by Emily Snow
Graham shakes his head. “Not about going to Italy—I could’ve guessed that about you at first glance. You lied to me a week ago about why you were working at 202.” My smile fades, and I clutch my napkin in my lap as he taps his fingers on the smooth tabletop. “Why did your parents not pay your tuition for this semester? After all, it is your last term at GWU.”
The tiny hairs on the nape of my neck and arms stand on end. “How do you know that?”
“Answer the question.”
Biting my nails into my palms, I hold my head high and listen to my heart pound louder in my ears, drowning out the sound of Thirty Seconds to Mars’s “Hurricane” playing in the background. Despite Graham’s impressive taste in music, he’s just infuriated me by digging around in my personal life and I can only imagine where he got his information.
Fuck Dad. And fuck Graham, too.
“I’m waiting, Ms. Courtney.”
“Hasn’t he already told you everything you want to know?” He gives me a strange look, and I respond with a furious glance. “My father. That’s who you’ve been talking to, isn’t it?”
“For the last time, I’ve never spoken to your father about you. Now, answer the question.”
“My tuition wasn’t paid because they want an obedient child.” It isn’t a they, though, it’s a he, but I won’t tell Graham that the decision was solely my father’s.
“Every parent wants an obedient child. My own parents wanted children that didn’t speak, think, or for that matter, exist.” A chill courses down my spine at his taut expression, the flatness in his voice. I swallow hard as he continues, “You’ll have to elaborate.”
“My personal beliefs drive my father up the wall.”
“And what does Eleanor Courtney believe in?” When I don’t answer, he touches the inside of my knee beneath the table. “Don’t shut down on me.”
“I didn’t back my dad on a family issue he felt strongly about, and he basically told me to piss off. I got the job at 202 because I heard the tips were good, and they were.”
“What about student loans?”
That was the first thing I considered after Dad dropped the bomb on me. “Missed the application deadlines. And I don’t have the income for a personal loan.” I don’t mention that I gain access to a trust fund, courtesy of my mother’s parents, at twenty-five.
“Family members?”
“No, I’ve had enough of taking handouts. Besides, I have a new job now.” My chair scrapes across the floor as I stand, and Graham’s eyes glide unapologetically down my body again—from the top of my head to my Dulce De Leche-painted toenails. “I’m sure it won’t be a surprise when I tell you that I don’t really need you for that ride home either.”
“Sit down.” He points to my chair. “You’re not leaving because you don’t want to leave.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to leave?” I snap, gripping the back of my chair. I won’t give him the satisfaction of actually sitting down. “You. Looked. Into. Me.”
“Because you lied,” he says. “You said you have a new job? What is it?” And like an idiot, I tell him. He responds with a satisfied smirk that leaves my hand itching to slap his stupidly handsome face. “How much does that pay?”
Fifteen bucks an hour. “Enough.”
“It’s a never-ending flow of bullshit with you, Elle.” He sounds disappointed. It seems to be the general theme of the night. “I looked into you because I want to help you.” Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he tosses a folded sheet of paper beside my plate. I sit down and open it with shaky hands, anxiously running my fingers along the creases as I read. When I’m done scanning over the mess of words and numbers, I look across the table at him with wide eyes.
“These are instructions to your accountant in New York to cut a check to my school.” Saying it aloud makes it even more stunning. “Why would you do this?”
“Because I want to help myself more than I want to help you. Because I’ve wanted to be balls-deep inside of you since you first licked your lips at me in that shit-hole 202. Because I don’t want any other man thinking, or doing, the same thing.”
“You want me to sleep with you?” I already knew that much, but what’s on this sheet of paper... Gulping down a wave of panic, I glare down at Graham’s plan until it’s blurry. “You’re proposing to pay all this money just for me to sleep with you? This is D.C., Senator, not Nevada. I’m not a call girl.”
