by Emily Snow
He snorts, and I can vividly picture him in his old world style office half an hour away in McLean, smoking a cigar and cursing the day he brought me home from the hospital twenty-two years ago. “This all just seems damn convenient since I recently announced I’m considering a bid for 2020.”
He’s not just considering it. He had narcissistically told us on Thanksgiving that he is the future of this country—a visionary with a winning smile, a fat bank account, and a set of values that would make a nun weep tears of joy.
Releasing a bitter laugh that stings the center of my chest, I shove my other foot into its shoe, my fingers shaking while I secure the strap behind my ankle. “I’m sorry you feel your gay son is going to ruin your chance at becoming president.” Standing, I smooth the black dress down over my hips. “He’s not, and you should be ashamed of yourself for making him feel he has to hide who he is.”
“You didn’t mention yourself and your … activities.” I freeze. I shouldn’t care what my father thinks about who I see, or what I do while seeing them, but the first thought that comes to mind is Graham. Had word gotten back to Dad about the drinks I shared with him Friday night?
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask defensively.
“That in the last four or five years, you’ve changed beaus like underwear.” Dropping my shoulders, I roll my eyes. In the last four years, I’ve had two short-term boyfriends and, most recently, Alex. Whom I had dated for two of those years while Dad constantly praised his excellent morals and background. And really, who the hell even uses the word “beau” these days?
My father clears his throat before asking, “Did you know they were getting married? Did they tell you what they planned to do before they went through with it? Did you tell him you approved?”
“Yes,” I snap. “And if Zach asked me again what I thought of it, I’d tell him to—” The doorbell rings, and my heart catapults into my throat. Graham’s here and I’m still in my bedroom, arguing with the most stubborn man in this country. “I’d tell him to go for it. Zach could ask me a hundred times on a hundred different days, and my answer would always be the same,” I finish, noticing the anger in my voice has dulled in my eagerness to see the person I’d been prepared to cancel on just a handful of hours ago.
“So you told him to go through with this disg—”
“Dad,” I say through clenched teeth, “if you say what I think it is you’re about to say, you can count me out of your life for good. I’m not kidding.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Then you really don’t know me all that well.” Grabbing my clutch from my dresser, I take one final look at myself in the mirror. I’d channeled Holly Golightly in pearls and a black, curve-hugging sweater dress, leaving my long ebony waves loose around my shoulders. “They got married, they’ll hopefully stay married, and I’m happy for them. Please … just stop.”
“You’re still a child,” he says. “You don’t even know what makes you happy.”
“Right. Bye, Dad.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Eleanor,” he says harshly, and I draw in a breath, even though those five words shouldn’t faze me anymore.
I’ve heard it all before, especially over the last few years. When I chose GWU over his Ivy League alma mater, after he found a box of condoms in my bedroom drawer when I was nineteen, when Blake took me bar-hopping for my twenty-first birthday and my photo and a blurb wishing me a good one made it onto the front page of a society editorial.
The list goes on and Dad’s displeasure never ends.
“No, not just disappointed,” he continues. “I’m ashamed of you.”
The doorbell chimes again, and I hurry from my bedroom, the frantic drum of my heels on the carpeted floor matching my heartbeat. “Well then, I won’t feel too bad for having to hang up. I’ll call your scheduler so we can eventually sit down for that grown-up conversation you want,” I say stiffly, even though I’m pretty sure they’ve just adjourned until January.
“Eleanor, don’t you dare hang up on me!”
Turning off my phone, I toss it in my bag and rest my head against the door. I’m not going to let him ruin my night. He’d already screwed up my holiday break, but I won’t bring my dad to dinner with Graham. Smiling, I fling the door open.
“You’re early, Delaney.” The words fade to a whisper when I spot an incredibly tall, blonde woman dressed for business in a black blazer and matching wide-leg pants. From the other side of the hallway, I hear the sound of my neighbor’s customary Friday night party—they’re blasting Bebe Rexha and G-Eazy’s “Me, Myself, & I.” I can make a guess as to why she’s here even if she is dressed differently from the usual stoners who mistake my door for his.
