Bad, Gwen.
Squeezing my thighs together, I shifted on the leather seat and tried my damndest to ignore the insane magnetic pull between us. I blamed sleep deprivation. And post traumatic stress. That was the only reasonable explanation for the feelings fluttering around inside my chest — not to mention several other, slightlylowerplaces on my anatomy that I felt disinclined to acknowledge at this point in time.
“Besides,” Graham murmured, leaning forward into my space so his face was only a few inches from mine. I could’ve pulled back, but I seemed to be paralyzed. All the air in the cab compressed inward, squeezing the oxygen from my lungs. My eyes were fixed on his lips as they continued, “My place has one thing yours definitely doesn’t.”
“Um,” I breathed, trying not to think about his big fucking comfy bed. “A state of the art security system?”
He shook his head.
“Attack dogs?”
Another shake.
“A moat full of flesh-eating piranhas?”
Shaking his head one last time, his mouth tugged up in a familiar half-smile and his eyes flared with warmth. Slowly, he leaned another inch into my space. I fought the urge to squirm in my seat, clenching my thighs together so hard, I was pretty sure I stopped circulation to my toes.
“Then what does it have?” I asked, afraid of the answer. His face was alarmingly close to my own. I could smell his body wash, could see the tiny flecks of darker green in his irises, could hear every breath that pumped in and out the broad column of his throat. Alarm bells began to sound in my head.
PROXIMITY ALERT!
PULL BACK!
REVERSE COURSE!
But those alarms stuttered into silence as Graham’s smug, smirking mouth gave me an answer.
“Me, Gwendolyn. It has me.”
Chapter Ten
A special place in Hell? For me? That’s actually so thoughtful.
- Gwen Goode, flattered by an enemy
I shadowed Graham from the Bronco across the garage bays, through a fortified steel door that he unlocked with a passcode of six numbers, up a dim stairwell, and into his home. It was dark inside, the only light coming from the wall of glass directly opposite us, which opened out onto a harbor-facing terrace. The water beyond was a spill of ink, white boats bobbing like ghosts on the surface, hulls catching the moonlight as they drifted on their mooring lines.
“Lights,” Graham commanded as the heavy door swung shut at my back. Overhead, a wrought iron track of exposed-filament bulbs instantly flared on, illuminating the space. Any expectations I’d had about his home (namely: a consummate bachelor pad dripping with modern touches, garish leather accents, and a complete absence of artwork — an aesthetic I collectively liked to callfrat-boy-chic) instantly vanished. It took effort to keep my mouth from dropping open in shock as my eyes swung around the roomy loft.
His decor didn’t feel like any particular style I could put a name to. Not modern or transitional or bohemian or eclectic. It simply felt like… him.
Like Graham.
Highly attractive, blatantly affluent, and yet, not ostentatious. Everything from the smell — something deliciously musky, spice and sage edged with smoke — to the colors he’d chosen for his furnishings — deep, camel brown leather and warm, varnished woods — to the custom built-in bookshelves behind his heavy oak desk screamedProperty of Graham Gravesin undeniable, bold letters.
It was all one massive open space, with a textured partition wall to separate the sleeping alcove from the kitchen and dining area. Thick wood beams spanned the vaulted ceilings, along with exposed ducts painted matte black. Brick dominated the walls, lending warmth and character, a pleasing contrast to the thick hardwood floors beneath our feet where oriental rugs of supremely high quality were scattered here and there to create a natural flow. The light fixtures were heavy and industrial in a way that seemed hand-crafted; the furnishings were a mix of old and new, antique and classic, simple enough in style but clearly selected with great care. Huge abstract art prints dominated the walls, tying everything together into a pleasing, richly rustic visual palette.
Nothing about the loft was overtly masculine, but at the same time it was abundantly clear a man lived here. There was no clutter. No throw pillows, no tchotchkes, no knickknacks. Not even a candle on the impressive mantle over his fireplace. There was also not a speck of dust anywhere to be seen, not a dirty dish left out on the butcher-block countertop, nor an item out of place on his imposing, harbor-facing desk.
A furl of appreciation stirred in my stomach as I took it all in. I was a sucker for a good sense of interior design, and Graham’s place appealed to me on an almost visceral level. I wondered if he’d decorated it himself or hired a professional. I hoped it was the latter, because the possibility that he had such good taste — taste that was, in fact, rather similar to my own — was a dangerously appealing quality.
“Gwendolyn.”
My eyes jerked away from the loft to the man himself. While I’d stopped in my tracks to gawk, he’d moved deeper inside, depositing my coat and bag on the kitchen countertop along the way. He now stood in the seating area arranged around the mammoth fireplace, watching me with an unreadable expression on his face.
“Come here,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
My feet jolted into motion before I made the conscious decision to acquiesce, as though he’d yanked on some invisible tether that connected us. My knees felt a bit weak as the distance between us shrank from feet to inches. I locked them tight when I rocked to a stop before him, head tilting back to hold his gaze.