Graham led me — dragging my heels the whole way — out of the surveillance room and down the hallway in the opposite direction of the reception area, where perfectly poised Brianne was no doubt sitting, fielding phone calls in her most soothing phone voice. A steel exit door with an access panel brought us into the garage bay where Graham’s Bronco was parked. The black SUV was missing from its spot, but the motorcycle was there.
“Is the Triumph yours?” I asked, eyeing the sleek bike.
“Nah. Sawyer rides.”
“Oh.” I stared at it, wondering what the badass blond would look like sitting astride all that chrome and black. My mouth felt suddenly dry.
“Gwen, baby, you’re drooling,” Graham remarked, punching in the door code for the stairs. “Just had these floors detailed, I’d prefer not to do it again.”
I glowered at his broad shoulders all the way up into his loft.
Graham opened a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass. He set about making dinner while I wandered around his space, being nosy. (My offers to help slice and season were gently but firmly rebuffed.) In my wanderings, I discovered that Graham had even better taste than I’d originally given him credit for. (And I’d given him a lot of initial credit.)
His bookshelves were stuffed to bursting, an eclectic mix of genres. His bar cart was stocked with top shelf liquor and heavy crystal lowball glasses. His oversized abstract artwork collection was supplemented by a trio of personal photographs, hidden away on the low table behind his desk. I examined them each in turn, taking my time to study the images.
One showed Graham flanked by two slightly younger men that were mirror images of each other — Holden and Hunter, both dark haired and very nearly as ridiculously handsome as their older brother. It was the twins’ high school graduation day, judging by the shiny caps and gowns they were wearing. All three of them were beaming at the camera. Though they were younger in the picture, there was no denying they were the same men I’d seen during shootout at Madame Zelda’s apartment.
Fantastic.
That meant the twins had seen my eighty-five-point turn in the Thunderbird. I certainly knew how to make a first impression, huh? If they were anything like their brother, I had a lot of teasing to look forward to in the future. I sighed and exchanged the frame for another.
The second photo was of Pickering Wharf, taken at sunset, the harbor bathed in red and yellow shades in the background, Gravewatch front and center in the foreground. I traced the shape of the building, feeling a happy flutter in my gut. Graham was proud of what he’d built, proud of the things he’d accomplished. I was proud of him, too.
The final photograph showed him as a tousle-haired little kid, no more than four or five years old, standing in front of a crouched man who looked so shockingly similar to Graham, I did a double take. His father. It had to be, the resemblance was undeniable. They were holding a fishing rod together, both sets of hands clutching the reel. And they were smiling.
I didn’t know much about Graham’s relationship with his parents but I’d inferred from a few pointed comments he’d made that they weren’t exactly close-knit. I wondered what had happened to change them from that idyllic father and son fishing together to whatever fraught connection they currently maintained as I set the frame gently back on the shelf.
There were no photos of his mother anywhere to be seen. I filed that factoid away for further inspection and carried on with my snooping. Eventually, I located an old vinyl turntable tucked away in the back corner, with an orderly box of records underneath. I flipped through them, grinning when I saw one I liked, and put it on before I walked back to the kitchen area.
“Listen to the wind bloooowwwww….” Stevie and Lindsey started signing about breaking the chain.
“Fleetwood Mac?” Graham asked, watching me cross to him. His eyes were on my legs, which were on full display in my short sweater dress.
“Best Of,compilation album,” I confirmed. I kept walking until I was right in front of him, set down my wine glass, and slid my hands around his waist.
“You done snooping?” he asked, voice warm.
I scrunched my nose. “I wasn’t snooping, per se. I was… perusing.”
“Babe. Snoop all you want. Nothing to hide.”
“Well, in that case…” I jokingly made to vault out of his arms, but they tightened to steely bands, keeping me close. Smiling up at him, I asked, “What’s for dinner?”
“Baked potatoes are in the oven, salmon’s on deck. Brussels sprouts are steaming.”
“What’s for dessert?”
“I don’t do dessert.”
I scoffed. “That’sinsane.”
“No, that’s why I have a six pack.” He paused. “You like my six pack, if memory serves. Spent at least twenty minutes running your tongue down it last night before you su—”
“You know what?” I cut him off. “I’ve taken it under advisement. No dessert for you. I, however, will require something sweet to balance out the Brussels sprouts.”
He chuckled. “You want dessert, we’ll walk around the corner to Jaho for gelato later.”
I crowed victoriously.