“Sorry, Jason’s place is right there.” I point across the hall.
A hesitant smile plays on her lips. “Elle?”
I pause from shutting the door and arch an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I’m Veronica, Graham’s assistant. He was tied up in a meeting and sent me.”
Veronica. This must be who he was speaking to while we were on the phone earlier. “He sent you to tell me he wouldn’t be able to make it?” Before I can stop myself, I let my shoulder droop against the doorway. I’m not sure if it’s in relief that I might have wiggled my way out of dinner or regret at not getting to see him.
The corners of her glacier gray eyes crease into a frown. “He didn’t tell you I was coming?” When I give her a brisk shake of my head, she pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “Of course he didn’t. He sent me to bring you to him.”
“Oh.” I straighten, holding my purse close to my body like a shield. My heart races against my hand. “I could’ve just driven to him. He didn’t have to put you out of the way.”
Her smile is back, but it’s forced. “He insisted, so I’m ready whenever you are.” She examines my attire and one of her cheeks draws in like she’s biting it. “It’s cold out tonight, so you might want to grab a coat.”
The silence between us is heavy and awkward as she leads me to—what looks and smells like—a brand new white BMW 7 series. Sitting next to her, I twist my hands together, trying to make sense of the sudden frigidity behind her tone right before we took off. What the hell had Graham told her about me?
Wetting my lips, I’m grateful I opted for gloss instead of lipstick so I don’t show up with pink-stained teeth. “Do you know where he’s taking me?”
Piercing eyes glance over at me. “His place. He had a chef prepare dinner for you.” I notice she grips the steering wheel tighter, and I feel the sinking sensation that Graham and his aide might have been more at one time. Veronica is drop dead gorgeous. More runway model than any political assistant I’ve ever seen. She’s got the whole Charlize Theron Atomic Blonde look to her—right down to the short platinum hair and annoyed expression.
Navigating through D.C., she says little else to me until her phone beeps while we’re inside the elevator of a luxury high-rise condominium building that overlooks the Potomac River. “He just messaged. He’s already inside, so you can go right in once we get up there.”
I nod, feeling warmth—a combination of confusion and embarrassment—swell over my skin with each floor the elevator ascends. Surely he wouldn’t do something as calloused as sending a woman he’s screwed to pick me up, would he? But when I glance over at Veronica, who’s glowering a hole into the elevator panel, it’s more than obvious that something is wrong.
And with a reaction like that, a failed office romance is the only thing that makes sense.
When we stop on the twelfth floor, she points at the door directly across the hall. “That’s his condo.” While her tone isn’t as cold as before, it’s still detached.
Rubbing my hand anxiously over my chest, my fingers catching one of the buttons on my trench coat, I step out of the car into the dimly lit hallway. The sound of my heels seems to echo off the gleaming hardwood and scratch loudly when I pivot around to look at Veronica. “Thank you again
. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name?”
“Delaney. It’s Veronica Delaney.” Giving me a final smile that looks like it hurts her face, she punches a button and the elevator doors start to slide together. “Have a nice night, Elle.”
EIGHT
ELLE
I don’t know how long I stand there, rapidly blinking at the closed elevator doors, and feeling like someone just punched me in the stomach, but when strong hands come down gently on my shoulders, I jump.
I swallow hard when I look back and Graham’s sharp gaze lands on me.
“You’re not thinking about leaving already, are you, Ms. Courtney?” Even as he whispers this into my ear, he steers me through the open door of his apartment. It smells like him in here, cedar and sandalwood. My throat goes dry. “My assistant was supposed to cancel an appointment, but she’s playing fucking games today, and it was unavoidable that I couldn’t pick you up.”
