Chapter 7
Lynley
Grafton doesn’t say another word as he sweeps me out of the elevator, past his surprised assistant, and into his office.
As he shuts the door, the sound louder than a gunshot, a wave of trepidation trickles from my head all the way down to my toes that are tucked into my comfortable, low-heeled pumps.
Sensible footwear for sensible Lynley.
It’s a “quirk” my mother spent years trying to purge out of me, wanting a carbon copy of her—and Caroline. I was never interested in spending hours primping in front of the mirror or torturing myself by wearing the tightest clothing or the highest heels.
It isn’t just in looks, though. I have never been a risk-taker. The biggest one I ever took was choosing to spend my life with Christopher, and I’m seeing the consequences of that now.
And yet… I just walked into this office alone with a man I just met, the door closed between us and anyone else.
I swallow thickly, careful not to look at Grafton as I take in his office.
It’s a masculine space, decorated in dark browns, with a large, glossy black desk taking up the most space, a wall of glass behind it looking out over the city.
There’s a door to the left that I assume leads to a private bathroom, and a black leather settee in the right corner, and a rectangular glass coffee table.
The whole vibe is very much successful executive and doesn’t fit the flannel-and-axes one that’s imprinted in my mind.
Grafton moves past me—too close, his arm brushing against mine—and my skin prickles with awareness. I eye him as he walks over to the wet bar—because of course he has a wet bar—and inwardly debate the pros and cons of making a run for the door.
I came here today for a reason, and he’s currently one floor below me. Probably doing unspeakable things to the perky, young intern. If I time it just right, I might be able to catch him in the act and be done with this marriage once and for all.
But the idea of going down there right now has me feeling like I might “blow chunks,” as Mase would say, all over Grafton’s plush carpet.
Maybe I should just go home.
I could stop at the grocery store on the way and pick up some of Ginny’s favorite ice cream—peanut butter chocolate chip this week.
I’d get gummy bears, sour worms, sprinkles, and whipped cream.
When the kids got home from school, we could set up a make-your-own-sundae station, and then eat our treats in front of a movie.
Pretend everything is still normal before you blow up their lives.
I hate that the consequences of Christopher’s choices are on the kids and me. They’ve done nothing to deserve what’s coming, but the responsibility for minimizing the damage is on me and not on the person who’s causing it. It’s so goddamn unfair.
A clink pulls my attention to Grafton as he lifts a crystal decanter, pouring rich amber liquid into a matching tumbler.
“Fancy,” I murmur without thinking, and he shoots me a smirk over his shoulder.
“Present from my father,” he replies. “Would you like a drink?”
I silently shake my head, watching transfixed as his long, thick fingers curl around the glass, lifting it to his mouth.
My eyes lower a fraction, locking on the way his throat bobs with a swallow.
Something pulses low between my hips, and I blink rapidly, wondering when a man having a drink became so… erotic?
I spin away, silently cursing myself. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a visceral reaction to anyone in my life. But right now, I’m still married, even if it is to a cheating pig.
I hasten to the settee, perching on the edge of the cushion with my purse at my feet. I clasp my hands together in my lap, staring down at the glittering wedding band on my finger, barely biting back a sneer.
“I should probably, uh…” My voice sounds strained. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look up. “I’m here to see Christopher.”
Grafton finishes his drink and sets the glass down before approaching. I’m sure he’ll move one of the seats by his desk, but he surprises me by taking the other side of the settee, making me sway toward him before I stiffen, imagining my spine is made of unbending wood.
There’s not enough room, and his knee brushes mine, making me jump. I tuck myself further into the corner, but he only spreads his legs further apart, making it impossible to get away from him.
“So you said.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s responding to what I said before, and my cheeks burn. “Yes.” I clear my throat. “I should go find him. He’ll be wondering—”
I look up just as his piercing blue eyes slide to me, a brow winging up. “He knows you’re here?”
I purse my lips. “Well, no.” I play with the hem of my skirt. “But if he found out that I am…”
A soft rumble escapes Grafton’s chest. My eyes flash up to his just as something dark flits across his expression. “How would he know?” he asks silkily, his voice stroking over my skin like a physical touch. I don’t need to look at my arms to know that goose bumps are marking my flesh.
