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8
It takes about forty seconds until we are seated in an elegant booth near the back of the restaurant. I slide into my side, facing Graham. The cushions are so upscale that my body instantly relaxes into them. Drinks are ordered without a single glance at the menu or a single remark from me. Food is chosen by a simple word—“tapas.” Apparently, that is all it takes to get two waiters running. Two! Graham likes to be in control. And I don’t know how I feel about that. Especially when I pride myself in being able to take care of myself and do things my way.
Before Graham and I can start down the path of a conversation that will hopefully lead to an explanation of tonight’s events, Waiter One brings a silver tray with three decanters arranged in a line, full of colorful liquids. He looks to Graham as if for permission to speak but gets a nod of dismissal, walking away politely with a smile.
“I thought that you’d like to try each of the sangrias from the menu. Peach, berry, and the classic Barcelona. All top-rated and prepared fresh upon order.” For a second, I think he is going to go all Claire on me and start rattling off the harmful side effects of high fructose corn syrup and how the common processed ingredient is taking over the United States, one obese child at a time. I am relieved when he doesn’t.
“Sounds good,” I mutter, feeling completely out of my element. For someone who is accustomed to drinking wine from a box, I am not even sure what my expectations are. I have nothing awesome to compare it to.
The flasks alone seem to be more expensive than my entire ensemble—shoes and accessories included. Graham pours the peach sangria into two crystal tumblers with beautiful frosted-swirl designs along the base. He passes the glass to me, brushing my hand tenderly with the pads of his long fingers. His waiting gaze tells me that he wants me to take the first sip. I part my lips and inhale the intoxicating scent of sweet and tart. I tip the glass between my lips and swallow the chilled liquid slowly, savoring the contrasting taste of deliciousness. When I make for a second sip, his chuckle alleviates some of the tension I was involuntarily holding in my joints, and I sit back into the cushioned seat of the booth. I relish in the extravagance of the atmosphere presented to me as if from a layout in a travel magazine.
Small-town girls like me could get whiplash from this type of mental transport across the globe to a city in Spain that I’ll probably never get to visit in person.
I swallow what’s in my mouth. “Delicious.”
Graham’s mouth curls with a smile. “I couldn’t agree more,” he responds, looking directly at my lips. He did not even take a drink yet, and he is definitely not being shy about his blatant staring. “But I would love another taste from the actual source.”
I realize that my unease is entertaining to him. Perhaps, I am a challenge. Although with me, it doesn’t take much effort. He likes to make me squirm and goes to extremes to elicit such a response. The blatant staring at my mouth. The brushing of his fingers. He has to know the effect he has on me. I’m sure I am very obvious and lumped into the same category as probably every member of the opposite sex. I can’t imagine a straight female not finding him attractive. The bad part is, I am nearly positive that he knows it and uses it to his advantage.
Graham’s eyes change to a darker shade of blue in the dim lighting of the room. He takes a sip of the sangria and smiles in response to the taste combination. “I’m sorry about earlier, Angie.” I glance up from my glass to gain insight on his meaning. “The phone calls,” he clarifies, patting his chest where his phone rests inside his breast pocket.
“It’s okay. I understand that things come up unexpectedly.” I debate on whether or not now is the best time to start the twenty-thousand-questions round. Knowing that there is a high probability that I will have to ask multiple times to get a clear answer, I start the session. “Why did Dominic choose you to accompany me tonight?”
“You don’t waste time, do you?” All amusement disappears from his eyes. Serious Graham reports back to action. He straightens his posture and throws back the rest of the amber liquid. “Because in this line of business, there are only a handful of people who can be trusted.”
“So he sent you? What are you, the Client-of-the-Month?” As soon as the words roll off my tongue, I instantly feel pangs of regret at the sarcastic undertones of my pointed question. Despite all the warnings, Graham doesn’t seem to be the “bad guy.”
He snorts and looks off in the distance past my head. His eyes show sadness, and I stare down in embarrassed remorse. “Something like that,” he mutters with a casual shrug. “You can trust me, Angie. I’m not trying to hurt you. On the contrary, I’m trying to keep you from being collateral.”
“Then why tell me to keep my distance? Why give me so many mixed messages?”
“Because good girls like you do not need to involve themselves with—”
“Bad guys like you,” I finish.
“Yes, exactly.”
“But yet here we are. Together. Regardless of your cryptic warnings. Why is that, Graham?”
He takes a sip of his drink and rubs the back of his neck with his opposite hand. “This world that exists behind the scenes is darker than you can ever imagine. Your pretty little mind does not need to be tainted with those types of visions. Why would you want the black-and-white version, when you can keep seeing it in color?”
Unfortunately, I know just how dark the world can be. I lived in the darkness after James died. I know what it is like to not want to get out of bed. Or to eat. Or get dressed or shower. I know what it is like to have every ounce of joy sucked out of your life. I stayed in that dark place for months. I quit going to classes and dropped out of college just a couple of months into my freshman year. It took the rest of the year to come to terms with the fact that my twin brother was never coming back, that my dad had issues that love could not fix, and that my mom would never see me graduate from college or witness my future wedding.
What snapped me out of my own personal hell was finding comfort in trying to find the punk that caused James’s death. Being from a small town, every local television station and newspaper featured the story. All with conflicting information. Rumors spread like wildfire, and the birth of a conspiracy was born as to what happened that horrible night. My traumatized mind could barely remember anything from the accident and the moments leading up to it. It was as if my memories disappeared. I remember waking up in the recovery room. I remember Dad telling me that James did not make it. It is funny how seeking revenge caused a spark of obsession in me that I desperately needed to survive. Someone hit our car. Someone got away without answering for the death of my twin brother.
“You seem lost in thought.”
I look up and find the sea of blues staring at me. “So you and Dominic seem to know each other beyond just a business relationship.”
“We are acquaintances, yes,” Graham agrees. “Our paths cross from time to time.”
I nod and take another sip of my drink.
He studies me for a moment. “You know there are other jobs more suitable for you, Miss McFee.”
Excuse me? I glare in response to his blatant criticism. His words from the elevator at Entice come floating back; it is twice now that he has questioned my suitableness. Am I such a bad date? I am not even supposed to be his date! Before I can defend myself, Waiter Two is back at the table with white rectangular porcelain trays of delicate finger foods. I have no idea what the ingredients entail. I stare at Graham, searching my mind for a clever retort, coming up short. The waiter walks back to the kitchen, leaving me sulking in response to Graham’s confusing behavior.
Maybe I will just surprise him by not giving him the satisfaction of a retort. Keep him on his toes by doing something unexpected. I am certain that he wins most arguments with his roguish good looks—at least fights involving women. The directed looks of the other female patrons—obviously with companions of their own—have not gone unnoticed by my eyes. However, Graham has his focus on me. His sexy smirk unnerves me to the point of anger, making me want to strike my hand across his lips to wipe it off. He’s too proud of himself, smug, and defiantly masculine. What a jerk. He knows exactly what he is doing to me. And I let him work me.
