For a long beat, nothing happened. We merely stared at one another, not speaking or touching, taking each other’s measure in the gathering silence. The tension between us mounted, the tether going taut as a bowstring.
Graham was the one to break the spell. Jaw locking, he looked away from me, shrugged out of his leather jacket, tossed it down on the arm of the sofa and then settled on the cushion beside it. When a few seconds passed and I failed to join him, he sighed and muttered a terse, “Sit.”
I stood my ground. “Bathroom?”
“Past the kitchen. There’s a door in the alcove to the left.”
He’d barely finished speaking when I scurried away, desperate for a little breathing room. Being in his space was confusing my head. I barely knew which way was up. I needed a bit of distance, that was all. Some space to get my thoughts in order. And as soon as I saw an opportunity, I fully planned on doing what I did best when it concerned Graham Graves.
Bolting.
I closed myself in the bathroom, relieved for a moment of solitude. All the emotions I’d spent the past few hours suppressing were starting to claw their way to the surface. I knew it was only a matter of time before they overwhelmed me. And I wanted — no, Ineeded— to be alone when that happened. Being vulnerable in front of other people wasn’t a weakness I allowed myself. Not if I had any other choice in the matter.
Graham’s bathroom was, like the rest of his space, surgically clean and surprisingly colorful. Dark teal walls, heated ceramic tile floors, a lively Picasso print over the freestanding pedestal tub framed in the same metallic copper as the sink and tub fixtures. There were curtained windows that overlooked the terrace. A gorgeous walk-in shower with floor-to-ceiling glass doors took up almost half the space. But the thing that caught my attention was the woman in the mirror.
I stifled a shriek at my reflection. I looked ghastly — pale and shaky, my expression drained of its usual color. My smattering of freckles stood out like bullet holes on the bridge of my nose. My mascara was smeared beneath my eyes in a way only Hetti would’ve approved of. My pretty ivory, single-sleeved top was wrinkled and streaked with goddess knows what, as was the skin of my bare arm. And I was missing one of my chunky silver bracelets.
Did Graham have it, or was it still sitting in that alley gutter?
My hair was the worst of all — an unsalvageable mess of waves and frizz. I didn’t even attempt to tame it. But, after taking the world’s longest pee, I did wipe away my ruined eye makeup with a tissue and pinch a bit of color back into my cheeks. I wished rather desperately that I’d paused to grab my purse before bolting to the bathroom. I’d been in such a hurry to escape Graham…
Ugh.
I eyed the closed door, dreading the moment I had to walk back through it. That thin panel of wood was all that separated me from an interrogation about the events of this evening. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. More, I wasn’t sure I was ready to be back in Graham’s presence. The more time we spent together, the harder it was becoming to keep him in the safe, little box I’d shoved him into two years ago. My attempts at hating his guts were severely hindered by constant proximity to his muscular body and intoxicating smell and perfect taste in interior design and domineering-yet-devastatingly-appealing propensity for dishing out orders…
Get a hold of yourself, Gwen.
Conscious I’d been in the bathroom for a very long time, I steeled my shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked back into the loft. Graham was sitting on the sofa, forearms planted on his knees, eyes on the fireplace. He’d lit it in my absence; several wood logs were already engulfed in flame in the grate, emitting loud pops and crackles as they caught. He didn’t turn to look at me, but his back tensed beneath the fabric of his black t-shirt as my footfalls sounded against the floors, bringing me to his side.
Saying nothing, I dropped down onto the opposite cushion, as far away from him as I could get — and nearly groaned as I sank into the soft, buttery leather. Now that my adrenaline had officially worn off, exhaustion was catching up with me. I fought off a yawn as I knit my hands together in my lap, resisting the urge to get too comfortable.
“So,” I said, shattering the silence.
“So,” Graham echoed, straightening in his seat, turning toward me.
My heart stuttered stupidly in my chest. I made a point of glancing around the loft, avoiding his eyes. Avoiding his proximity. Avoiding the tension that was, once again, charging the air between us. “So… this is your place.”
“Mmm.”
“It’s nice,” I offered.
“I’m aware.”
My lips pursed. “You know, arrogance isn’t an attractive trait.”
“Who says I’m trying to attract you?”
“Do you always have to have the last word?”
“Why does it bother you so much when I do?”
“As I said before…arrogance. It’s not exactly a likable quality.”
“I’m an arrogant prick because I agreed that my place is nice?”
I gritted my teeth. “That’s not what I’m saying—”
“What are you saying? That I shouldn’t agree with an accurate assessment? That I should play coy, for the sake of propriety?” He shook his head. “Not how I operate. I like nice things. I spend a fuck of a lot of money acquiring them, surrounding myself with them, and caring for them. I have no qualms about admitting that.”