Chapter 11
11
I manage to avoid Graham for the rest of the month, but since our tight planning schedule requires an expedited timeline, we’re due to meet at Sugar Babies Bakery the first Monday in November for a cake tasting. Even though Claire said she was happy to let us take creative direction for most of the wedding planning, I firmly believe that choosing cake is a very personal decision, so there was no way I could sign off on just picking one for them.
I’ve just parallel parked—expertly, I might add—when my phone buzzes with an incoming text. Glancing down at the screen, I see Asha’s name. Dread pools in my belly as I read her message.
Was up all night with Ravi, who was puking his guts out. No way I’ll make it to the cake tasting. Sorry to leave you flying solo, but you’ll be fine! Food is your thing!
I feel like I might hurl myself. The thought of being alone with Graham turns my palms slick. Especially after his guest-starring appearance in last night’s R-rated dream. We were back in the basement freezer, lips molded together, his fingers knotted through my hair. His tongue urgently explored my mouth as we stumbled backward into shelves, sending cans of food rolling onto the floor. He dragged his lips down the column of my throat, teeth grazing the tender skin. I could still feel the phantom heat of his breath on my skin when I woke up this morning. I have a sudden urge to pull out of the parking spot, leave the state, burn off my fingerprints, and start a new life.
Pull yourself together, I tell myself. You are a strong, capable woman. Your sexual attraction to this man is not going to get in the way of your promotion. You can do this.
But can I? Can I sit here and casually watch him lick frosting off his plump, porn star lips like I’m not a person who hasn’t had sex in three months? It’s possible that my vagina has hermetically sealed from lack of usage. And what if this is just the first of several wedding errands we have to run together? I mean, how long does the stomach bug last? And what on earth am I supposed to do in the meantime?
Closing my eyes, I try to imagine what Chloe would say if she was here. Most likely, she’d start by leveling me with one of her trademark, no-nonsense expressions. Then she’d tell me to take a deep breath, pull it together, and go eat some dessert in an unerotic fashion. And as usual, she’d be right.
Resolved, I nod to myself, take a deep, steadying breath, and exit the car.
When I step into the bakery, I’m greeted with the inviting aroma of vanilla and freshly risen dough. It’s a scent combination I normally find comforting, but today, it does nothing to soothe my jitters.
I sense Graham before I see him, goosebumps sprouting on my forearms, and a second later I spot him sitting at one of the small round tables, looking ridiculously attractive in a crisp navy suit over an ice-blue button-down. The first thought my treacherous brain emits is that there’s no way we’ll ever find a cake topper that adequately captures his hotness. Fuck my life.
Graham is restlessly drumming his fingertips on the tabletop, his eyes darting around the bakery. When they land on me, he draws his hand quickly into his lap and straightens.
“Good morning,” I say. I put on my most professional voice and hope it masks the butterflies in my stomach. “Thanks for meeting me here. Hope you’re ready to taste some cake!” I cringe internally. I sound like I’m reading cue cards.
“Morning.” Graham’s eyes dart around the mostly empty space. “Uh… shouldn’t we wait for Asha?” he asks.
I exhale slowly, forcing a pleasant smile on my face.
“Asha isn’t coming. Her kid has a stomach bug. And based on what I know about how stomach bugs travel through my sister’s house, it could be days before we see her again.”
“So, it’s just us?” he asks. Graham’s brows knit together, which has the unpleasant effect of making him even more attractive. Everything he does has the unpleasant effect of making him more attractive.
“Just us,” I confirm.
Graham clears his throat and a long beat of silence passes.
“Oh, I have something for you,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket and extracting an envelope. He hands it to me.
“What is it?”
“Our next payment for your services.”
Studying the envelope, I raise an eyebrow.
“Did you address this with a typewriter?”
“Gran keeps one in her office. What can I say? I love old-fashioned things.”
“Listen, I appreciate your grandmother’s Emily Gilmore energy. I fully expect all her correspondence to be elegantly hand-lettered, with ink sourced from the estate sale of a founding father. But I regret to inform you that the only people who address letters with a typewriter are the ones mailing anthrax.”
Graham presses his lips together tightly but doesn’t respond.
“Thank goodness you included your return address,” I continue. “Otherwise, I might have suspected the sender was Alfred Hitchcock, or perhaps the teenage girls who revealed Deep Throat’s identity.”
“Are you finished?” he asks.
“Nearly,” I say. “Just one final question. Why bother with a typewriter at all? Were you unable to send a telegram on such short notice?”
Graham closes his eyes and draws his fingertips across his forehead, like he’s trying to ward off a headache. “Do you maintain this level of professionalism with all your clients?”
I shake my head. “Definitely not. You’re getting the VIP treatment. Keep an eye on the mail for your free tote bag.”
Graham glares at me across the table. Thankfully, the tension is dispelled when the door to the kitchen swings open and a bakery employee makes his way over to us. He places two aluminum trays on the table, one containing small squares of cake and the other tiny plastic bowls full of icing. Each component is neatly labeled.
The bakery employee, who can’t be a day older than eighteen, pushes a lock of curly brown hair out of his eyes and grins at us. “Who’s ready for cake?” he asks.
