8. Rosay
Chapter eight
Rosay
T ender chunks of beef simmered in red wine gravy fall apart on my tongue, and I groan, not only at the flavors bursting inside my mouth, but also because this is just another thing that makes me dislike him.
No one, least of all my grumpy boss, should be able to look as good as he does and cook this well.
“Well?” Graham arches a brow.
I stab a potato with my fork and place it in my mouth, chewing slowly just to annoy him.
It’s almost funny how uptight he is. Even dressed in a tee shirt and jeans instead of his usual suit, he’s still wound tight.
He bounces a curled knuckle against his mouth, and his brows are scrunched so tightly I’m unsure if he still has two.
He needs to loosen up.
“It’s edible.” I shrug and try to keep my face devoid of the humor I feel inside.
“Edible?” He scoffs and leans forward with a serious face. “It’s delicious, and you know it.”
Laughter bursts out of me as Graham crosses his arms in front of his chest and shakes his head.
“How are we going to manage four days together without killing each other?” he asks.
I toss another piece of meat into my mouth. “Oh, you’re so dramatic. Every grump needs a sunshine.”
“A what?” he asks.
I sigh, unsurprised he doesn’t get the reference. “In romance books there’s usually one person in the story who is a sunshine, happy-go-lucky, everyone likes them type of character, and the other is a grump.”
He cocks his head and slides a fingernail along his lip, apparently deep in thought. “So, in this scenario, I’d be the grump?”
“Correct,” I say, finishing off the last piece of meat. “You are the grump.”
“What makes me the grump?”
I chuckle and take a swig of wine before relaxing into the chair. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
“Humor me.”
The weight of his stare sends a chill down my spine. If I’m not mistaken, there’s humor mixed with annoyance and a little bit of desire—though I could just be imagining the last part. On the outside, Graham and I might look like a perfect match, but we’re too opposite to work.
He’s uptight and stuffy, I’m relaxed and carefree.
He’s a rule follower, and I’ve broken every rule. Twice.
There could never be anything truly between us, no matter if I’m attracted to him physically. But I can play the part.
I just hope my family won’t look too closely at the cracks in our facade.
I hold up my fingers to list off the reasons he’s the grump.
“You don’t like people touching your stuff, you never come to happy hour with the team, you do nothing but work”—he opens his mouth as if to interrupt, but I continue—“you banned peppermint…during Christmas, and you shooed away the Girl Scouts when they were trying to sell cookies.”
He squint s at me as if he’s trying to work something out. “First off, I don’t like you touching my stuff. Namely, my expensive office machinery. And second, those Girl Scouts were running a pyramid scheme.”
I snort, unsurprised by his reply. Creases form on his forehead, and I barely stop myself before reaching out to smooth them away.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” I say. “Everyone loves a sexy grump.”
Mischief glints in his eyes, and a smile forms on one side of his face, revealing dimples that make my stomach flip. I’m so focused on the smooth curve of his lips that I don’t realize the error I’ve made until it’s too late.
“Don’t say it,” I beg, hoping my cheeks don’t look as red as they feel.
“I’m not the one who said it.” He raises his hand, shifting the blame back to me and my big mouth. He chuckles, and I clench my fists in my lap. “I guess it’s my lot in life to be the sexy grump then.”
I let out an exasperated sigh and take my plate to the sink.
“I’ll do the dishes.” He lays his hand over where I’ve picked up the washcloth, and the heat from his skin burns a line up my arm. I shake him off and drop the cloth, choosing to peruse the living room while he cleans up.
“What’s this?” I ask loudly, zeroing in on the thick manila folder with my name on it.
“It’s everything you need to know about me,” he says, coming up beside me.
“My sister, Winnie, sent me this ‘Let’s Get Deeper’ game when she heard I was engaged. It’s apparently a bunch of questions that will help us get to know each other more…organically.”
He harrumphs as if my game is a personal offense to his file, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I guess we can try it, see how it goes.”
I’m not sure what spurs me to do it, but I wrap my arm around his biceps—holy hell he’s fit—and pull him over to the couch. I grab the box of cards, our glasses, and a fresh bottle of wine before I join him.
“Let’s set some ground rules,” he says, pouring the wine while I unwrap the box and dispose of the plastic.
“Rules?” I scoff. “We don’t need rules. It’s a game.”
