and drag him into the dressing room, slamming the door shut behind us.
The minute we are alone in the tiny cubicle, Graham takes my face in his hands, lifting me toward him as he crushes his lips to mine. I let out a tiny hum of pleasure as I tug off his jacket, tossing it onto the floor before moving to undo his shirt buttons.
“Who knew you had a cummerbund fetish?” Graham murmurs as he brushes his lips against my throat. His hot breath draws goosebumps as he skims his way down my neck, leaving behind a trail of featherlight kisses.
“I’ve always had a thing for them. That’s the real reason I went into event planning.”
Graham walks us backward, pressing my back against the wall. With one knee, he nudges my thighs apart. His hips rock against mine, his erection pressing into me through the fabric of his trousers.
I unzip his pants, slipping one hand inside and wrapping it around him. He sucks in a breath, and I speed up my movements when I feel him start to pulsate in my hand.
“We can’t do this here,” he says hoarsely. Part of me knows he’s right, but another, more dominant part, can’t think of anything other than how much I want him.
“Who’s going to stop us?” I whisper.
Then, as if I’ve summoned it, there’s a knock on the door.
“Everything okay in there?” a woman’s voice asks.
Graham releases a low, frustrated growl from the back of his throat, backing away from me as he frantically buttons his pants. His cheeks are flushed, his golden hair mussed, his glasses slightly askew. He’s never looked sexier.
“Everything’s fine,” I call, then clap a hand over my mouth, immediately realizing my mistake.
“Ma’am, you are not allowed in the dressing room,” the woman says, her voice now taking on a hard edge.
“Oh, I didn’t realize! So sorry about that. I’ll be right out,” I reply.
I shoot a grin at Graham, whose face has now gone completely crimson.
Mortifying, he mouths at me, shaking his head, and I bite back a laugh. His face is still flushed, but his eyes are dancing behind his glasses.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve gotten into trouble in my entire life as often as I have with you,” he whispers.
I press my mouth to the shell of his ear. “Welcome to the dark side.”
He squeezes my waist and I clap a hand over my mouth once more to muffle my squeal before slipping out of the dressing room.
“Tell me the truth: has a woman ever seen your tattoo and changed her mind about sleeping with you?”
The light in Graham’s bedroom has dimmed with the setting sun, casting a shadow over his bare torso. I trace over the outline of the design with my finger, drawing goosebumps from his skin. We’re laying side by side in his bed, our toes grazing the cool fabric of the bedsheets balled at the foot of the bed. Graham glances at me over his shoulder and one corner of his mouth rises in a lazy grin.
“Never. But a woman did once ask if she could take a photo of it for her friend. Which I declined. How dare she try and objectify my body?”
I breathe out a laugh as he rolls onto his side to face me. Reaching forward, he strokes a thumb against my cheekbone.
“You, on the other hand, are free to objectify my body any time you’d like.”
His hand snakes over my hip as he pulls me closer, sending a spark of electricity that reaches all the way to my toes. Grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck, I press my lips against his. I can’t seem to get enough of this man; no matter how many times I have him, I’m never quite satisfied. Based on the way I can feel him pulsing between my legs, I suspect he’s suffering from the same affliction.
I trace the bottom of his lip with my tongue, drawing a low groan as his fingers twist through my hair. He uses his free hand to cup my breast, his thumb drawing lazy circles over my nipple.
The kiss is interrupted by a low growl in my stomach. I bite down gently on his bottom lip before pulling my face from his, drawing another frustrated groan.
“I’m going to go grab a snack. Are you hungry?”
Graham smirks, his eyes flashing playfully. “I just ate.”
I give him a playful swat before sliding out of bed. I pull Graham’s sweater over my head, then turn to look at him over my shoulder.
“Well, I’ll be in the kitchen if you’re ready for dessert.”
My initial survey of Graham’s pantry is grim. It’s clear that he doesn’t do much cooking because there isn’t much to work with. I’ve just grabbed the ingredients to make one of my favorite elevated basics when he pads into the kitchen.
“What’s on the midnight menu?” he asks as he comes up behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist and nuzzles my neck.
“Fried peanut butter and jelly,” I say, angling my head back to give him better access.
“Mmm,” he murmurs, as he drags his nose behind my ear. “Sounds divine.”
I shrug as I crack an egg into a small bowl and coat the sandwich on both sides. “I did the best I could with the ingredients in Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.”
Graham laughs softly. “I don’t have much motivation to grocery shop when Claire is out of town. Most nights I just eat a bowl of cereal or something.”
