8. Rosay #2
My laugh is light, though my insides spin with the thought of waking up in Graham’s bed to the smell of breakfast. I bat the idea away as quickly as it comes.
This thing between us is just a deal with no fringe benefits except for a chaste kiss here and there, and if that article in People magazine is anything to go off of, I’m better sorted to bring my vibrator and stick to my fantasies.
Although, he became a hot topic because he dated a lot of actresses after his breakup, so maybe I’m missing something.
“My turn,” Graham says, snapping me from the dangerous trail my mind took. He slides a card toward him with a cocky smirk, which immediately falls from his face as he reads it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, grabbing the card. He snatches it back and pokes his tongue into his cheek, seemingly ruminating on whether or not to ask the question. I cross my arms and arch a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to ask the question. Gonna use your pass?”
He clears his throat then lifts his wine glass to take a sip. “I’m not afraid to ask anything. I just wasn’t sure if the question would make you feel uncomfortable.”
I shrug. “I’m an open book, Graham. Not sure I can feel uncomfortable about much else when you’ve already seen my tits.”
Wine spew s from the corner of his mouth as he coughs, stunned by my candor. I hand him a napkin, and he glares at me as he cleans his shirt.
“Lord, help me.” He balls up the napkin and throws it at me.
“If you think I’m a lot, just wait until you meet Winnie. She has no filter and will sniff us out quicker than a hound dog if she thinks something is up. I need this to work, so just ask the question.”
“Favorite sex position.”
Well, now. I was not expecting that. While I’m not shy when it comes to my body and how confident I feel in it, something about telling my boss—the man who stars in more erotic dreams than I’d like to admit—my favorite position feels terrifying.
When I don’t answer immediately, he lays the card on the table and reaches for another one. “Thought so.”
“Cowgirl. Reverse,” I say, meeting his stare.
His throat rolls with a swallow, and part of me wants to believe I saw an ember of fire flare to life in his gaze before he smothered it. I wait for him to answer, but he looks at me and says, “Okay, next.”
“Next?” Surely, he doesn’t think he’s getting away without letting me know his kink. Not that it matters, since we’ll never be in a position to worry about…positions, but it’s the principle. “Uh uh. You have to answer too.”
His exasperated exhale brings me a modicum of joy. “Missionary.”
“Missionary?” I squeak, half surprised and half offended. I guess when he said I shouldn’t believe everything I read in gossip magazines, he was talking about whether he was actually six foot or not. “That’s like…the worst position.”
Graham leans forward, a smirk tugging at the corner of his cheek. “It’s only the worst position if you’re with someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, sweetheart .”
I scoff, but the slight purr to his voice has parts of me fluttering in ways I should be embarrassed about.
“First off, don’t call me sweetheart. It’s condescending. And second, I’ve been with plenty of people who know what they’re doing and yet, missionary is still lame as fuck.”
His head shakes along with his shoulders, and it takes a moment before I realize he’s laughing at me.
“Why are you laughing?”
“How are we supposed to convince them when we can’t get through four questions without arguing about something?”
“We’re not arguing,” I reply. “We’re communicating like a normal engaged couple.”
“Bethany and I never argued.” His words have the effect of a record scratch in a nightclub. Graham’s gaze falls to the table, and I catch the flutter in his jaw before he brings his attention back to me.
“Sorry,” he says. “Probably not a good idea to talk about exes with your new fiancée.”
I don’t disagree with him. Connor is the absolute last person I want to talk about right now, but with him potentially being at the wedding, it’s a good idea to run through our past.
After a bathroom break.
“Mind if I use your bathroom?” I ask, hoping to relieve some of the tension and snoop a little.
Graham slides his hands down his legs, staring out the window. “Third door on the right.”
Slyly trying to catch a glimpse of the man behind the curtain, I keep my footsteps light.
Graham is the human equivalent of Area 51—he’ll let you be nosy until you try to skirt past his borders to s ee what he’s hiding.
Every door except one is open in the hallway, and I figure if he catches me, I can pretend I got mixed up.
The first door on the right boasts a queen-size bed covered in a gray comforter and a mixture of patterned pillows propped against a studded, dark wood headboard.