He tsks me, and his dark, playful eyes lure me in before I blink away the weird reaction.
“It’s not a game without rules.” He takes the instruction manual and reads it thoroughly. He throws the pamphlet on the table and separates the cards into two stacks, sliding one toward me. “You only get one skip per ten cards.” He flashes me a roguish grin, then adds, “So choose wisely.”
My gaze flits back to the thick manila folder, and I wonder briefly if he had the right idea in compiling the information. If I know Winnie, this game is sure to put us in some not safe for work spaces, but if we’re going to pull this off, we’ve got to learn how to play the part with ease.
“I’ll go first,” I say, grabbing a card. “What is your least favorite vegetable?”
“That’s an easy one to start off with.” He thinks about it for a second before saying, “Lima beans. Yours?”
I consider messing with him and saying potatoes, but I need us to be successful, so I tell him the truth. “Brussel sprouts.”
He nods as if he considers this an appropriate answer to the question.
“Your turn,” I say.
“What’s your favorite memory from childhood?”
I don’t even have to think about it. Anything that includes my mom is an automatic favorite. “Playing hide and seek at the vineyard with my mom.”
“That s ounds like a lot of fun.”
“It was. She’d pretend to search for five minutes as if she didn’t see me within the first twenty seconds.” Fighting the rise of emotions, I give him a tight smile. “What about you? Got a favorite memory of terrorizing the neighbors or mooning truck drivers?”
His eyebrows bunch, and he fights a grin as if he’s actually amused. “I did no such thing as a child.” He stares into his wine glass, gaze turning somber. “I guess, shooting hoops with my dad after he got off work.”
“You? In something other than a three-piece suit?” I splay my hand on my chest. “I can’t picture it.”
“You’re a terrible comedian,” he replies, deadpan.
“Oh shut up.” I playfully push his arm, but of course he doesn’t move an inch.
Thus far we’ve gotten along pretty well, but if we’re going to pull this off then we need to know more than just surface-level stuff about each other.
I pick up another card, hoping to move the conversation along.
"Wow. Getting deep with this one. What is your definition of a fulfilled life? "
He clasps his hands together, elbows propped on his knees as he stares ahead with unfocused eyes. All I can hear is my breath coming through my nostrils as moments pass, waiting for him to blink.
"I used to think I wanted the big house with the large backyard, a few kids, and maybe a dog…or a turtle."
"And now?"
"Now, called me jaded or disillusioned, but I think I just want to be happy, content with what I have." I try to ignore the stutter in my chest thinking about what he went through that made him feel this way. "What about you?"
When I think about what a fulfilled life would be, I think about how I can never have the life I imagined for myself because of my past. In a perfect world, I'd be a math teacher—everyone's favorite class, of course—with a husband who loved me the way my dad loved my mom, and maybe kids if we both decided on them.
But I'm not ready to show Graham the cemetery of my hopes and dreams yet.
"I've always wanted to be successful in whatever I did, and maybe if I was lucky, find love like my parents had. They were that lovey dovey couple who had big dreams and never gave up on seeing them come to fruition."
He nods but doesn't say anything before picking up another card.
We go back and forth answering questions, some surface level, some deeper like if we believe in something greater than ourselves, or if we believe in aliens.
My side hurts from how much I laughed when Graham told me he was sure Elvis Presley faked his death and was relaxing on a far away island.
“Waffles or pancakes?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Neither.”
“Oh, you’re an omelet person.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug. “You just don’t seem like someone who likes to get…messy.”
I leave out the fact that I read an article where one of the many women he was photographed with after he and Bethany split commented that while Graham was gorgeous, he was as vanilla as they came. Literally .
Though, he must have done something well because he’s dated plenty of beautiful women.
“You’re making a lot of assumptions about me.” He tilts his head, a slight look of vexation on his face. “Don’t believe everything you read in the gossip magazines.”
My mouth pops open. How did he know I read the gossip magazines? Tension lingers in the air, and I tuck my lips between my teeth before I end up pushing my foot further down my throat.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m just messing with you.”
I exhale with a soft growl. “Who’s the terrible comedian now?”
“I like French toast with fresh berries and homemade whipped cream. Occasionally, I’ll add a rum-infused syrup,” he replies.
“That actually sounds amazing. Add in some bacon and I’m there.”
“If we don’t kill each other this weekend, I’ll make it for you.”