“That is tragic,” I say. I slide the sandwich into the buttered pan, and it crackles with a satisfying sizzle. But it’s not enough to distract from the mention of Claire, the proverbial elephant in the kitchen. I clear my throat, readying myself to ask the question that’s been plaguing me for the past few days.
“Speaking of Claire, what exactly are the terms of your arrangement? I imagine it involves quite a few sacrifices.”
Graham picks up the knife I used for the peanut butter and wraps his lips around it. My mouth goes dry as I watch him lick it clean. It should be illegal to do something this erotic with a butter knife.
“Not really. Our lives are pretty much unchanged. All we need to do is provide evidence that the marriage is real. Shared finances, shared address. We’re already roommates, so that wasn’t a problem. And it was no big deal to open a shared checking account. Honestly, it makes it easier to pay the rent and utility bills that way.”
I chew on my bottom lip before asking a follow-up question in the most casual manner I can summon. “And what about dating? Is that off the table?”
Graham shakes his head. “Claire and I agreed that this arrangement shouldn’t interfere with our personal lives. A serious relationship with someone else would get tricky, but that’s a non-issue for me. Past that, we’re free to see whoever we want.”
He places his hands on either side of my waist, drawing me closer. His breath is warm as it tickles my ear. “And right now, I’m very interested in seeing you.”
His words send a rush of pleasure racing up my spine. Deep down, I know that continuing to sleep with Graham is a recipe for disaster. But I can’t quite convince my body to heed that advice.
When the sandwich finishes toasting a few minutes later, I put it on a plate and set it on the counter to cool. Graham reaches an arm across me to pick it up and takes a bite.
“Wow. That’s incredible.”
I shake my head. “Admit it. You’re only sleeping with me for my culinary talents.”
Graham grins as he goes in for another taste. “It’s an undeniable perk.”
I take the sandwich from his hands and bite into it, chewing carefully as I evaluate it. “This is good, but not nearly as good as it would be on challah.”
Graham brushes a crumb from the corner of his lip. “I’ll make sure to keep some in stock from now on.”
From now on. The words send a ripple of excitement through me. But then, just as quickly, the feeling is flattened, as his earlier words echo in my brain.
“Why did you say a serious relationship is a non-issue? Don’t you ever want to fall in love? Settle down for real?”
A dark cloud passes over Graham’s face.
“Relationships aren’t for me,” he says quietly. “My mom followed her heart and look where it got her. My dad was a complete tosser who cheated on her every chance he got, and she ended up raising me as a single mum. And her relationship with my grandparents was never the same after she moved to London. I promised myself I’d never be so reckless. Falling in love is like a forest fire. You burn yourself and everyone around you.”
His words feel like a stone in the pit of my stomach. It’s not that I expected anything to come of this thing with Graham. After all, what could this ever be other than a brief fling? Still, there’s something about hearing him say he’s not interested in ever falling in love that threatens to crack my heart in two. It must be written all over my face because Graham’s forehead creases as his eyes trace cautiously over my face.
“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” he asks.
I quickly school my features into an expression of nonchalance. “Not at all. Honestly, I agree with your perspective on dating. Casual is the only way to go.”
He sighs.
“Ali, I know this is complicated. I know we won’t have a lot of time together. But I like you, and I want to keep seeing you for as long as I can.”
I lean back against the counter, bracing myself against the granite. “Absolutely. We don’t need to make a big thing of this. It’s just sex, right? Doesn’t have to mean a thing. Besides, we only have a few weeks before you head back to New York.”
Graham nods, his expression flat. “Oh. Yes, of course.”
He rinses off the plate and puts it into the dishwasher. When he turns back to face me, his expression has softened.
“Stay with me tonight?” he asks.
I nod. It makes sense to stay downtown, since we have an appointment with a florist early tomorrow morning. Truthfully, everything would make more sense if I lived downtown. I spent the past week staring longingly at Zillow listings. I’ve got my eye on a townhouse in Fells Point that’s got a tiny rear garden where I can grow my own herbs. But there won’t be any home purchases in my future unless I can keep my eyes on the prize. Which is all the more reason to keep this thing with Graham under control.
Graham tucks a loose curl behind my ear and presses his lips to my forehead.
If only the prize didn’t come with such charming distractions.
Even though we take separate cars, Graham and I still walk into Fleur de Lis at the same time the following morning, and I send a quick prayer into the universe that Asha doesn’t notice. Luckily, she’s clicking away on her cell phone and barely seems to register our entrance when we spot her in the lobby. But my heart leaps into my mouth when I see another figure with fire-engine red hair standing beside her. My mouth drops open, but it’s Graham who speaks first.
