“This isn’t Marcelle’s,” I say lightly when I reach them. “I don’t wait tables here; in fact, no one does. Hello, Graham.”
He merely nods, but the woman lights up with a beautiful smile, eagerness on her face. Her eyes are midnight blue, her teeth like little pearls. Dang, she’s pretty.
“Of course not,” she says, then sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Mina. Babs mentioned how hard you work on the displays. It’s so . . . cute.”
“Cute” is a word for kittens. Our windows are freaking divine. “Thank you,” I murmur as I release her hand. “We’ll have a new one up for the summer. The Times comes by for the reveal.” I stop, a heaviness sinking in as I realize I forgot for a moment that we’re closing permanently. I shake my head. “Sorry. That’s incorrect. The store is closing soon. Sometimes I forget.”
“Oh, that’s disappointing,” she says. “It’s my first time here, and G mentioned we should stop by.”
You don’t say. How interesting.
He shrugs. “It’s near my apartment at Wickham.”
Ah, Wickham, an exclusive apartment complex that overlooks Central Park. Of course he would live there. How nice for him.
She gives him a secret smile. “We just came from his place. It’s horrendous and totally needs to be renovated. He actually has a statue of a giant penis.” She laughs, a dulcet sound. “Have you been, Emmy?”
Well, no, but I have stolen his car. It drives like a dream.
“No,” I say sweetly, then turn to him and raise an eyebrow. She’s perfect, my gaze says.
“Thanks,” he replies dryly; then I get flustered because, hello, do we have some kind of mind connection?
“And for the record, the statue was in my apartment when I moved in,” Graham says. “As was the shag carpet and weird sunken living room. I’m hoping someone can help me redecorate.” He raises an eyebrow at me, which I ignore.
Mina laughs. “It’s lime green and bolted to the ground—the penis, that is. You really must go see it.”
“How fun,” I murmur. I’ll never see his apartment, Mina. Because you’re going to marry him, not me.
I put on my customer smile. “So nice to meet you, Mina. The girl at the counter will be glad to take your order. Please try one of our pastries on the house. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work—”
Before I can leave, Graham takes my hand. “Wait a moment, Emmy. Please,” he murmurs.
Oh. Shivers dance over me.
It’s hard to resist a “please” from him.
Mina rises from her seat with the grace of a swan. “I’ll let you two chat while I take you up on a muffin. I’m going to try the pomegranate tea. Same for you, G?”
“Sure,” he replies absently, eyes on me. “Thanks, Mina.”
She glides away to go to the counter, and he says, “Will you sit for a moment?”
“Okay.” I loosen my hand from his grasp and take a seat.
“Have you considered my offer?” His gaze lingers on my face.
It’s all I’ve thought about. Instead of replying, I lean in and cup my chin, giving him my full attention. “What are you holding over Mina to get her to marry you?”
“Nothing. She adores me. Isn’t it obvious?”
“So you’re going for the romantic angle? Love and devotion?”
He leans back in his chair, a relaxed smirk on his face. “You remind me of Brody, as if all women hate me. It really isn’t true. You stole my dream car, and now you’re breaking my heart, Emmy.”
“You’re different today,” I say. He’s softer. Sexier. More relaxed. It must be Mina. “What’s going on? Got an ace up your sleeve? Are the cops waiting outside for me?”
His lips twitch. “Your imagination is adorable. I’m enjoying watching you work. Nice dress.”
My breath quickens as I realize I’m playing with one of the buttons, and his eyes are following me.
He leans in on the table to match my pose. “And who says Mina’s my fiancée? Jealous?”
My teeth click together as Mina arrives with a pomegranate tea for Graham. She places it and a croissant in front of him, then says she’s going to wander around the store for a bit.
Pain twinges in the center of my skull, one I can no longer ignore, and I rub my temple.
His brows pull down. “Headache?”
“Hmm. I thought it would disappear by now, but it seems to be getting worse. Sorry if I’m not the best conversationalist right now.”
He takes a napkin from the dispenser and hands it to me. “It’s fine, but your mascara is running, and the bridge of your nose is turning purple. What’s going on?”
I dab at my eyes. “I banged my nose on a mop. You might have enjoyed it.” A rueful smile crosses my lips. “I’m shocked it isn’t bleeding.”
“Come with me.” He stands and holds out his hand, and I hesitantly put mine in his.
“You want to look at it? Why?”
“I’m a football player. I know my injuries. The first thing we need to do is put some ice on it and make sure it isn’t fractured. I also want to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”
“From a mop handle?”
“Trust me, anything is possible, plus nose hits sting like a bitch. I’ve taken a few of them just messing around with the guys. Where’s the kitchen?”
“Um, behind the counter, through the swinging doors.”
He doesn’t release my hand as we pass a wide-eyed Babs at the counter, checking out the teen girls from earlier. Eyeballing Graham, they squeal in excitement, then take their purchases and rush over to us. One of them grabs his sleeve, and he disentangles himself and tells her that he’s on his private time.
“Does that happen a lot?” I ask as we leave them behind.
“Hmm, you may not know this, but I’m famous.”
“Did the player that pulled your face mask get fined or what?”
“Technically, the defense would have gotten a fifteen-yard penalty, but since I crossed the goal line anyway, it didn’t matter,” he says. “We won. It was a high-pressure game, and people react on instinct. Sometimes the caveman takes over on the field.”
I stop, surprise flickering over me. “Wait. You actually have empathy for him? Even after all the problems it must have given you?”
“I believe he didn’t mean for what happened to happen. It’s a risk we all take when we put on the uniform. I’m angry it’s fucked with me for months, but I’ve been cleared to play. I’ll start this fall.”
I frown. After discovering who he was, I watched the video of his tackle several times. He’d fallen into a tangle of arms and legs, then lay on the field while everyone else got to their feet. He didn’t move. Not an inch. The crowd hushed. The other team prayed. His team formed a wall around him for privacy as the paramedics used a defibrillator to bring him back. I’ve had a similar thing done, to shock my heart back into normal rhythm.
We walk into the kitchen, and our hands drift apart. Tilting my chin up, he searches my face. With surprisingly gentle fingers he touches the top of my nose. Concern etches his features. “I don’t feel a break, and it doesn’t look misshapen. Your eyes look fine but might bruise later. Do you feel nauseous or dizzy?”