“Oh shoot, they’ve neglected to include a rum pudding flavor,” I lament. “Now what will you choose?”
Graham smirks at me. “I’ve never tried rum pudding, believe it or not.”
“Scandalous! Did the Windsor family ban it from the royal residence or something?”
“You guys are adorable,” the employee says, his grin widening. “Congrats on your wedding!”
“No, we’re not—” I protest at the exact same time that Graham says, “She isn’t—” But the employee is already headed back into the kitchen.
Awesome.
I pick up a fork as I survey the options, and Graham raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were also tasting.”
“The audacity of that suggestion,” I say. “You think I’m just going to sit here and watch you enjoy delicious cake?”
“That’s fair,” he concedes, as he picks up his own fork. In perfect synchronicity, we both reach for the crimson cake at the center of the tray.
“I didn’t take you for a red velvet person,” I say, impressed.
Graham smirks. “Well, you know what they say about making assumptions.”
He dips his fork into the sample, and I watch as it disappears behind his lips, my eyes glued to the pulse of his throat. He lets out a low hum of pleasure as he swallows, and I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to lean forward and trace the curve of his Adam’s apple with my tongue.
Clearing my throat, I make a desperate attempt to change the subject.
“So, how’s it going at the hotel? Do you feel like you’ve been able to help?”
Graham brightens. “I do, actually. My first job out of uni was with a firm that specialized in marketing and rebranding, so I’ve been able to use the skills I developed there. There are so many small things that can make a big difference: modernizing our advertising, redistributing the budget, tapping into community resources. I’ve always enjoyed helping failing businesses turn things around, so this has been a real passion project. I know the Black-Eyed Susan can be as great as it once was. All it needs is a bit of love and a fresh pair of eyes.”
The glow that’s spread across his features as he speaks makes him look a decade younger, and I catch a momentary glimpse of the boy I met playing Kings in a London bar. Then a thought occurs to me.
“You said before that you do most of your consulting work remotely. Why do you have to be in Baltimore to help with the hotel?”
Graham scrubs an uneasy hand across the back of his neck, and I can tell I’ve struck a nerve.
“I suppose I don’t technically have to be here. Although I do think there’s something to be said for hands-on work.”
I raise an eyebrow, and a small, shy smile forms in the corners of his mouth.
“Okay, fine. The truth is, I spent most of my summers here as a kid but haven’t been back much since. By the time I was a teenager, I mostly wanted to spend term breaks with my friends. My mom has never been keen on visiting, so she didn’t push it. But I’ve missed this place. Baltimore has always felt like a home away from home. So, when I saw an opportunity to make myself useful here, I ran with it.”
“Hmm.” I reach for the chocolate with raspberry jam, my fork clanking against Graham’s as he aims for the same piece.
“You’re doing this on purpose!” I protest.
“I swear I’m not,” he laughs. Our eyes lock, and a pleasant shiver runs down my spine. Graham, ever the gentleman, gestures for me to take the first bite of cake, and I scoop it into my mouth, savoring the perfectly complementary flavors. If this was my wedding, this is the combination I’d choose.
“Besides,” Graham continues, dipping his own fork into the cake. “My grandparents did so much for me growing up. My mom was so reluctant to ask for support, but I know they helped her out anyway, especially with my schooling. I want to repay them, and this feels like the right way to do it.” There’s a tiny smudge of frosting in the corner of his mouth, and I instinctively reach forward to brush it away with my thumb. Graham freezes and I feel my cheeks turn hot. I start to pull my hand away, but Graham wraps his fingers around my wrist, holding it in place. We stare at each other for a beat before he mur murs something inaudible and releases me. The heat from my face spreads down my neck and across my chest.
I pull away, leaning back against my chair and sucking in a huge gulp of air in an attempt to clear the shrouding fog of lust.
“So. Have you made a decision?” I manage. Graham’s eyes are wild and questioning when they connect with mine.
“About the cake,” I clarify. “Or did you want to check in with Claire?”
An odd look crosses Graham’s face at the mention of his fiancée, as if he’d completely forgotten about her.
“Oh, Claire. Right. She doesn’t like cake. So, it’s up to me.”
“She doesn’t like cake?” I faux gasp. “Just when I thought the woman had no flaws.”
Graham doesn’t offer the smile I’d be hoping for.
“No one’s perfect,” he says quietly, holding my gaze. Then he blinks rapidly, dispelling the tension.
“Let’s go with the chocolate-raspberry. It seems like it would be a crowd-pleaser,” he says.
I nod, slipping back into business mode and forcing myself not to swoon at the way he pronounces the word “chocolate.”
“Definitely. I’ll get that order in for you.”
I glance out the window. “I should be getting back to the office. I have some things to wrap up and it’s calling for bad weather tonight.”
“That’s wild. It was in the sixties yesterday,” Graham says.
“Yeah, well, welcome to Baltimore in November. I know you’ve mostly been here in the warmer months, but the change-of-season weather will give you whiplash.” I offer him a polite smile as I gather my things.
“I’ll check in later about our upcoming appointment. Hopefully Asha will be back by then.”
Graham nods, his expression revealing nothing. “Take care, Ali.”