His assistant who stared at me like I was a stain on her designer jacket, who shares the same last name as him. I wait until I’m standing in the entry hall, and I can hear music playing softly in the background—“Push” by Matchbox Twenty, if I’m correct—to face him with tightly narrowed eyes.
“Veronica Delaney?” I demand, fog swirling around my head. I refuse to leave this entryway until I know what the hell I’ve walked into. “At first, I was sure she was an ex-lover of yours, but Delaney? Were you married to your assistant?”
He closes the door and locks it. “She’s not my assistant, actually. She’s my Chief of Staff’s.”
“Okay, were you married to your Chief of Staff’s assistant, then?”
Leaning against the door, he hungrily rakes his brown eyes over me, and I glance away so I won’t openly ogle him, too. Wearing a stripped down version of the black suit he probably wore to work today—tailored pants, a white shirt with the top couple of buttons undone, and a loosened yellow tie—his dark hair is tousled, and he’s once again sporting a five o’clock shadow that’s too sexy for his own good.
Scratch that. Everything about Graham is far too sexy for my own good and I should have just stuck with my original plan and cancelled. Told him I came down with some fake illness that would’ve made his skin crawl.
“In your research about me, did you see anything about a wife?” he asks.
No, but that doesn’t mean anything. My brother has been married for several months, and thanks to keeping his social media so private, no amount of searching for Zachary Courtney brings up anything about his elopement to the man he dated in secret for years. I purse my lips, hugging my arms over my chest.
His eyes lower to my breasts, which are thoroughly covered by both my trench coat and my dress, before returning to my face. “Did you ever stop to think that Veronica might be my cousin, or perhaps my sister?”
I point my eyes toward the ceiling where two neat rows of recessed lighting beam down on my face. Catching my breath, I tilt my chin back down. “You don’t have a sister.”
As soon as I speak, I regret it. From the grin that splits his bronze face, I’ve given his ego something new to expand over. He’s enjoying this—that I’ve read up on him enough to know that he’s the youngest of three brothers. Bridging the gap between our bodies in one long stride, he frames my face with his large hands. His touch is light but stings my skin nonetheless. “No filter, dove?” he murmurs.
I gasp for air. “None. I just want the truth.”
“Seeing you like this, this jealous over someone you haven’t seen, nor, according to you, thought about the last four days, makes me wonder what you’ll be like after our bodies have become better acquainted.” When my mouth drops open, he says, “And you’ve not had the best part of me for another four days—or a week or two.”
“I meant no filter about Veronica,” I say through my teeth, but desire creeps through my veins. I pull away from him. “I didn’t ask you to talk dirty to me.”
He laughs. It’s deep and sensual and, paired with the seductive glint in his eyes, dangerous. I step around him, reaching out for one of the brass doorknobs so I can leave, but he stops me. His fingertips brush my shoulders, and the heat of his muscular body presses against my back buckles my knees. Twists my stomach into knots.
“Stay,” he orders, his warm, sweet breath stroking my ear. I turn my head to find his dark eyes penetrating mine. “Because my former sister-in-law is probably in her own fucking car by now.” Skimming his hand from my shoulders, he unfastens the top button of my trench coat, and then the second. “She’s probably already on her way to the airport for her long-awaited holiday vacation to New York.” He unties the belt, his knuckles brushing against my waist. “And besides, I have no plans of taking you anywhere until you’ve had dinner with me.”
He pauses before parting my coat and shrugging it off, and I reach up, stopping his hands with trembling fingers. “Would you hold it against me, Ms. Courtney, if I admitted I’m rather hopeful you’re naked underneath this? That it’s already a fantasy of mine when it comes to you?” He finishes removing the garment, his full lips curving upward as I turn around and he looks me over. He rubs his shadowed chin thoughtfully. “Fortunately, I have a vivid imagination.”
“Veronica’s your sister-in-law.” I avoid his erotically-charged question as he guides me into the spacious interior of his condo. It’s an open floor plan, with the kitchen, dining room, and living area all visible, decorated in sterile shades of white and gray, and surrounded by floor to ceiling windows. “She was married to your brother?”
