CHAPTER 13
GRAHAM
I didn’t sleep in Emma’s room last night.
There were no let’s-get-hammered games in Reid’s room since we have the final photo shoot today, but Brooke had no trouble convincing Tadd to man the bar and shake up margaritas. Even though straight-up shots were out, everyone had enough tequila to tamp down inhibitions and loosen tongues. And Emma and I had just enough to be hazardous.
I took one look at her half-mast eyes and knew I’d fail any test of having her in bed with nothing but boxers and t-shirts between us. Worse? I wanted to fail it, and we’d spent the whole evening not touching.
My sexual history began with Zoe, followed by a self-imposed dry spell waiting for Cara to be born, and Zoe to come back around—which didn’t happen. Next up, a sampling of indiscriminate college hookups. Nothing has been ultimately satisfying, and while I was capable of feeling turned on and wanting a physical connection, I never felt anything more intense. Nothing deeper, nothing emotionally linked. Not until Emma. By the time I left her standing in that airport last October, I wanted so much with her that it scared the hell out of me. I hoped it would fade with time, and after the VF photo shoot in March, I felt confident I was getting over it.
And then there she was, a month later—standing in that damned coffee shop, our eyes locked over Cara’s head. My daughter had demanded hot chocolate after her dance rehearsal, shoving her cold little fingers under my sweater to prove her need for it. If we’d not stopped exactly there, exactly then, Emma and I would have never crossed paths when I didn’t have my guard up. I’m not sure if I believe in fate, but this could be evidence of it.
They call it falling in love because it’s less like stepping and more like tripping. Tripping is the part where you’re still trying to remain upright. I hadn’t fought it with Zoe. I just fell right in, head first. With Emma, I fought it all the way down, and now, I’ve lost.
Emma: Are you sleeping here?
Me: Not a good idea tonight
She didn’t answer for several minutes, during which I called myself all sorts of idiot, because that was an open invitation, as was the progressively unreserved look in her eyes all evening. I only wanted to be sure of her feelings, not make her wonder about mine.
Me: This has nothing and everything to do with how much i want you. If i was in your bed tonight…after the alcohol…i want you. Trust me.
Emma: I kind of feel like a hussy now
Me: NO, that isn’t what i mean. It’s me. It would be too difficult. Tomorrow night, no drinking, and i can be good.
Emma: Well dammit you should have told me this before margaritas. I would have practiced my just say no. To alcohol that is. :(
Me: God how do you make me laugh through this. Hussy, indeed. I’m one nudge from coming to your room and ravishing you to hell.
Emma: I want you to
Me: OMG emma…
Emma: I’m sorry
Two rings. Three rings. Please don’t go to voicemail was running through my head. She answered talking. “Graham, I’m sorry, really, I—”
“No, please don’t be sorry. That’s why I’m calling you.” I lay back on my bed, eyes closed. The alcohol buzz was diminishing but not gone. “Don’t be sorry, Emma.” My voice was almost a whisper. “Do you remember those things I said I wanted to do to you?” A few of our calls and Skype conversations over the past couple of weeks had reduced both of us to mush.
Her reply was an exhalation of a pant. “Yes.”
“None of that has changed. Increased, maybe. Some of those things are looking quite tame, in fact.”
“Oh, God. I’m not even sure what that—what that means…”
I pictured her lying back on her bed exactly as I was on mine. “Yes. I know. Which is why we’re waiting a bit.”
“But you’re going back to New York.”
Her sulky tone made me chuckle. “Yes. And I’m coming back to LA in three weeks.”
Her sigh was faint. Not relieved, or exasperated. Just… accepting. “Okay,” she said, sounding so much like Cara when she doesn’t get her way and she knows she isn’t going to.
“I just don’t want to take advantage of you, or push you—” Lies, lies, lies—I wanted her so bad I could conjure up her scent, imagine the feel of her skin under my fingertips...
“But Graham, I’m pushing you.”
“Yes.” My voice is like a growl—so appropriate to the feral hunger coursing through my body. “And in three weeks, I’m going to let you. If you still want to.”
“I will.”
***
At 5:30 a.m., we meet in the lobby—which is deserted except for a bored desk clerk who gives us a disinterested once-over. Flashback to our mornings in Austin, up before everyone and heading out to run. I remember stepping out of the elevator and seeing her waiting in the lobby, or getting there first and waiting for her, looking up at the soft chime, stainless steel doors swooshing open and delivering her to the ground floor. I loved those mornings.
