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“Dear, you would be a gem if I could bum a cig from you,” Britt asks in my direction, her eyes glowing with need. Definitely European.
Is she really thinking about smoking in here? Surely there are rules against it, even in a place that caters to the customer’s needs.
“Oh, um, I don’t smoke.” I focus on washing my hands, adding extra exfoliating soap to my palms to prolong the nosy investigation. “Sorry,” I mutter. I feel that it is perfectly natural to keep my eye contact in the mirror now that I am being addressed, even if I am useless in the nicotine supply department.
“Wait, I know you,” Britt announces, giving me a once-over.
I nod slowly. “I think we met last night.”
“Oh yeah, you were with Graham.”
Blonde Barbie Sophia darts her eyes to mine and then down to my wrist to see my identity bracelet. “Lucky girl. But I’m surprised he chose you.”
“And why is that?” I ask, locking eyes with her in the mirror.
“Because Graham doesn’t date for fun.”
“Oh, yeah?” I respond.
“Yup,” she chirps. “He dates for fucks.”
Her tone is stiff. Her words hollow.
“How do you know I wasn’t just that?” I ask cheekily. I mentally smack myself for even entertaining this line of conversation.
Sophia tilts her head at me, deep in thought, and then bursts out laughing. “Right,” she exhales, out of breath.
I swallow hard and go back to focusing on my excessive handwashing.
“Britt, you should quit,” Sophia suggests, changing the subject away from me. “I did a few months ago. It’s the whole clean-up-my-act image I’m trying to portray. Hopefully it’ll be noticed.”
“How’s that working for you, bitch?” Britt sneers, pointing at something concealed in Sophia’s Gucci handbag.
The girls share a secret smile that I barely catch from the mirror. Trouble. They leave before me, and I loiter a bit longer inside before having to go back to the table of awkwardness.
A million questions invade my thoughts. Does Graham know that Sophia is here? Why did she come back to Portland now and from where? Why the hell does it bother me so much that she is after Graham?
I exit the restroom and travel down the corridor that leads to the dining area. From behind, I feel a tug at my arm. I jerk back. My heels knock me off balance, and I start to fall. Strong hands steady me, and the clean woodsy scent awakens my senses—completely throwing my mind into a spin. I try to catch my breath. My view of the room goes upright and my gaze changes to the source of the support.
“What are you doing here?”
“Graham,” I snarl. “What the actual fuck?” I ask in a heated rage. “You nearly killed me with your manhandling! What’s your deal?” My words flood past my lips without a filter to contain the raw emotion that shoots through my core.
“Such a dirty mouth,” he scolds patronizingly. The corners of his mouth curl up in the sexiest of grins. “Lucky for me, I like dirty.”
Damn him and his gorgeous looks. His hair falls around his ears, giving in to the playful head tilts that he directs my way. I fantasize about how soft it would feel under my fingertips—but only for a moment. I am mad at him after all for his greeting. And what is he doing here?
“Really? You are going there? How about, ‘Sorry Angie, I thought you were someone else’? Or perhaps”—my brow furrows—“‘I’m sorry for grabbing hold of you, nearly knocking you down’? Or better yet, how about ‘It will never happen again’?”
“I wouldn’t have let you fall,” he answers smugly, his quirky smile full of mirth. “I would have thrown myself on the floor just to cushion you if I had to, princess.”
Well, now. I fight to hide my wicked grin and the gushy feeling the word princess does to my insides.
“Besides,” he says, “I’m not sorry about anything. You feel good in my arms.” His eyes glow at my internal struggle to maintain my composure. He’s having way too much fun at the expense of my amateur acting skills.
“Not the point.” My teeth bite down on my bottom lip to keep from rattling off more swear words that beat against my tongue.
“You have not been responding to any of my texts, Angie.”
