Where You Are
I shake my head and smile. “Duly warned, Mom.”
*** *** ***
Brooke
Graham: Can’t do dinner tonight. No babysitter. I’m sorry.
A million things pound through my brain, starting with Goddammit. And then I recognize what an opportunity this is. I can’t freak out at a kid-related set-back or I might as well give up now. I have Rowena all set to go. If Cara tags along, we’ll look like a charming little family. The speculations could be even better than photos of us alone.
And Graham’s secret would be outed—which will happen as soon as he gets the slightest bit more well-known, but doesn’t need to be tonight. Tonight is about how level-headed I can be about his daddy obligations. Rowena will just have to work a little harder for her photos.
Brooke: Why don’t I come over? We can order in, and I can help with Cara so you can get back to studying sooner.
Graham: That would be cool. You sure?
Brooke: Absolutely.
***
“Hey you.” I smile up at him when he answers the door.
His eyes are warm and his smile is genuine, as always. He pulls the door wide, saying, “Hey, Brooke, long time no see.” Such an adorable nerd.
He probably napped earlier in his jeans and slightly rumpled navy v-neck t-shirt. That one little strand in front sticks up from his disheveled mop of hair. Smiling, I reach up and make it blend with the rest. I’m wearing heels, but he’s still inches taller, even barefoot. He looks good enough to eat, and my stomach flutters when I note his eyes scanning me head to toe. These jeans fit me like a second skin, and the silk top is fluid enough to flash curves and cle**age without explicitly doing either.
“I’m sorry we’re staying in,” he says. I move past him into the foyer, and he shuts the front door and leads the way across the slate flooring. “I’m sure you had hopes of showing off that outfit.” He takes my bag and light scarf, our fingers brushing—sending a zap all the way to my toes. When he turns to hang them on a brass hook in the entryway, I draw in a deep, silent breath.
“What, this? You know me, Graham—heels and silk are comfort clothes.” I haven’t been in this house in two years, but it hasn’t changed. His family is fond of cozy décor, a warm color palette and natural elements. Pretty much the direct opposite design of my place. This setting suits Graham, though—a fact I’ll keep in mind while apartment hunting tomorrow. I want him to feel at home when he’s there.
Without warning, Cara pops up at my feet and stares up at me, all huge dark eyes. I know from posing the question years ago that his family insisted on a paternity test when she was born, but those eyes are unmistakably Graham’s. Her strawberry blonde hair must be from her mother. It’s in need of a trim. And a flatiron.
“Are you a Gossip Girl?” she asks.
I laugh. “Um, no. I wish! They’re all very pretty.”
She nods, her eyes never leaving mine. “So are you. And you dress like them. You could be one if you want.” This kid is as observant and direct as her father.
“Oh, well, thank you. Maybe if I let the producers know that you said so, they’ll let me be on the show. Hmm.” I tap my finger to my chin. “Which boy should I date?”
Nose scrunched, she says, “I don’t like the boys. Boys are kind of yucky.” She glances at Graham, who’s trying not to laugh. “Except for Daddy.”
He shrugs as I arch a brow and smirk at him. “I agree completely. Boys are yucky, except for your daddy.”
We order Chinese, and I’m impressed when Cara rattles off what she wants and then eats her whole meal with chopsticks, as though she was born with them in her hand.
“Wow. I don’t think I ever even had Chinese until I moved to LA.” As far as Mom had been concerned during my first fifteen years of life, ethnic meant either Tex-Mex or a jar of Ragu. Dad made a failed effort to broaden my cultural borders during obligatory weekends and parts of summers that I detested giving up for him. I resisted anything he suggested just to spite him, and arrived in LA with a hopelessly unchic palate. Reid was the one who introduced me to the broad array of the ethnic foods I’d missed growing up.
“That’s what you get, growing up in Manhattan—a multi-cultural appreciation and an innate knowledge of take-out.” Graham steals a snow pea from Cara’s bowl, and without missing a beat, her chopsticks snatch a broccoli floret from his. Chewing, they smile at each other and I marvel that even this interaction makes me want him.
By the time I leave, we’ve put Cara to bed and Graham and I have had all the chitchat I can stand. Unfortunately, now isn’t the night for me to slide onto his lap and beg him to carry me to his bedroom. The signals he’s sending are still wholly friendship-based, and I know what comes of pushing him for something he doesn’t know he wants. Patience is one virtue I have in abundance, when I have a target on which to focus. My goal with Graham isn’t just sex and morning-after guilt (on his side—I’d feel no such thing). I want it all.
Without warning, I hear my mother’s voice in my head, referring to a man she recently started seeing: I’m not gonna be some quick lay in the hay. If I want the cha-ching! lifestyle, I have to be patient. I want it all.
I lay my head back against the taxi seat and close my eyes. I’m. Not. Her.
I support myself. Entirely. I have my own money. I make my own money. Unlike my mother, who hops from one man’s bank account to another’s, I don’t now and won’t ever need a man for financial support.