I hand her a thermos when she comes to stand next to me, fighting the urge to slip my arms around her and kiss her. “Ready?” I ask, and she nods. Tossing the backpack onto one shoulder, I take her hand. This is a risk, if only to cross the lobby. I don’t want her mortified over stories of multiple hookups like she was in Austin, so we have to remain a secret until after the premiere. I get that, but it still sucks. “I packed water, bagels and a blanket. I figured this morning was more about watching the sunrise and less about exercise.”
Her hand squeezes mine. “Sounds perfect.”
The Jeep is ideal for the early morning drive and the cool weather but not conducive to quiet conversation. We have to yell over the road noise to hear each other. Falling silent after a few minutes, we just hold hands and watch the street lamps start to pop off as the sky begins to lighten. I spent an hour on the Internet last night, making sure of the route to Griffith and the trail to take once we get there. The sun is already a half-orb above the horizon by the time we get to the spot I mapped out and spread the blanket.
Pressed together, we sip the coffee and watch what’s left of the sunrise. Perhaps I should say she watches it while I watch her. I’ve seldom been this close to her and allowed myself the pleasure of staring, of drinking her in—all the seemingly trivial details. The indistinct image of a webcam never revealed the fine blondish hairs at her temple, and the darkness of her bed hides the freckle behind her ear and the blush across her cheeks when she realizes I’m examining her.
Leaning to her, I tell her softly, “You’re so beautiful.”
Her lashes lift as she glances into my eyes before closing hers. “No, you are.”
My mouth pulls up on one side. We’re a little off the beaten path, but not so far that we can’t hear people walking by, talking. “God,” one of them says, stopping just out of sight where there’s a perfect view of the sunrise. “So beautiful!”
Emma and I suppress our laughter, attempting to avoid detection. I kiss her softly. “See, he agrees with me,” I whisper.
She leans up, her hand on my jaw. “Maybe he agrees with me.” When she starts to giggle, I cover her mouth with mine, partly to silence her but mostly because I can’t escape the need to kiss her again.
*** *** ***
REID
It hadn’t occurred to me what a huge advantage this photo shoot is for getting Emma used to me touching her again. Not that she’s particularly responding to it. I mourn the loss of that wistful, spellbound look she had back when we first began filming School Pride last August, but then again the fact that she’s less affected by me makes up for it.
Yes, I’m one of those guys—more turned on by what I can’t have than anything else. When you think about it, though, how surprising is that? When getting girls is as simple as deciding that you want one—no different, really, from deciding what to have for lunch—of course the ones who stand out will be the ones who don’t come when called. Emma is like that pizza I can only get in one hole-in-the-wall place in the middle of Brooklyn, and nowhere else. If I lived in Brooklyn, maybe it’d be no big deal. But I live in LA, and goddamn do I hate it when I think about that pizza I can’t have.
We’re on some estate in the LA hills, but the backdrop is very middle of nowhere. The grounds are rustic and native, but carefully cultivated to look that way rather than just left wild. My parents would probably hate it. Our lawn looks more like it belongs in the English countryside—bordering hedgerows and shaped shrubberies and roses, etcetera. It’s impressive but sort of laughable and out of sync at the same time.
Emma is perched on the wooden-slat seat of a swing attached to a high limb of a stories-tall tree. Staring straight up through the branches, I wonder how they got the ropes attached that high—if someone climbed this tree like they might have done a hundred years ago, or if they brought in a truck with a ladder or one of those bucket things like the guys who work on telephone lines use. While the photographer reframes the shot for what feels like the hundredth time and we wait for instructions, I grip the ropes just over Emma’s hands, my pinkies grazing her index fingers.
“If we don’t get a lunch break soon, I’m going to start nibbling on you,” I murmur, careful not to lean too close. “I’m freaking starving.” Emma’s stomach growls just then, which makes both of us laugh. The photographer’s head snaps up and he starts taking shots. Damn if I’m not thinking about that pizza now. And then Emma telling me yes in my room that afternoon last fall, hours before everything went to hell.
“Reid, go ahead and give her a gentle push.” I pull the swing back and let her go, and she swings out and right back to me.
I’ve never tried to win a girl over by feigning friendship-only intentions, mostly because it seems counter-intuitive. Brooke’s plan isn’t infallible, but if she succeeds in getting Graham in her bed, Emma will be distraught. And I’ll be right there to assure her she’s desirable and provide emotional support—the sort of support everyone needs after discovering infidelity. She was attracted to me before. There’s no reason those feelings can’t be revived, with Graham out of the way. All I have to do is be patient.
Not exactly my forte.