He laughs. “I don’t want to sleep with you, Elle, that would be too easy. I want to possess you. I want to end every dinner we share with my cock down your throat or in your cunt or your—”
“Graham!” I say in a hushed whisper, looking up at him, but he continues anyway.
“Or in that tight ass,” he finishes, a triumphant smile splitting his golden face. “I want to spend your last semester getting you out of those fucking pearls and on all fours. Close your mouth, Elle, because there’s one more thing I want.”
“What?” I whisper, curling my toes as the heat between my legs expands. “What else could you possibly want?”
“I want an answer. Right now.”
NINE
ELLE
I don’t want to sleep with you, Elle, that would be too easy. I want to possess you.
Graham’s words—spoken in that indulgent, carnal whisper—are still the first thing on my mind a couple days later as I dress for lunch. And he has possessed me. He’s been in my dreams, mentally in my bed, ever since he drove me home following our date. Untouched.
Trying to shake all images of Senator Sexy-Ass from my brain, I focus my thoughts on the tedious, boring tasks I have to do before the New Year, things that don’t start a party in my panties:
Renew my car’s registration—if Dad doesn’t take it away first.
Eventually, see my father.
Laundry.
I roll a lint brush over the midriff burgundy sweater I’d pulled on over a black skater dress, then bend to zip up my brown leather boots. As I smooth my hands up my black tights, something else Graham said hits me hard, causing my legs to tremble:
I want to spend your last semester getting you out of those fucking pearls and on all fours.
Settling my lips in a grim line, I catch my reflection in the mirror and swallow hard. “Stay out of my head, Delaney.”
Then, grabbing my bag and throwing on a black pearl necklace just for the hell of it, I leave my apartment.
When my brother called yesterday to invite me to lunch, I was ecstatic by his unexpected visit to the area, if not a little confused by his choice of restaurants. He’s a lot like me—uninterested in the D.C. elitist scene our parents prefer—but he’d asked to meet at a vaunted Capitol Hill steakhouse that seems more Cheryl Courtney than Zachary or Eleanor.
And sure enough, as I’m escorted to his table, the sight of my mother sitting beside him makes me want to turn tail and run. I almost do, but then she points in my direction. My brother turns, his blue-green eyes lighting up at the sight of me. Sucking in a breath, I power on, the plastered smile on my face softening to a genuine grin the closer I get to Zach.
I grew up looking up to my big brother—the star athlete, the ideal child, the future of the Courtney name. And then, a few years back, he confided in me that he was my father’s worst nightmare. That everything was a façade. All I could do was tell him he was wrong, not about his feelings for the boy who’d been his best friend for years, but about being a nightmare.
Zach is too good for the Courtney name, and he was where I started to draw the line at letting Dad tear people down.
“I’ve missed you, kid.” He wraps me in a bear hug, and I hold on to him tightly. He’s taller than I am, but I’m still able to give my mom a cautious look over his narrow shoulder. Blake has always joked that my mom has a severe case of Resting Bitch Face—a look that would have likely struck fear into the heart of prosecutors everywhere if she hadn’t left her law career behind decades ago. Today, though, she’s putting all her ef
fort toward appearing pleasant.
She smiles, so, hesitantly, I return the gesture.
Backing away from Zach, I put my hands on my hips and look up into his eyes. Even though he’s four years older than me, we’ve always been close. I was more than a little heartbroken when he traded in his Alexandria position to work at a new marketing firm in Rhode Island earlier this year.
The way I see it, he wanted to get far enough away from our father and his iron fist, so who can blame him for leaving?
“If you miss me so much, you should move back to Alexandria,” I tease. When he ducks his head, and a couple locks of his jet-black hair flop over his eyes, I drop my stance and playfully punch his arm. “I hate when you give me that look because it always means no.”
“Then stop asking me questions like that when you already know the answer,” he laughs, taking his seat. I slide into the chair right beside him.
“What changed?” I ask, and he lifts an eyebrow. “You said you weren’t coming home until after New Year’s Eve.”
