“What do you do for a living?” I ask.
“I’m an accountant by trade.” He dabs his lips with a napkin. “But right now, I’m managing My Home Spa.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “My company? You’re working there?”
“Somebody had to keep it going.”
He doesn’t have to say the obvious: I can’t do it anymore.
It makes me wonder about how successful my little company has become. It must do decently if Graham felt it was worth his time to keep it going when I couldn’t. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He smiles—it’s a bit condescending. “I don’t think so. But thanks for offering.”
I pick up my own napkin from the table and start ripping it into little shreds. It’s a nervous habit I have. Whenever I go to a restaurant, I always leave behind piles of ripped tissue. Harry always says to me, I’ll always know how to find you because of the trail of paper you leave behind. Then he cleans it up before we leave.
Did. Did clean it up.
“How did we meet?” I ask.
“You were about to cross thirty-fifth street.” He scoops up the last of his eggs. “And there was this car rushing at you, but you didn’t see it.” He pauses dramatically. “I grabbed you just before the bastard ran you down.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. “Oh my God. So… you saved my life…”
He nods slowly. “The second I laid eyes on you, I just knew we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. You said the same thing. It was… fate.”
That’s just about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. It’s like something out of a movie. I stare at Graham across the table, now seeing him in a little new light. This man saved my life. He’s been taking care of me for the last year, since my accident. He’s a good guy. And his cologne smells awful nice…
Oh my God, what am I thinking? I hardly know this man. I drop my eyes, my cheeks burning.
“So.” My throat tightens. “Do I ask you the same questions every single morning?”
“More or less.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind. I mean, how else are you supposed to know what’s going on? It’s okay. You can ask me whatever you want.”
“I…” I reach into the void of my memory, feeling a burst of frustration. He’s being so patient, but the sad truth is, I could ask him questions all morning and still feel lost. It’s better just to go about my day. “Could I have something to drink?”
A smile twitches at his lips. “A little early in the day for that, isn’t it?”
The heat in my cheeks intensifies. “I mean like some water or juice…”
“But of course.” As he gets to his feet, he does a little bow. He is awfully cute. “Your wish is my command, m’lady.”
I’d love to get my own drink, but it would be embarrassing to fumble around the kitchen, unable to find anything. I don’t even know where we keep the glasses. I’ll look around later and figure out where everything is. For now, I can only watch as Graham grabs a glass from the cupboard over the sink. He pours a blood-colored liquid into the glass, filling it to the top. As he picks up the glass, Ziggy leaves my side and growls at him, baring an impressive set of teeth. Remind me not to get on Ziggy’s bad side.
“Ziggy.” Graham’s lips set into a straight line as the dog’s growls become more menacing. “For Christ’s sake…”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your dog doesn’t like me.” As he says the words, Ziggy lets out another low growl. “He’s overprotective of you. Can you call him off, please? I don’t want him biting a hole in my suit. This is Armani.”
I pat my hip. “Ziggy… Come over here.” I take the other strip of bacon off my plate. “Want more bacon?”
Graham doesn’t look thrilled about me feeding the dog the rest of my bacon, but he doesn’t say anything this time. He picks up the glass of strange dark red liquid and places it on the kitchen island in front of me.
I crinkle my nose. “What is that?”
“Pomegranate juice. You love it.”
“I do?”
“You have a big glass of it every morning, so I would say you do, yes.”
I look down at the red drink. It’s so… red. It looks like a big old glass of blood. I take a sniff of it—it smells sweet. It’s probably not blood. It’s probably actually pomegranate juice. Maybe it’s good. If I drink it every morning, I must like it. Graham is watching me, so I tilt the glass towards me and take a sip.
Ugh!
“I like this?” I cough, tempted to wipe my tongue with one of the napkins on the table. “This is terrible!”
“Usually you do,” he insists. “Honestly. You love this stuff—really love it. I have to buy a quart of it every week. Just… maybe you need another sip or two to get used to it.”
I love this stuff? He can’t be serious. But I guess he knows me better than I know myself.
I take another sip.
This time I outright gag. I leap out of my seat and run to the sink. I want to splash some water in my mouth, but the stupid sink has strange controls the same way as the shower did. I jab at one of the buttons and there’s a crunching sound—I think I just turned on the garbage disposal.
“Graham,” I gasp.
He leaps out of his seat to help me. He presses a button over the sink and cold water shoots out of the tap. He watches me with his brow furrowed as I splash water in my mouth. I feel ridiculous that I needed his help just to turn on the faucet, but it’s not my fault all of the water faucets in this household require a Ph.D. to operate.
“Tess, are you okay?”
“That’s the worst thing I ever tasted!” I take another handful of water and swish it around in my mouth, then spit it out. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“You know, that stuff is expensive.” He sounds hurt by my reaction. “You usually finish the whole glass and want more. I have to make a special trip to buy it for you.”