I even paint it on Saturday after getting home from Lainey’s, determined to capture it on canvas before the memory of that gift fades—and in case he never shares it again.
That’s what it felt like, after all.
A gift from Graham. It came tied in a bow, wholly unexpected but even more cherished, alongside him, stopping in the Seabreeze just to celebrate me and the unexpected dance. The feel of his arms around me, holding me tighter in an effort to reassure me when I thought he didn’t want to be there, the way his fingers tightened just a bit when he smiled, as if he was truly smiling with his whole body, as if, for a moment, his entire being felt that moment of joy.
I want to see it again.
Again and again, in an addictive way, in a way that feels dangerous and wholly natural at the same time.
Unfortunately, I don’t get the time to try over the next few days. While my first two weeks at Daytrip were relatively calm,it seems that with only three weeks until opening day, the heat is on, and both Graham’s and my schedules are packed. On Monday, I spend the entire day on calls or reviewing the checklist with Grant to ensure everything is ready for the inspection the following day, while Graham conducts some of the GM interviews. We barely cross paths, and when we do, it’s just to ask a clarifying question and keep rolling.
Tuesday is inspection day. My stomach is in knots all morning; Graham is grumpier than usual, and the whole day is tense. We pass, thankfully, but our week doesn’t ease up. Instead, we begin moving in. I stay late helping Grant, Decker, and the team bring out deck and beach furniture, arranging it per Graham’s sketch.
Wednesday, I conduct first-round interviews for club servers and staff, staying until nearly five-thirty at which point Graham, of all people, insists I leave. At home, I pack art for shipping and paint while I eat dinner.
Workdays feel like teaching again: busy all day, then more work at home. But instead of feeling drained, I am motivated. I tell myself it’s because it’s new and special, but I know it’s because I love it.
That said, on Thursday, I’m dragging. I’m sitting in Graham’s office and going over the different media outlets I’ve contacted and confirmed when a third yawn leaves my lips.
“I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I was up late last night painting. I should have gone to bed at a normal hour, but I got lost in it, and the next thing I knew, it was way past my bedtime.”
Graham frowns, "Probably doesn’t help that you’ve stayed late every day this week."
"Excuse me, you don’t really have a leg to stand on," I say, glaring—though I yawn again, softening the effect.
"Okay, get up," Graham says, coming around the desk. "We’re going for a walk."
He offers his hand; I hesitate.
“A walk?”
"Yes. A walk. You said vitamin D helps your sunny disposition. I think you need it. Let’s go."
I give him an unsure look but take his hand.
"I don’t think we have time—" I start, but he shakes his head, pulling me up. He doesn’t step back as he does. Only inches separate us, my breath catching as he stands over me, soft concern on his face. He lifts a hand toward my loose hair, then stops abruptly and steps away.
“I don’t have the time for you to burn yourself out. Now come on. Let’s get some fresh air. You haven’t even been outside for your lunch break this week.” He stresses at me like he expects me to argue, but this is an opportunity I can refuse.
“Okay. Let’s go,” I say with a shrug, pulling a small smirk from him before I head out to grab my phone and a bag. He’s slowly stepping out of his office as I turn back to him, sunglasses in hand, when I stop.
Because Graham isundressingbefore me.
Maybe I really do need sleep, because this has to be some kind of wild figment of my overtired mind.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s hot out. I don’t want to sweat through a dress shirt.” I nod as if that’s logical, but really, I’m panicking because all my mind can do is focus on the way his fingers move on the tiny buttons of his shirt, revealing a tight white T-shirt beneath.
He might not spend much time with friends, but I’m pretty sure he spends whatever free time he has in the gym, doing who knows what, because the muscles I felt beneath my fingers in the dim lighting of his hotel and have caught glimpses of beneath his dress shirts are much more obvious beneath the white tee, stretching around his biceps and cut tight on his torso, tucked into his pants.
I shake my head, blinking twice before forcing myself to look away and not take in the way his muscles move under that T-shirt. Instead, I pull my phone out and tap at the screen aimlessly, seeing nothing, but at least I’m not staring at Graham.
“Ready?” he asks. When I look up at him, he’s staring at me curiously. I smile at him, turning my go-to charm on and covering up any discomfort with friendliness before nodding and making my way to the exit.
It’s a five-minute walk to Seaside Coffee, and Graham was right to take his dress shirt off: it’s the hottest day of the season by far, and I’m sweating. I’m grateful I’m wearing a tank top dress and I left my cardigan in the office, and even more grateful when Graham holds the door to the coffee shop open for me and the cool air hits my heated skin.
“June! What a pleasant surprise!” Miles’ mom says, waving at me as I slide my sunglasses onto my head. Mrs. Miller has owned the coffee shop for as long as I can remember, and considering her son is my brother’s best friend, I’ve spent a lot of time around her over the years.