Or was Graham married to her sister?
As if he can read my thoughts, he smirks. “I’ve never been married. Veronica was with one of my brothers and only for about fifteen minutes before my mother convinced Bennett what a mistake it was.” I don’t miss the sarcasm dripping from his voice. He stops me in the center of the room, right in front of a plush grey linen sectional. Tossing my coat on it, he bends his head so that his mouth is inches from mine. “Veronica has never been my lover, will never be my wife, and if she said something that makes you think that, I will have her ass.”
“No, no. She...” Maybe I had imagined the blonde’s chilly reception? Talking to my father is enough to screw with the strongest mind. Dad is like the Hannibal Lecter of Capitol Hill. Embarrassed, I flick my tongue over the corner of my lip. “I’m so sorry, Graham. I never react that way, I promise.”
He fingers the string of pearls around my neck that were a gift from my grandparents. I hold back a tremble when his thumb traces my collarbone. “I know you don’t.” He drops my necklace, backing away from me, and gesturing to a glassed-in balcony with a view of the city lights and the Washington Monument. There’s a table set for two out there, and my chest jolts. “Dinner, Elle, before I decide our time is better suited with my face against your…”
Tuning out that last little bit, I walk a little too hurriedly onto the balcony, but the clench in my thighs makes me stumble. He steadies me, gripping my hips from behind me, and pouring gasoline on the fire his words started. “Are you always so clumsy?” he demands.
Only when hot men who are a decade older threaten to go down on me in lieu of dinner. “No. Do you start all your dates like this?” I retort.
“No.” We sit down, and the look he gives me is downright predatory. “I normally fuck first, dine later. I usually prefer the dining to be done alone without all the awkward chit-chat.”
“Well, aren’t you a real winner.”
His grin widens. “Always.”
Flushed, I glance away from his face, focusing on an elaborate chess table, complete with tan and black marble pieces, sitting in the far corner of the balcony. Does he play? I’d learned from my grandfather as a child, but I’d undoubtedly get my ass taken to town now, especially by someone like Graham. And instantly, my thoughts go south, carnal, and I blame his suggestive words.
I sigh. “You know, you talk about sex so much it makes me question if you’re one of those all talk, lame act
ion situations.”
“May I?” He extends his hand, gesturing for mine. Warily, I place my fingers in his and release a yelp when he pulls it under the table, pressing my palm against his zipper. He closes my fingers, one by one, around the unquestionable—and admittedly very, very impressive—bulge.
Wow.
“That’s not hard either,” he informs me in a low voice, “but if you’re doubtful of my ability to make you forget your fucking name, how to walk, how to eat—and everything else but yes, please, and more—it won’t take long for you to get me there.”
“So that’s why you invited me to dinner, huh?” I snatch my fingers back and grab a handful of my dress to ease the electricity under my skin. It doesn’t help, and I’ve got a feeling I’ll be undone for the rest of the night all thanks to what’s hidden under Graham’s zipper. “To screw me? I guess I had you all wrong.”
“If I wanted only to fuck you, Elle, it wouldn’t have mattered where I took you for dinner—or if I fed you at all.” He whips the plate cover off my food. “Hope you like steak.”
Somehow, I manage to steer our conversation away from sex. I’m amazed at how easily Graham, the senator from New York, comes out. Smooth and refined, he’s a different person from the man who teased me for being jealous of his brother’s ex and said things to me that made my body combust. Half an hour later, we’re talking about my post-graduation plans, and I’m wondering if I’ve turned him off, when he leans forward and says very slowly, “You lied to me, Ms. Courtney.”
“About wanting to go to the Cinque Terre?” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “Sorry, Senator Delaney, but that would be a waste of a lie. That’s my dream destination.” It’s on the coast of the Italian Riviera, and it’s been on my travel bucket list since I was in high school—when my literature teacher explained that Cinque Terre influenced Montale’s “The Lemons.”