“And now you’re complaining.” He snorts. “I’m happy to see you too, Elle.”
Narrowing my blue eyes, I shoot him a dark look to which he responds by making a face that will likely give our mother a seizure. She’s always loathed that—“horseplay” in public. “You know I am always, always happy when you come to town. I was just asking why you came. Did Jameson come with you?”
My mother clears her throat, pulling our attention across the table to where she’s daintily sipping a mimosa. “Zachary is here, alone, because I requested that he visit.” When my mouth puckers into a frown, she holds up her hands defensively. “And I come in peace, Eleanor. I have no reason for asking him to visit other than wanting my beautiful children together for lunch before Christmas. Thanksgiving was ... unfortunate.”
I release a heavy sigh. Unfortunate is missing your favorite TV show and realizing you forgot to set the DVR. Or rushing across town only to arrive five minutes after a store has closed. Mom’s reaction during Thanksgiving, when she was nothing more than a zombie at the dinner table while Dad relentlessly drilled into Zach and then me, was heartbreaking. I had looked across the candlelight at her, willing her to chime in and defend us, but she’d just looked ahead—staring listlessly at the sterling silver gravy boat. And it’s not like she couldn’t. Mom has a way with words that can make a giant feel two inches tall. When she’s around my father, though, something changes.
When she’s around him, she’s a doting wife first—and a mother and former defense attorney last. Earlier this year, I thought Mom was making a step in the right direction. The one where she’s Cheryl, not just Mrs. Robert Courtney. Over Easter, she told Zach and me that she was strongly considering going back into law after my father’s Senate term ended and he retired, but that’s taken a backseat thanks to Dad’s decision to run for office in 2020. When I asked her why she can’t be both, first lady and lawyer, she told me to drop it.
And then she refused to speak of it again.
Still, in her way, she does seem remorseful today, even though she probably won’t say much else about Thanksgiving either. With her head bowed just enough for her auburn bob to brush the wool shoulders of her gray sheath dress, her blue eyes focused down at a napkin, and her smooth hands now clasped together in her lap, this is as close to an apology as my brother will get.
Which rips my heart to shreds.
I glance over at Zach, who shakes his head and presses his lips together in warning. “Let it go,” he mouths, and I draw in a long breath through my nose before I address our mom.
“You’re right, Thanksgiving wasn’t the best, but it’s good we can talk now.” When our waiter stops by our table, I request a blackberry margarita. Once he’s gone, I ask the question burning on my mind. “Will Dad be joining us?”
This time, Mom gulps her drink. “He’s golfing today.”
I know my father well enough to realize it’s far too cold for him to golf, but I also don’t want him here, ruining lunch with his snide remarks and frequent reminders of how disappointed he is in his children. Mom I can deal with. She’s passive half the time and isn’t malicious. But Dad...
Not today.
Hopefully not even until after Christmas.
“Tell him I’m sorry I missed him while I was in,” Zach says. That’s my big brother, always the peacemaker. She offers a closed-lip smile that tells me that she won’t tell Dad a damn thing because he doesn’t know she’s here. It also makes me wonder why she’d picked this place, of all the eateries in the city, where she’s likely to run into someone from their circle.
“Of course I will.” Then, turning her sapphire blue eyes to me, she says, “I’ve talked to Daddy about your schooling, Eleanor, and he wants to help you.”
Mom’s the only person I know over fifty who still calls her father Daddy, and I groan. “I’m fine, I swear.”
“It’s not fine, Eleanor,” she snaps in a voice just soft enough not to be heard. “Your grandfather is more than willing to give you an advance on your trust since I can’t take care of it without your father knowing.”
“Wait.” Zach lifts a hand and glances back and forth between Mom and me, his features wrinkling in confusion. “Elle, what’s going on?”
