13. Riley #2
Graham glanced down toward his collar. “I’ll handle it before the flight.”
“Of course you will.”
His eyes returned to hers. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means yesterday I was standing close enough to clean that cut because you were helping save Mac’s order.” Riley descended no farther. “Today you’re dressed for a launch gala with your suitcase packed.”
“It’s a bag.”
“Great correction. That clears everything up.”
“Riley, I didn’t say it did.”
He tightened his grip on the handle, but he stayed in the gravel. He could have climbed one stair and forced her to deal with him at eye level. He could have dropped the bag. He could have given her one reason to believe New York wasn’t the inevitable conclusion to every promise he made down here.
He did none of those things.
Tell me I’m wrong.
The clarity of the thought embarrassed her.
She wanted him to argue. She wanted the old stubborn bastard who could spend forty minutes debating a skate hollow to tell her she’d misunderstood every part of this. Instead, he stood there and let the space between them remain untouched.
“I actually started believing you finally grasped the weight of the invisible work,” she said. “You sold the act perfectly.”
His expression changed. Not much. A brief tension in his face, then stillness.
“It wasn’t an act.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No.”
She looked toward the car, then back to the bag. “Interesting timing for the final performance.”
“That’s not fair.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “Fair?”
“Yes. You can hate that I’m leaving. You can hate where I’m going. But don’t turn what I did here into some publicity stunt.”
“Publicity stunt?” Riley shook her head. “There weren’t any cameras here, remember? That was the selling point.”
“I remember.”
“Then the PR machine snapped its fingers.” She stepped to the edge of the tread and stopped. “I guess hauling those presses was just a charming little rustic vacation until the camera withdrawal hit.”
Graham’s face lost what little color the morning had given it.
“You know damn well the sweat in that shop was real, Riley.”
The words stopped her for a moment.
He looked toward the closed shop doors, then back at her. “Every load Mac put in front of me was real. Every hour in that grinding room was real. Yesterday was real.”
The bandage at his collar made the argument harder to dismiss.
For one stupid moment, hope tried again.
Then he finished.
“But I am getting on this flight.”
There it was.
Riley released the railing.
Not I don’t want to.
Not I changed my mind.
Not You matter more.
He was getting on the flight.
She stepped back onto the higher tread. “Then stop asking me to separate your intentions from your choices.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive this.”
“No. You’re just expecting me to stand here while you run back to the same people who helped destroy us.”
“Riley—”
“Nicolle gets New York. The sponsors get the gala. The brand gets Graham Delaney whenever it calls.” She gestured toward the waiting car. “And we’re supposed to believe the man hauling leather down here is your real life?”
He started to speak.
Riley cut him off.
“No. Save it. I’ve heard enough explanations about why somebody else’s schedule needs you more.”
The morning light caught the paint of the car behind him. Graham stayed where he was, bag at his side, making no move toward the stairs.
That was answer enough.
“So get off my property, Graham.”
She placed one hand over her belly and held his gaze.
“My baby and I don’t need you trespassing in our lives while you chase Nicolle and cash your endorsement checks.”
Graham stood completely still.
The bag hung at his side. His face had gone pale, but he made no move toward the stairs and no move toward the car. For a moment, Riley braced for the argument she had learned to counter.
“Is that what you want me to do?”
She stared down at him. “I already told you to leave.”
“I’m asking if you want me to argue with you.”
“You never needed permission before.”
He shifted his weight, his shoe scraping faintly against the gravel. Nothing else changed. No lecture about contracts. No reminder of how much money sat behind the launch. No claim that everyone depended on him and she should understand.
Riley almost wished he would start.
She knew how to fight that Graham.
“I won’t insult you by trying to defend how this looks.”
She dropped her hand from the curve of her belly and gripped the railing instead.
Graham kept his eyes on her. “If I were in your position, I wouldn’t trust me either. You have every reason not to.”
That wasn’t the answer she wanted.
It wasn’t even an answer she knew what to do with.
The old Graham would have built a case. He would have stacked obligations in front of her until leaving sounded noble, then asked why she couldn’t recognize everything he was sacrificing for them. Riley had spent years dismantling those arguments after the fact, usually alone.
Now he offered her nothing to dismantle.
“That’s it?” she asked.
His voice stayed flat. “What else do you want me to say?”
“Tell me the contract made you do it.”
He said nothing.
“Tell me Miller called and threatened your career.”
“No.”
“Tell me the team threatened to take something away.”
“No.”
Riley looked at him harder. “Then give me Nicolle. Tell me she created some emergency and you have to clean it up because nobody else can survive without Graham Delaney walking into the room.”
The bag shifted against his leg.
Still nothing.
Fight me.
She hated the thought the moment it appeared.