His voice should come with a warning.
“My assistant is ordering us lunch.” I don’t think I’m imagining him leaning closer. It feels like he’s stealing the air right from my lungs—like an incubus out for my soul.
Alright. No more late-night TV for me. Clearly, a week of next to no sleep is catching up with me, and with the worst possible timing.
“I suppose some food won’t hurt,” I say uncertainly. “And then I’ll go. It seems like Christopher is busy anyway.”
There’s a lengthy pause, Grafton’s bright blue eyes fixed unwaveringly to my face. “Are you happy, Lynley?”
The question is so unexpected that I splutter out a laugh.
“What? Why would you ask…?” I shake my surprise off, saying firmly, “Of course I’m happy.
” It’s amazing how one small noise can contain so much doubt.
I narrow my eyes at him, demanding, “I’m starting to feel like you have some kind of agenda, bringing me in here like this. ”
Apprehension tightens my chest because what do I really know about this man? His name, his position—my husband’s boss—but knowing those things doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy.
They don’t mean he’s safe.
My eyes dart toward the door, gauging the distance and whether I can get there before he has a chance to grab me. He might have a long reach, but I’m smaller, and there’s a good chance I’ll be faster if I have the element of surprise.
“Lynne… Can I call you Lynne?”
Attention still on the door, I mumble, “Most people do. Just not Lynnie.”
“Done,” he says smoothly. I risk a look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Never Lynnie.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “What is this?” I ask shakily. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Lynne.” His eyes crease at the corners when his mouth curls up just the slightest bit. “Just the opposite, actually.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You will,” Grafton says, and it’s a promise.
Sincerity drops from his words, and the intensity of it sends a shiver of premonition skating over the nape of my neck.
He seems to realize that he’s setting me on edge, because he makes an attempt to dial it back when his assistant knocks on the door, coming in with our lunch.
My mouth drops open as she covers the low table in front of us with cartons. “Is someone else joining us?”
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says casually, like ordering every item from a menu is something normal people do.
I don’t comment, just watching as he opens each container. The fragrant aromas of Mediterranean spices fill the room, and my stomach rumbles.
He glances at me, commenting, “This is one of my favorite restaurants, The Fig & The Olive. I found it not long after moving into town, but it seems like a secret treasure. Most people have never heard of it.”
Acting like saliva isn’t pooling in my mouth, I gingerly reach for the container of moussaka. “I haven’t been there before.”
“Maybe I could take you for dinner one night.”
My eyes widen, but I don’t dare take them off my food. Grafton doesn’t force a response, letting us fall into silence as we eat.
It’s strange. I’ve had no appetite since the day Ginny broke her arm, instead picking at food like a baby bird, so I’m surprised when I look up and find over half the containers empty, and my stomach pleasantly full.
I pat my mouth with a napkin as I sit back, keeping my back as straight as possible and sucking in my stomach. My cheeks heat as I realize just how much I ate, Christopher’s voice drifting into my head.
My wife will take the salad—no dressing.
I don’t think we need dessert. Do you, Lynnie?
Oh. Are you sure you want to wear that dress?
Lynnie, you need to stop encouraging Ginny to eat the way you do. She’s already got an uphill fight with genetics.
My stomach churns uncomfortably, but I shut the voice down. Christopher’s an asshole, covering up insults in pretty words. It is something that has always felt sickeningly familiar to what I heard growing up, so I convinced myself it was because he loved me. That he wanted what was best for me.
After so many years, clarity sweeps in—a harsh reality check of what I’ve let my husband do to me, chipping away at me so much that the things he says started making sense.
There is nothing wrong with how I look, and there is no battle for Ginny to fight. I have curves—show me a woman who has birthed two kids who doesn’t. But I am in the prime of my life, and unless I’m reading the situation completely wrong, Grafton has no issues with my body or appearance.
“Are you finished?” he asks, eyes bouncing between the food and me. Something about his expression tells me me he’s considering feeding me himself, like he doesn’t think I ate enough.
A hot flush crawls through me at the idea, and I flap a hand in front of my face, letting out a crazed little laugh. “Yes! I couldn’t, um…eat another…bite…” There’s a huskiness to my voice that sounds nothing like me.