AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He’s guarded again, his expression unreadable. “Today, you rely solely on me. Whatever you need, I will provide. Consider it my way of imitating the generosity of Adrian Riley you lauded earlier.”
“I didn’t mean that as an insult,” I point out with what I hope passes for a gentle tone. Especially now that I have a better idea as to the root of their animosity.
Graeme scoffs. “You didn’t?”
Battered ego. Sour expression. I recognize this side of him. On the surface, his bad mood could have entirely been caused by the tumult of emotions we recklessly engaged in last night—afterthe almost sex, even. But as much as it pains me to admit, I know him. Too damn well, to be exact. We went to bed tense but oddly… neutral? Something must have happened between then and breakfast.
“What do you mean?” I try to phrase the question as sternly as I can. When he frowns, I go for the jugular. “Keep in mind that you said you’d never lie to me.”
Whether he truly meant that remains to be seen.
He frowns as if mulling over the promise. Then he cocks his head, his blue eyes flashing. “I can show you better than I can tell you. Come.”
He turns for the door again, and I seem to have no choice but to follow him or stand there dumbstruck. The moment I draw even with him, he reaches out for my arm to pull me along—only his grip continues to slide downward until…
I stiffen. Graeme Bellamy isn’t holding my wrist. No, he’s holding myhand.
“W-What are you doing?” I can’t even begin to hide the panic that creeps into my voice.
“Demonstrating.” He yanks me closer when I attempt to dig my heels in and closes the door behind us.
With every step we travel from his suite, I am more aware of the reaction we garner. Curiosity. Intrigue. For all intents and purposes, he’s a powerful figure, and I’m the slightly damp woman at his side. My cheeks heat up at the thought of the assumptions they might make. By the time we reach the lobby, I do everything I can to try and wrench my hand away—but the bastard thwarts my every attempt.
“T-This isn’t professional,” I croak out as he manually steers me toward the main entrance.
He seems unconcerned by the odd look we catch from a woman walking her poodle across the marble entryway. She smiles fondly and then quickly glances away. “That’s the idea.”
My mind goes blank. “B-But… but you know what this looks like.”
He glances down at my hand, the fingers red from how tightly he had to make his grip to maintain the contact. “That’s the idea,” he echoes in a deadpan tone.
Obviously, I didn’t hear him right. My mind is still spinning as he leads me to the car James has parked outside. Once we’re both on the back seat, and only then, does he finally let go of my hand.
“First on the agenda,” he says while running his hand along his thigh as if to erase my touch from his skin. “Lunch, with my mother.”
There are so many things wrong with that one statement alone. Glancing at the clock, I decide to begin with the most obvious one. “It’s ten a.m.,” I tell him.
He shrugs, nonplussed. “Brunch, then.”
Which, of course, brings up another question. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
His eyes narrow as he stares through the windshield at the remarkably light traffic for this time of day. “I took the morning off.”
I have to brace one hand against the nearest door to keep from pitching forward and falling off the seat. Another “morning off.” According to memory, Graeme Bellamy tended to handle his “off” days the way… well, the same way I had handled mine.
“Lunch, with Gloria,” I carefully reiterate, rather than pick apart the larger questions looming behind his current sour mood. “And you need me there because…?”
I look at him expectantly, but he shrugs his shoulder as if brushing me off.
“You fired me as your assistant,” I remind him. “Which typically means that I am not required to accompany you on ventures such as to a café to have lunch with your mother—”
“Ah, but you are onretainer,” he says over me. “To assist me in cultivating the art of, as you so put it, ‘wooing.’ Think of this moment as another lesson opportunity.”
“Oh?” I’m cautious even before he gets that look in his eye—the one that warns he’s in imminent danger of throwing something into something else—typically his phone through a wall. “What kind of lesson?”
He raises both hands to his collar and flicks the edges. “A lesson in hownotto cause a goddamn scene in a bloody café during ‘brunch’ with your mother.”
I swallow hard. He’s already well on his way to growling, and it isn’t even noon yet—another bad sign in my experience with Graeme Bellamy.
