10. Rosay #2
“Please tell me this is either a family heirloom or that it’s fake,” I say, nearly breathless.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay, what?”
He shrugs. “It’s a family heirloom or it’s fake.”
I groan, frustrated that this doesn’t seem to faze him in the least. “You’re incorrigible.”
That damn dimple makes an appearance as he smiles, and I want to punch him in the face. Snapping the box closed, I place it into the cup holder and try to focus on the road ahead instead of my stampeding heart.
“You’re supposed to wear that,” he says, flicking on his blinker to shift lanes. “Wouldn’t want your family to think there’s already trouble in paradise.”
I open my mouth to reply but a loud bump and bang startles me. Graham curses and jerks the wheel toward the shoulder, slowing down as horns blare behind us.
“Don’t say a word,” he says, shifting into park.
I zip my lips, choosing not to ruffle his feathers by telling him my jeep tires would never succumb to the woes of a Texas pothole. It would be a lie. Nothing can withstand a Texas pothole.
“I’ll check the damage,” he says.
He walks around the car, stopping at the back passenger side with his hands on his hips and pursed lips. Tension weighs down his shoulders as he rubs the back of his neck and walks to my car door.
I roll down the window. “What’s the verdict?”
He leans on the frame, so close the scent of his body wash floats into my nose. I can’t pinpoint the smell, but it makes my mouth water and insides churn with one word. Desire.
“Flat t ire,” he says. “I’m going to call AAA to come change it.”
“You don’t have a jack and spare in your trunk?” My voice comes out entirely too breathy, and Graham looks at me with confusion laced into his features.
“Are you okay?” he asks, touching my forehead with the back of his hand. “Sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t,” I reply, shaking off his touch and nodding toward the back. “Do you have a jack?”
“Yes,” he says, exasperated as he pulls his phone from his pocket. “But I’m not getting dirty changing a tire.”
I stare at him, flabbergasted yet not entirely surprised. Graham’s the type of guy who can’t stand his tie being off by one centimeter, let alone having a spot of dirt or grease on his jeans. He’s always so put together, and I’ve always been one mess after another.
“Then pull it out and I’ll change the tire.”
He ignores me and relays our plight to the AAA agent apparently on the line.
“You look beautiful. Why ruin your outfit when I can simply have someone come change it for us?” he asks once he’s off the call. My chest crowds with appreciation and the compliment right before he adds, “Especially right before meeting your family.”
The mention of my family—and the reminder that this is a ruse—bring me back down to earth. Putting on this facade of having my life all sorted out wouldn’t bode well if I returned home with grease covered pants.
I sulk into the seat. “You’re right.”
“Of course, I'm right."
"Ugh. It's a good thing you're outside because I don't think your big head and your ego could fit inside the car."
He slides his hand through his hair. "I don't have a big head."
I chuckle. "Okay."
He stares me down as if waiting for me to take my comment back. When I don't, he slides his tongue across his teeth, lips moving in a wave. "I guess we can spend the time getting to know each other better so if we’re put on the spot we’re not going to freeze up.”
“Smart idea.”
“I have those every once in a while,” he replies, showcasing a stupid grin once he’s back inside the car.
I have the urge to touch his forehead to see if he’s running a fever.
This playful Graham must be some side effect of a sickness.
As if I’m truly a doctor, I play out the scene in my head.
My fingers touching the side of Graham’s strong neck, feeling the pulse thumping in time with my own.
Laying my head against his toned chest, checking for any heart murmurs or seeing if he’s struggling to inhale a full breath like I am in his presence.
What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe I’m the sick one.
“So, are there any embarrassing stories I need to prepare for before we get there?” he asks.
“Tons,” I say. Though my family wouldn’t dare discuss my felonious background, there are plenty of stories of me and Winnie getting into trouble as kids. “Winnie and I drove the parentals up the wall when they first got married.”
“Is Winnie the sister you’re closest with?”
I nod. “She’s only two years younger than I am. We got into a lot of chaos with makeup, friends, and boys.”
He chuckles. “I can only imagine.”
“What about you?” I ask, shifting toward him in the seat. Cars zoom past us outside, but my focus is solely on the way his jaw tenses.
“I’m an only child,” he says.
“Parent s couldn’t handle more than one of you?”
He stares out the window, propping himself up on his elbow. “Something like that.”
I get the vague sense I’ve poked a hot button for him, so I try to shift the conversation into a safer territory. As much as I want to know more, I’m not sure I’m ready to have him excavating the fossils of my life either.
“Did you play any sports?” I ask.
“Not on a team or anything. Just pick-up basketball at the rec center.”
“Really? You definitely give off star quarterback energy.”
He barely chuckles, and I wish I could take back the comment that made him lock up. I’ve got to find some way to snap him from this sulking. A thought pops into my head like it was already there just waiting for me to acknowledge it.
“Do you want to kiss now?” I ask, hoping it throws him off enough to change his attention.
It works because his head snaps my way, and his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “What? Why?”
“Wow, Graham. I’ve never had anyone ask me why when I’ve offered a kiss, but here we go.”
I lift my hand as if I’m going to start listing reasons, but he says, “I meant why right now?”
“I figure we might as well get the awkwardness out of the way now before we’re in front of people.”
Graham relaxes into the seat. “Oh, okay.”
“Did you think we’d get by a whole three days without anyone noticing we don’t kiss or touch?”
He finally lets out a chuckle as he turns towards me. “It crossed my mind, but I figured we’d handle that when it came up.” His honey eyes take on a hi nt of mischief. “However, if you’re so desperate to kiss me now, I guess I can oblige.”
“Ugh, gross.” I push his face away and relax into the seat. “You’re such an ass. I’ll just tell my family you’re suffering from a really bad case of halitosis an—”
My equilibrium shifts as Graham wraps his hand around my neck and pulls me toward him, firm lips stifling my smart remark.
A lagging brain is the only excuse for the reason I don’t immediately push him away.
My head scrambles, trying to absorb how our lips fit perfectly together, the cinnamon scent of his breath, the firm pressure of his hand around my neck.
Time stands still in the short moments we’re locked together. It’s a chaste kiss, no tongue involved, but damn if my core doesn’t pulse like it’s a full on make out session. I can’t tell which of us pulls back first, but his thumb coasts along my neck and he smirks down at me.
“I don’t have halitosis.”
I glare up at him, equally frustrated at his annoying quip as I am his uncanny ability to render me speechless. When my brain restarts, I say, “That wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.”