Tasteful rustic artwork hangs on the walls, yet there are no family portraits or anything indicating this room means something to him.
No trinkets or perfumes are scattered along the long dresser bumped against the wall, just a large mirror affixed to the top.
It’s all made up and ready for guests.
Satisfied there’s nothing I can learn from this room, I continue down the hall, quietly peeking inside the linen closet, another spare bedroom, and a room filled with various weights and resistance bands.
In every article I’ve read about Graham, he’s always quoted as saying “physical health is mental health,” and if the shirtless picture of him on a yacht in US Weekly didn’t convince me he values working out, this does.
Across the hall from the bathroom is the singular closed door.
I glance at it, momentarily considering whether I want to open it.
Thus far, I’ve only learned that Graham likes his house to be clean even if no one is staying in the rooms, he has every weight needed to keep his physique in tip-top shape, and he has enough towels, washcloths, and pillowcases that I’m sure he was first in line to buy every item when Bed, Bath, and Beyond went out of business.
Come to think of it, he’s probably the only reason they stayed open that long.
Thankfully, my bladder makes the decision for me.
I think through everything I’ve learned about Graham tonight—and the things I can tell he’s keeping from me.
My family is well-known enough that we’ve hit the occasional gossip magazine.
People didn’t take well to Texas royalty marrying someone from a different country instead of one of the Hill Country debu tants lined up for him, and when his barely legal daughter got a felony before her eighteenth birthday, we hit the front page.
I guess it was a good thing I got sent away to live with my abuela.
Graham’s life has been splashed all over the internet, the newspapers, and every social media site for the last three years.
I’m sure people think they know all there is to know about him, but since he’s started working at Thompson—and after dinner tonight—I’m starting to believe this arrogant front he puts on is just a mask for something else.
I finish in the restroom and wash my hands, laughing loudly as I dry them on a towel that says, Get naked (just kidding) This is a half bath, don’t make it weird.
The door to Graham’s room is open when I exit, and I find the restraint I had earlier has vanished along with my common sense. Drawn to the door by a soft blue light, I peek inside and find Graham standing at his closet. Shirtless.
“I see you liked the hand towel,” he says, muscles flexing as he tugs on a shirt, covering the exquisite mountain range tattooed on his back and down his arms. I stare at the head of my company now dressed in gray sweatpants and a white tee, black light glowing around him as if he’s in an EDM club and try to force myself to blink.
“Rosay?”
I clear my throat and divert my eyes to the ceiling, which is a humongous mistake because now I’m staring at a mirror.
Above the bed.
There’s not a single drop of water on the earth that could satiate the thirst this man has created inside me with this revelation.
His preference for missionary makes a lot more sense now.
A nudge u nder my chin snaps me from the spell, and immediately my cheeks flame. Swirling pools of amber stare down at me, and I somehow manage to infuse my voice with a modicum of confidence.
“I was surprised to see you actually do have a sense of humor,” I say with only a slight waver to my voice.
We’re so close I can nearly feel the chuckle that rumbles in his chest, and I’m sure he can hear how my breath leaks out of my lungs at a snail’s pace.
“I told you earlier there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He closes the bedroom door.
Get out of here now.
“Yeah, I’m coming to realize that.” I retreat to the living room. “We can chat more on the drive tomorrow, but I’ve gotta get my beauty rest.”
“At least take the folder with you.” He veers toward the desk where he laid it, snatching the thick stack as I grab my keys. “We can do more of the cards tomorrow on the drive.”
“Sounds good.” He hands me the folder, and my pulse quickens as he leans forward into my space.
Unsure whether he’s aiming to break the weird tension we’ve had between us tonight with a kiss, I let my lids flutter closed and tilt my head.
A jingling behind me clues me into the fact that he was just opening the door, and when I look up, he’s staring down at me with a smirk.
Asshole knows what he’s doing.
“Be ready by ten o’clock,” he says, adding with a flourish, “Fiancée.”
I poke my tongue into my cheek and convince myself it’s a bad idea to knee him in the balls. If he wants to play this game, I’ll make sure he loses. Where’s the harm in a little sexual t?te-à-t?te during this fake-engagement fiasco I’ve embroiled myself in?