Where You Are

“What?” Her voice is confused.

I don’t know if I inherited the capacity for debate or I just picked it up as a result of growing up with an attorney, like self-preservation. I’m already imagining what Brooke might say, and what I’ll counter with. “You’ve said a couple of times now that you’re ‘right’ for Graham. Do you think you love him?”

She’s silent for a long moment and I think she’s about to tell me that how she feels about him isn’t my business and by the way go to hell. “I do.”

“Why?”

“Why what, Reid?” Exasperation saturates her words. “I don’t understand what you want to know, not that it’s your business anyway. But I’m in the mood to humor you. So why what?”

“Why do you think you love him?” Accent on think. Which she catches.

“That’s a weird way to put that,” she muses. “Why do you think you love him rather than why do you love him.”

“You know I don’t believe in love.” Whoa—that came out a little bitter. Wounded, even. Shit.

She’s quiet again. And then, “You used to.”

“Yeah, well. You know how that ended.” Dammit. Why am I saying this to her of all people? She grows quiet again and I wish I’d never asked the question.

“Kathryn told me once that loving someone means you want what’s best for them. And I’m what’s best for him.” Kathryn is Brooke’s stepmother—one of them. She’s the one Brooke is closest to. Ironically, they didn’t have to have any relationship at all, because Kathryn was her father’s first wife—but for some reason, they’ve always been close. Which is good, because Brooke’s mother is one crazy bitch.

“That sounds like convoluted logic to me. My father would say it’s a conflict of interest for you to decide that you’re what’s best for him.” And there’s my alter-ego again.

“Are you trying to talk me out of this? Because you’ll never get Emma away from him if I don’t succeed.”

Wow—complete avoidance of my argument and a below-the-belt insult. “No, I’m not. Ever heard of devil’s advocate? And what the hell, Brooke? I mean shit, I know you think he’s better than me. I get it. You don’t have to f**king underscore it every time we talk.”

She huffs a sigh. “This conversation has gotten way out of hand. Look, we’re allies on this little venture, but we aren’t friends. When this is over, I don’t care if I ever talk to you again and I’m sure you feel the same.”

“Damn right.”

“Then let’s stop pretending we’re BFFs and focus on what we’re doing. This week is all about me winning his family over—God, what a pain in the ass that’ll be—and you continuing to be emotionally available for Emma. While keeping your dick in your pants.”

“You really have a way with words. You know?”

“So I’m blunt. Sue me.”

***

I knew Emma would love the seafood place in Union Square, with its century-old architecture and an interior resembling an underwater fantasy. One look at her face as we entered confirmed my assumption. We’re escorted to the glass-walled semi-private room I reserved, where we can observe the rest of the place while the bodyguard who accompanied us blocks the door and any possible intrusions.

“I feel like we’re inside an aquarium,” she says, leaning closer. “I keep expecting someone to tap on the glass or make fish faces at us.”

We’ve had caviar and oysters on the half shell and tomato bisque soup, with the main course and dessert still to go. Emma has vowed to be on her stair-stepper from the moment she gets home tomorrow afternoon until Thursday morning, when we meet in Burbank to tape Ellen.

I lean up on my elbows after the waiter clears the second course dishes. “So when did this thing with Graham begin?” I expected to startle her with this question, but I didn’t foresee the full-on blush that floods her face. My eyes narrow. “Wait… was it before that night in the club?” The night Graham threatened to kick my ass if I hurt Emma. Which I’m not telling her, because girls love that shit.

“What?” The blush surges until she looks sunburned.

I had no idea she had such an overactive conscience. Of course, I didn’t know she was capable of what that blush entails, either. She and Graham were screwing around while I was pursuing her? Holy shit. She’s staring into her lap and I’m torn between amused as hell and seriously ticked off. “So you guys were messing around before you broke it off with me?”

On second thought, I’m not all that amused. Controlling my expression is abnormally challenging, and the aquarium-like walls are suddenly the worst idea ever.

“No. It wasn’t like that.” She looks up, straight into my eyes. Still tomato-red from her hairline to the neckline of her sweater, she seems sincere, though I’m probably the last person qualified to judge honesty or lack thereof in anyone. “We kissed once, before you kissed me. I mean, before you kissed me, outside of our Will and Lizbeth roles. Nothing else.”

Like a slideshow through my head, I recall those photos of the two of them in Austin, running together or preparing to. And then the looks they shared that Brooke and I both noticed, and the protective way he sometimes acted around her. I all but missed that because he seemed even more so with Brooke. Now it all looks like evidence, and I’m not sure I believe her.

“Here’s the unavoidable question—especially given the fact that you two are a thing now—why did you begin a relationship with me, instead of him?”