“Claire.” His voice is strained, unnatural.
She flashes him an enormous smile.
“Hi! Thought I’d come down for the afternoon to surprise you. I just got off the train and came straight here.” Graham’s face is indeed a mask of surprise, but not of the pleasant variety. Asha’s brow furrows as her eyes dart back and forth between the two of them. I can tell what she’s thinking, that Graham’s lack of excitement to see his fiancée seems odd. But, ever the professional, she says nothing.
I clear my throat, doing my best to smooth over what has suddenly become palpable tension.
“Of course,” I say. “No bride wants to miss out on choosing florals.” I shoot Graham a warning glance, hoping he’ll take the hint to rearrange his face, which doesn’t look remotely natural right now. Claire is going to know something is up. But somehow, she doesn’t seem to notice.
A florist from the shop leads us to a small office in the back, where she shows us the sample bouquets she’s assembled. They’re stunning, an artful arrangement of dusty roses and ivory peonies tied together with a muted sage ribbon. Claire and Asha ooh and aah over them for a moment, until the sound of a cell phone pierces the air, and Graham extracts his phone from his pocket.
He glances down at the screen. “It’s my grandmother. I should probably take this.” He stands and heads off to the front of the shop. Asha places her hand on my wrist.
“While we’re waiting, do you mind if I show you some of the ranunculus they’ve just gotten in? We need an alternative for the Rosenberg-Abdul wedding, since the father of the groom is allergic to lilies.”
I blink at her for a second, since we have no client of this name, before realizing it’s a decoy.
“Oh, right. Of course,” I say. I glance at Claire. “Give us just one sec?”
She nods, already scrolling through her phone.
I follow Asha to a front display, where she makes a show of pointing out several different blooms.
“There’s something not right about this wedding,” she says, her voice low. I shrug, avoiding her eyes as I finger the petals of an ivory anemone.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Asha’s frown deepens. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. But something is off.”
Desperate as I am to admit the truth to Asha, I made a promise to Graham. And at the end of the day, it’s not my secret to tell. But the justification does little to quell the guilt pooling in my stomach. I’ve known Asha for half of my life. Keeping this from her feels treacherous.
“Probably just pre-wedding jitters,” I manage. “I’m sure it’s not easy for Claire, being in New York while so much of the wedding details are being handled without her.”
Asha presses her lips together and nods, but I can tell she’s not fully convinced.
“We’d better be getting back before Claire gets uncomfortable,” she says after a beat.
When we head back into the office, the florist hands a contract to Asha, who reviews it quickly before passing it to Claire for her signature.
A moment later, Graham returns to the doorway, all the color drained from his face. He slumps into a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Teddy, what is it?” Claire asks, placing a hand on his arm.
Graham draws in a breath. “José, our head chef, just called out sick. The hotel is meant to be hosting a murder mystery dinner tonight. I thought it would be a great way to showcase some of the unique ways the ballroom can be used as an event space. But now, we have no one to prepare said dinner. The event starts in four hours; there’s no way I’ll find a substitute chef in time. I’m going to have to cancel.”
He looks so crestfallen, like a little boy who just learned the tooth fairy isn’t real, that I have to fight back the urge to throw my arms around him.
“What about Ali?”
My head snaps toward Claire, who’s looking at me thoughtfully.
“What about Ali… for what?” I ask, uncomprehending.
“Aren’t you a professionally trained chef? Maybe you could take over dinner service tonight.” She bites her lip, glancing between me and Asha. “Sorry, have I overstepped? I know that this isn’t part of your responsibility as our wedding planner. Teddy would of course pay you and…”
“That’s a great idea. She’ll do it.” I turn to Asha, gaping.
“Are you sure?” I ask, hoping she’ll snap out of whatever lapse in brain synapses she seems to be experiencing and realize what an extraordinarily bad idea this is. She may not realize that spending more time with Graham is a recipe for disaster, but she knows this is way out of the bounds of my job description. “I mean, don’t you need help this evening with the Mirza account?”
“All caught up,” she says. “My schedule is completely clear. In fact, I’m going to my hot yoga class tonight so you’re completely off the hook. I know how much you miss working in kitchens. And I don’t believe you had other plans, did you?”
Damn this woman.
“Nope,” I manage. I turn to Graham. “I’m all yours tonight.” The tips of his ears go fuchsia at the unintended subtext. “Er, I mean, I’m happy to help. In the kitchen. At your hotel.”
Graham swallows. “Um, great. Thank you. The event starts at seven, and the kitchen staff already have most of the meal prepped. I can take you over to the kitchen and show you what they’ve set up.”