Luscious mouth.
I don’t trust myself around her.
Because a part of me—shit, a serious part of me—is starting to wonder if she’s . . .
No.
Football.
Football.
Football.
That’s what I want.
With an exhale, she signs the papers while I stare out the window, grappling with how to endure a marriage to Emmy without, fuck, getting feelings.
Chapter 14
EMMY
We tell David goodbye and get back on the elevator. Several more people get on, mostly workers going home for the day, and Graham and I are pushed to the back. He stands behind me, and I’m acutely aware of him and how sinfully delicious he looks with his face shaven and his hair swept back.
“You okay?” he whispers in my ear, his jawline grazing over my skin.
“Hmm,” I say as I nod. Which is a lie. I’m trying to suss out just exactly who Graham Harlan is. He certainly isn’t the person I imagined when he stalked into Marcelle’s.
The elevator opens, and more people get on. He’s leaning against the back wall, and I shift toward him, the touch of his chest against my back making me warm. I shouldn’t be playing with fire, but I can’t resist.
A low gasp comes from me when he brushes his thumb over my nape in a soft caress. My chest rises as tendrils of desire flicker to life. “What are you doing?” I whisper, but I don’t move away.
“Are you angry with me about the prenup?”
“I don’t understand why you’d be so generous, especially after taking your car.”
“I’ve forgiven you. Your actions were understandable, given how you coped with horrible things as a kid. You ran and hid. Trauma from your childhood triggered your response. You were repeating what you did in the past that always saved you. I get it. My past has taught me to trust no one.”
I notice one of the women in the elevator darting her eyes at us. She glances at Graham, does a double take, then gives me a wink.
His hands encircle my waist to steady me—or to hold me? My breath catches, even though it’s barely even a touch.
“Are we pretending right now, for the elevator people?” I murmur.
“I don’t know anyone here, so . . .”
I lean my head to the side to give him access, and he groans quietly as his teeth nip at my neck.
What am I doing?
Do I care?
Abruptly the elevator stops, and I start to head to the door, but he pulls me back. “Not our floor,” he rumbles in a sexy voice in my ear.
“Graham?” I say as I turn to face him, my chest against his. Nervous butterflies do flips in my stomach. I slide my hands up to his beautiful hair, tugging on the ends. “What is this?”
Because it’s definitely something.
And it’s hot.
“Emmy—”
The door opens to the first floor, and he blinks as if gathering himself. “We’ve got a dinner reservation,” he says coolly.
My heart flutters at the contrast between what he did and now. His mood has shifted, from teasing to all business. We get back to his car, and he opens the door for me, watching me as I slide my legs in.
I get myself the mini pep talk. Cats, cats, cats. No men. Except for fucking, but okay, so why can’t I fuck Graham? I mean, it would be fine, totally fine. I could keep it light and breezy and not let my heart get entangled— My thoughts stop when he gets in the car, pausing before he cranks it.
It’s all the time I need. I grab his tie, making him grunt as I pull him to me and kiss him. He makes a sound in the back of his throat, and his mouth parts eagerly to return the touch. His hands cup my face, his lips hungry and hard. Heat washes over me, curling and wrapping me in a fog.
I pull back, leaving him wanting more. “Thank you.”
He settles back in his seat, his chest rising rapidly as he yanks his eyes away from me. He cranks the car. “You’re welcome.”
A photographer snaps a photo of us as we exit Graham’s car and walk to the entrance of Borelli’s. I try to act natural, as if being on the arm of one of the most celebrated players in New York is an everyday thing.
He curls an arm around my waist tenderly, and my body responds by melting against him. “The photographer is a guy from Page Six,” Graham whispers in my ear. “My people gave him a tip that we’d be here.”
Ah, right. I kiss his cheek, then smile for the next photo, being sure my ring is visible.
Borelli’s is an elegant place, filled with tables and booths covered in crisp white linen. Dimly lit chandeliers dot the ceiling, and a pianist plays softly in the corner. There’s a back deck, with double doors that lead to a stone terrace with a long narrow fireplace, currently not burning since it’s nearly June. The place is packed, and it feels as if we’re on display, especially when the room quiets as we follow the maître d’ to a booth.