She was not wrong. Disappointment shot through me at the thought of missing Florence and Desmond’s annual All Hallow’s Eve Bacchanalia. Last year, it had been a massive affair complete with costumes, decorations, and deadly-strong, ruby red party punch they served out of a ginormous plastic cauldron in the kitchen. We’d had epic plans to make this second incarnation even better than its predecessor. (Namely, with a skeleton-themed meat and cheese centerpiece we intended to introduce as our char-spook-erieboard.)
Flo liked to invite everyone she’d ever met to her Halloween bash — old high school buddies, the fellow teachers at her elementary school, Desmond’s university coworkers, even strangers she met in line at the grocery store while shopping for party snacks. Last year, the cops were called on us around midnight. (Hello, noise violation.) Most people would’ve taken this as a sign to shut things down. Not Flo. She’d cranked her spooky playlist down to an only-slightly-less earsplitting decibel and continued to carouse through the night.
“I can’t be Velma without a Daphne!” Flo cried. “They’re a package deal.”
I shrugged. “Sorry, Flo.”
We’d picked out costumes ages ago — Daphne and Velma fromScooby Doo— and painstakingly thrifted our outfits from secondhand stores.
“Velma and Daphne?” Graham asked, sounding amused as he looked across at Desmond. “Let me guess… Fred?”
I turned to him. “You’re just upset because no one asked you to be Shaggy.Psh. As if you could pull it off.”
“Not sure that’s the insult you intended it to be, babe,” he returned, grinning.
My eyes narrowed. Last year, Graham hadn’t even bothered with a costume. He’d just appeared for a few hours in his standard jeans-boots-jacket combo along with the girl he was seeing at the time — a seriously stunning blonde named Madison, who was dressed loosely as an angel. I saylooselybecause she was only wearing white lingerie, thigh-high go-go boots, and a set of feathery wings that did not hang low enough to obscure her perfectly toned asscheeks.
For the record, Flo and I went as matching minions fromDespicable Me. I had a wedgie all night from the suspenders and it took days to get off all the yellow grease paint. (I regret nothing.)
“Let me guess!” I poked Graham lightly in the chest. “You plan on going as an arrogant, bossy, annoyingly-good-in-bed bounty hunter badass?”
He grinned wider. “Not sure that’s the insult you intended it to be either, babe.”
I rolled my eyes. He was so irritating. And unfairly sexy. Especially when he curled his arm around my shoulders and dragged me up against his chest so he could brush his lips against mine.
“Jeeze, could you two be any cuter?” Florence sighed dreamily. “Aren’t they cute, Des, honey?”
Desmond, dutiful as ever, echoed, “They’re cute, Flo.”
“Remember when we were like that? Unable to keep our hands off each other?”
“Honey, you jumped me in the shower this morning,” he reminded her softly. “I wouldn’t exactly say our spark is gone.”
Flo giggled. “Right.”
As we broke apart from the kiss, Graham and I exchanged a lingering glance that had me squirming in my seat. His hand left his beer glass and slipped beneath the table to curl around my thigh. “You about finished with that drink?”
“Um…” I gulped and glanced at my wine glass. It was still quite full. “Not really.”
His hand bunched in the fabric of my skirt. “Too bad, baby. Haven’t been inside you even once today. Starting to go into withdrawal.”
Without looking away from the mesmerizing heat of his eyes, I flung out my hand, grabbed my wine glass, pulled it to my lips, and took a hefty gulp. When I swallowed, Graham was grinning wider than I’d ever seen before.
* * *
We sat in my bed,Graham dressed only in his boxers, me in his t-shirt, eating Chinese takeout straight out of the containers. It was late, hours after we’d gotten home from The Witches Brew after parting with Florence and Desmond, and I was still riding a post-orgasmic high, courtesy of one GrahamFreakingGraves.
“What’s your middle name?” I asked around a mouthful of egg roll, suddenly curious.
He froze with the chopsticks poised halfway to his mouth, his shrimp dumpling suspended mid-air. “Why?”
“Just curious, I guess.”
His brows shot up in question. “Curious.”
“What?” I asked, feeling self-conscious. “Can’t I be curious about you?”
He set down his chopsticks, abandoning his dumpling in its container, and turned fully to face me.