By the time Dad decided to inform me he was withdrawing his financial support, Zach was long gone, smart enough to escape Dad’s tyrannical bashing. I hadn’t planned to tell my brother what had happened because it was pointless to give him more to worry about. I figured Mom would do what she does best—pretend it never happened—rather than be proactive, but she’s proved me wrong.
“Elle?” He leans closer. “Did something happen you didn’t tell me about?”
Resting my elbow on the table, I ignore her sound of disapproval as I work the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “Dad decided he and Mom aren’t going to pay for my final semester.”
“Are you,” my brother starts loudly, but then he inhales and continues in a hushed whisper, “Are you kidding me? He did that to you?”
Lifting my shoulder into a shrug, I meet his sea blue gaze and laugh. “Like I said, I’ll be fine.”
“Really, Mom?” he demands, whirling on her. “He’s punishing her because she spoke without his permission?”
“I can’t control what he does.” She forces a smile and shoots us both a warning glare, as our waiter approaches the table with my drink. “Can we have just a few more minutes before we order?” she asks sweetly.
As soon as he’s gone, she points an immaculately manicured finger first to me, then to Zach. “We’re not going to do this here. We’re going to have a nice lunch. Eleanor, you’re going to tell me about what has gone on in your life the last few weeks while you’ve ignored my calls, and Zachary, you will tell me about life in Providence with ... Jameson.”
There’s that version of Mom that I was hoping for last month. The one with fire in her veins. She starts saying something else, but I’m not listening as the spicy, delicious scent of a brand of cologne I can’t help but recognize blows against my face, startling my senses. Damn Graham for pushing his way into my thoughts now, when I absolutely should not think of him, or his scent, or the bronze body he covers in that aroma.
Turning my face just slightly enough to see the hostess leading a drop dead gorgeous brunette woman and two men toward a table in the back, my muscles go taut when dark, dark eyes lower to mine. My chest goes up in flames as Graham—passing me by in all his suit-wearing, hedonistic, masculine glory—looks down at me.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Two nights ago he assured me he’d be in New York by now, so why in the world is he still in this city? At the same damn restaurant as my family and me.
At first, those dark, golden features twist into a look of sheer surprise, but as he looks straight ahead toward the festive tree decorating the back of the restaurant and continues walking, I see his lips twitch into a wicked grin.
Returning my focus to my moth
er and brother, I flinch when Mom narrows her eyes at me. “Eleanor Sutton Courtney, did you hear a word I just said?”
Swallowing down the excess moisture in my mouth, I move my head to each side, praying my hair will fall in my face and shield my burning skin from my family. “No, I’m sorry, I ... I don’t feel so well.”
Zach frowns, but she continues. “I said that after lunch is finished, I’ll call Daddy so he can wire the money to your bank account.”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Eleanor,” she says exasperatedly, “please don’t be difficult. Even Zachary agrees this is for the best.”
I offer my brother my best attempt at a reassuring smile. “No, I mean, it won’t be necessary because I’ve already gotten a scholarship. A last-minute thing. I was ... I was fortunate to get it.”
“A scholarship,” she repeats.
“I wrote an essay,” I explain. Oh God, that sounds so lame. “About … the role of youth in politics.”
I look past Mom’s surprised expression and my brother’s congratulatory one, and my stare once again locks with Graham’s. The emotion coursing through him is impossible to ignore.
Pride.
Impatience.
Conquest.
With my heart jammed in my throat, I stand on legs that are as flimsy as rubber. “Excuse me, I have to go to the restroom.”
If you’re still wondering if I told him to go fuck himself after he gave me his ultimatum—if the night ended with me slapping that smirk off his face or kneeing him in his balls—none of that happened.
Instead, I decided to be practical.
I told him yes.
TEN
GRAHAM
Fucking Eleanor Courtney.
I’ve not been able to get her, or that tight black dress she wore to my place, off my mind since I took her back to the little shoebox she lives in the other night. Since she’d been in such a hurry to get home after she gave me the answer I knew she’d settle on, I’d given her my terms on the way to her apartment: