Where You Are

I remove the shirt, unhurried and facing him, slipping buttons out of buttonholes as though he’s watching me like I wish he was. Willing him to open his eyes, I let the silky fabric whisper over my shoulders, leaving them bare, and drop the shirt to the floor. A moment later, the ice blue bra follows. Standing a scant ten feet from him, I’m wearing nothing but a miniskirt. There’s no response, no movement, nothing. Obviously, he’s not even peeking.

I strip all the way down, cloth rustling as I shimmy out of the skirt. Deliberating, I’m immobile. And then, inexplicably, I’m not sure enough of what his reaction will be if he opens his eyes. Shit. I’m never apprehensive about this. Seduction is a strategic maneuver at which I excel. Except with Graham.

I pull a nighty short set out of my suitcase and put it on. “All clear,” I say, but he doesn’t stir. Stepping closer, I see that he’s fallen asleep. As carefully as I can, I curl up next to him. His arm curves around me, but he doesn’t wake.

“Emma,” he breathes. Fantastic. He thinks I’m her. And I’m just pathetic enough to lie here and accept that.

For the first time in the past month, it occurs to me that I may not succeed. Once the premiere is over, the need for a pretend romance between Reid and Emma will go away. Nothing will stand in the way of Graham and Emma establishing a relationship that threatens everything I want. I’ve known Graham for four freaking years. He belongs to me—and I don’t give a shit how that sounds. I can’t lose him now, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure I don’t.

The light from the corner streetlamp just outside is bright, blocked by the dark blinds except for tiny pinstripes that lay across our bodies. I trace them with my fingers, coming to the end of me, tracing onto Graham. Up. Over. Back again. And then I slither to the end of the bed and find my bag in the dark, digging through it for my phone. After angling the blinds so that they cast wider bands of light on the bed and across Graham, I climb back in beside him and lay my head on his shoulder, our faces turned slightly towards each other.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, his arms pulling me closer. Before I can change my mind, I click the phone to camera mode. I have to take three pictures to get one that’s clear enough. It’s fuzzy, but it will do.

Me: DON’T transfer this to her, just show her, then delete it. That way she has no evidence.

Reid: Finally bagged him, did ya?

Me: I told you it’s not about that.

Reid: Yet you didn’t send me a photo of you two immersed in conversation

Me: Shut up.

*** *** ***

REID

Thursdays are long for the crew at Ellen because they tape Friday’s and Monday’s shows that day. Emma and I are lucky, because we’re on Friday’s show, so we go first and get the host and the audience fresh.

Waiting backstage, we have some time before our segment. Emma is sipping chai tea and attempting every stress-relieving, deep-breathing technique she can think of. She’s in the middle of some sort of yoga pose, eyes closed, and I’m considering whether showing her the photo now would freak her out too much. But I’m probably not going to see her again until next week—the day of the premiere.

With a final, slow inhale/exhale, she opens her eyes, unfolds her leg and lowers her arms. Her cheeks glow pink when she realizes I’ve been watching her. “What?”

I shake my head slowly. “I’m just weighing whether or not to show you something that might upset you.”

She glances at the phone in my hand. “An unflattering paparazzi photo or another baby bump watch? Uh, no thanks.”

“Mmm, no. I don’t think this one will make it to the tabloids.” Now that I think of it, I’m not sure about that. I wouldn’t put it past Brooke to leak it to the tabloids, if she was so inclined.

Emma’s features fall and she sighs. “Let me see.” She sits next to me on the sofa.

“Brooke is probably just trying to yank my chain. This kind of thing goes back a long way between us.” There. That’s as much softening of the blow as I can do. Some circumstances can’t ever be made soft. Like: Your boyfriend is hooking up with someone else.

I pull up the picture, full screen, and hand it to her. She sucks in a breath, her opposite hand pressed to the center of her chest. “When? When was that taken?”

She’s asking, but she knows. I see it in her eyes.

“Last night, I guess.” I take the phone back, glance at the photo again, hit delete.

“Wait—”

“Oh, sorry—too late. I don’t want to keep that crap on my phone. Seriously, I’m sure she staged that for my benefit. Brooke has a warped sense of humor. Maybe it’s nothing.”

She slumps next to me, wearing that Lost Girl look, not buying my attempt at tempering the shock of seeing a close-up of her boyfriend sleeping with Brooke’s head on his shoulder. I turn the phone off and stow it in my pocket, take her hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have shown you.”

She stares at her hand, intertwined with mine, but makes no move to withdraw it. When her eyes meet mine, I squeeze her hand. “Don’t worry about it right now. Brooke is all about these little games. I should know. I’ve known her even longer than he has.”

There’s a rap at the door before it cracks open. “You guys are on in five,” says a guy with a headset. His eyes immediately fall to our close positions and clasped hands. He smiles and pops back out, shutting the door behind him.

Emma is slightly distracted during the taping, giving an impression of shyness. She’s too professional to let anything personal throw her completely off. She does, however, allow me to be more suggestive of a hidden relationship when it comes to the inevitable questions about our possible involvement. Where for months we’ve only smiled and denied, today I’m giving silly but full-of-insinuation answers, and she’s laughing bashfully. The audience loves it.