Where You Are

“Meaning?”

“Brooke, you know I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Reid—don’t you f—”

Yeah, I don’t really need to hear that tirade.

Chapter 21

Emma

Over grilled ciabatta and brie, Reid asks me about Marcus. I admit that we were dating, and that he was correct in assuming I’d broken things off with him right before the disastrous prom night.

“Why’d you even go with him, then?” He tops off our wine glasses and sets the bottle back into the ice bucket. A chef arrived to make our dinner. She’s in the small gourmet kitchen, so we’re sitting close together on the sofa and talking quietly.

“I felt guilty.”

His mouth turns up on one side and he lowers his chin—a look that would have melted me not so long ago. “Go on.”

I shrug, concentrating on spreading the brie evenly over the surface of the bread. “It’s always hard to break things off with someone.”

He takes the cheese spreader from my hand when I’m done. “Why not wait until after his prom to do it, then? You gave him too much of an opportunity to be an ass**le, and he took it.”

My face warms. “I was worried that he was expecting… things to become more serious.” I glance up to see that he’s mulling over the back and forth that occurred between us. “I thought it was better to be honest up front.”

He laughs softly. “The honesty policy doesn’t always work out so well, huh?”

I purse my lips. “Well, actually, it did. I didn’t feel guilty any more after that. I knew from how he reacted that I’d made the right decision about him, even if it was a wretched night.”

My words apply to him last fall as well as they do to Marcus two weeks ago, and his eyes tell me he knows it.

“I am sorry, you know,” he says. I swallow and ignore it when his gaze dances to my mouth and back.

The server who arrived with the chef exits the kitchen and stops several feet away. “Please excuse me. Dinner is served.” He indicates the small table adorned with linen, china, and a romantic cluster of candles. I worry again that Reid arranged all of this while pretending that production was responsible, and the repetition of his apology from March does nothing to contradict that concern.

Just when I think he’s dropped the subject, Reid leans back in his chair, twisting the wine glass in his hand and watching me, his eyes as dark as Graham’s in the low light. “So why’d you break it off with Marcus so suddenly?” He tilts his head. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

Graham thinks I have an effective poker face, but that’s not the case tonight with Reid. Either he’s been spying on me, or my thoughts are as clear as glass to him. I could lie right now, but he’d know. He’s already smiling as though he does. “Who is it?” He leans up, waiting.

I’m saved by the server again as he removes our salad plates and delivers the main course of pappardelle pasta and roasted mushrooms, but the reprieve is short-lived and Reid isn’t letting this go.

“Well?”

I sigh. “It’s Graham.”

His eyes widen slightly and fall away from mine momentarily. “Really.” And then those eyes flash to mine and away, as though he knows something I don’t. “Hmm. Interesting.”

“Interesting, why?”

He shakes his head minimally, his attention on his plate as he slices a bite. We dine in silence and I wait for him to elaborate, but he says nothing more. Finally, he rests his silverware on his plate, folding his arms in front of it. He stares at me. “I have one request.”

Request? “What?”

“If he f**ks it up, I want another shot.” Before I can sputter a reply, he holds up one hand and adds, “I don’t want an answer. I just want you to know where I stand. And I’m not going to interfere with whatever you two have going on,” he smiles then, his expression far from angelic, “unless you ask me to.”

***

Graham told me two days ago that Brooke was visiting New York—meeting with people about the movie she plans to film late summer. They had dinner together last night, and he was late Skyping with me because of it—but he was completely open with the fact that she’d come over and had spent a couple of hours with him and Cara. And I was fine with it.

Until I got a text from Emily earlier today, with a link to the paparazzi photos of the two of them. Suddenly his devoted friendship with her isn’t as easy to stomach. On one hand, they’ve known each other for years and have a mutually supportive history I can’t hope to challenge. On the other hand, my best friend is spitting nails and telling me he’s no better than Reid. Her last text asks the question I can’t answer: He never told you he had a KID. What else is he hiding?

It’s true—I know only what he tells me, and my heart has no problem trusting every word he says. But I was stupid about Reid. I was stupid about Marcus. What if I’m being stupid about Graham, but I just don’t know it yet?

All I could hope was that the photos wouldn’t look as bad on a full-sized screen as they did on my phone. Once Reid and I checked into the hotel and I shut myself into my room, I brought up the links on my laptop. On my 15-inch screen, they’re definitely worse. Graham stands in the doorway to his home—a place I’ve never been—smiling down at Brooke as she runs her fingers through his hair, her br**sts brushing against his chest. There’s no awkwardness or irritation on his face. He seems fine with her touching him that way.