Where You Are

This will require as little kissing as I can manage.

I close the door and pop the lock as she’s unbuttoning her blouse, and I’m still curious about the earlier animosity. Especially now. “You have to tell me.”

She shrugs off her shirt. “I don’t have to do anything. Just shut up and get undressed.”

For half a second, I consider. It’s no-strings sex, and she is attractive. Most guys don’t generally turn down sex in these circumstances.

I’m not most guys.

I turn and unlock the door, pulling my phone from my pocket to call a taxi. This situation is close enough to humorous that I’m smiling. Before I get the door open, she’s pushing it closed, taking a deep breath. “Okay, wait. Yes.”

My hand is still on the doorknob. “Yes what?”

“It was the second one. We were at a party, making out, and some blonde whore walked up and grabbed your hand and you just went off with her.” She says all of this in such a rush that the words run together. “It was years ago. Before anyone knew who you were. I remembered, though, because no guy had ever humiliated me like that. No one’s done it since, either.”

The blonde was undoubtedly Brooke. This was one of her favorite little games—she’d pick some random girl at a party or a club, and tell me to go get her mindless. And then she’d just walk up and take me away. I was so hot for Brooke that I never really thought of how the other girls felt, being deserted like that.

“I’m not sure what you want from me now, to make it up to you. Send me packing tonight? The only guy in the house not getting any?” I give her half a smile, hoping for that outcome. I’m so not in the mood right now.

“No. Make it up to me there.” She points to her bed and lays her hand on mine—the one on the doorknob.

Shit. I’m trapped. I guess I’ve been stuck in worse encounters than having sex when I’m not really motivated to. “As long as you know it’s just tonight.”

She laughs. “Yeah, I know all about your little romance—is it real, or publicity?”

It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Emma. “Yeah, not discussing that.”

She nods. “Sure. Okay. I get it.”

I drop my hand from the doorknob. “Okay then.”

She takes my hand, pulls me back across the room. “Okay then.”

Chapter 23

Emma

I called the hotel this morning to make sure Reid and I were booked into separate rooms for our two nights in San Francisco. Not because I don’t trust Reid, but because Graham doesn’t.

Which bothers me, but I understand it. The relationships we’ve had with Reid and Brooke trigger that small voice of what if in each of us. He thinks what if she’s not over Reid, and I think what if he’s really in love with Brooke.

Thursday night, after Graham texted and said he missed me, I answered that I missed him, too. And then I lay in bed, scrolling through our old messages to each other, all the way back to the one where I asked him to meet me that morning before Dad and I left New York. He hadn’t answered, but he’d come. That morning, I wanted him in my life so much that I was willing to accept friendship-only terms, willing to swallow my desire, even if the thought of him with someone else induced a soul-deep ache.

I wouldn’t be able to do that now. I’m in too far. I want too much.

I think, too, about Reid’s request. I ignored it, because of course Graham’s not going to screw this up. And then I picture Brooke, pressed against him, touching him, and I tell myself for the hundredth time that he isn’t lying to me. But I’m worried that he’s lying to himself.

I wish I’d never seen that paparazzi photo. The thing I fear most would be so much easier to dismiss if it hadn’t been burned it into my eyeballs in living color. While I’m at it, I wish Emily had never seen it. She won’t drop the fact that he was secretive about Cara, even when I tell her that he isn’t secretive, he’s guarded, and yes, there’s a difference. “Emily, I trust him,” I say, and she harumphs. Maybe she hears the fear in my voice. Because that’s what it is—this isn’t distrust. It’s fear.

When I sign into Skype, Graham is waiting for me.

“Ten more days,” I say, and he smiles.

We talk about our days. He took Cara to the park. I got my first slightly traumatic, very awkward airport pat-down.

“Strangely enough, the fact that she snapped on latex gloves beforehand didn’t make me feel any better. She kept stopping and saying, ‘Sensitive area,’ when she was about to go somewhere I don’t let anyone touch me.” I blush when I realize that isn’t quite true, and even if my webcam doesn’t reveal redder toned skin, I must be giving something away, because Graham arches a brow.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I think maybe you’ve been a very naughty traveler, Emma.”

I fall over onto the mattress laughing, embarrassed and turned on. “No more blue gloves! Please!” I say from my prone position. At most, he can see the edge of my hip.

“You know the rules,” he says. “No glove, no love.”

I sit up. “I cannot believe you just said that after what I went through today.”

He laughs again while I pout. “I couldn’t resist. I’m sorry.” He tells me he’s been through the pat-down and a couple of body scans while traveling, and whenever he wears one particular band t-shirt to fly, it seems to provoke a random luggage search. “It’s bizarre. Radiohead t-shirt equals luggage search. Every. Time. I’m a little worried they’ll go for body cavities at some point.”