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by Adriana Locke

  We head back into the tent, the scent of chocolate donuts flowing from inside, her hand in mine.

  “And I don’t want to catch you dancing with Ford.”

  She giggles. “You better behave then.”

  Mallory

  “NO, NOT ONE MORE!” I giggle as Sienna tugs at my hand. “My feet hurt.”

  “Your feet can’t hurt!” Danielle exclaims. “It’s my wedding reception.”

  “We’ve been at this for hours,” I say, the wine sending me a little off balance.

  “You’re a lightweight,” Macie laughs. “Come to Boston with Danielle this summer. We’ll show you how it’s done. Right, Danielle?”

  “Let’s take her to Shenanigans! Do they still have that jukebox in the corner? The one with all the old school stuff we love?”

  Macie’s eyes light up. “They do! Will and I were there a couple of months ago with Crew and Jules. I think I spent a week’s check on it.”

  Alison grabs me by the arm and twirls me around, wine sloshing from her glass, as a new song begins to play. When we realize it’s a slow one, a chorus of “Ah’s” can be heard.

  The dance floor begins to empty. The music softens, the beats turning smooth and easy, and I see Graham coming my way. His hands in his pockets, his tie now undone, his jacket missing, he looks like I’ve always hoped to see him look.

  Relaxed. Carefree. Happy.

  I throw my arms around his shoulders as he pulls me into him, holding me tight against his body. He smells delightfully like sandalwood and soap as I lay my head near his heart.

  “Have you had fun tonight?” he asks softly.

  “You know what? I have,” I admit. “It’s been a lot of fun actually.”

  He kisses the top of my head and I squeeze him. Maybe it’s not the best thing in the world to let myself get so close to him, but it feels right. It makes me happy. So I choose to do it and have faith that if things go the way they’re planned, or if they don’t work out, I’ll survive.

  We move in a circle, entwined in each other’s arms. We’ve danced many other dances tonight, but as Boyz II Men croon at the late hour, our bodies loosened by wine and whiskey, this one is different. Our guards are down and all I can do is smile against his chest.

  “Well, well, well,” Lincoln says as he and Danielle sidle up next to us. “Look what we have here.”

  “Go away, Linc,” Graham laughs.

  “That’s no way for the Best Man to talk to the groom,” Lincoln jokes.

  Danielle gives him a stern look. “You are a troublemaker.”

  “Which is why you love me, babe.” He smacks a kiss to her lips. “Well, G. I’m married off, Barrett is engaged. Since Ford doesn’t have a girl, that means you’re next.”

  “Lincoln Landry!” Danielle chastises him. “Don’t put Graham on the spot like that.”

  “Danielle Landry,” Lincoln starts then stops. “God, I love the sound of that.”

  “You’re a beautiful bride,” I tell Dani. “Congratulations again.”

  She grins at me. “Thank you.”

  Lincoln whisks her away in some spinning dip move that makes everyone laugh and move out of the way. Graham’s chest rumbles as he, too, can’t deny his amusement.

  “You know,” he says, “I’ve always thought Lincoln to be the most immature out of us all.”

  “You might be right.”

  “I hate to admit it, but I think I might be wrong.”

  When I pull away and look up at his face, he’s still watching his brother. His brows are pulled tight.

  “Lincoln is really no different than me,” Graham notes.

  “I beg to differ. He’s silly. Goofy. You’re Mr. Control Freak. Serious.”

  “True.” Graham looks down at me again and spins me in a circle. “But look at him.” He uses his chin to motion towards the groom. “He’s the happiest guy here. He’s the one out of all of us that risked everything in his life to get the one thing he wanted.”

  I think about that. I’ve heard Lincoln’s story and how he had to pick between the sport he loved and the girl he loved more. It’s a classic fairytale, a romance for the ages.

  “Did he need a boost of confidence? Sure,” Graham says. “But he pulled the trigger. He made a very mature decision.”

  “So what are you saying?” I ask.

  “I’m saying that ridiculous brother of mine was capable, when the time came, to figure out what he wanted in life. He did it faster than any of the rest of us, no matter what public office we were in, what job title we had, or medals were around our neck.” He chuckles. “I can’t believe I’m giving kudos to Lincoln for something serious.”

  I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him lightly. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

  “Won’t tell what?” Camilla and her father dance their way to us. “I love gossip.”

  “They don’t call you Swink for nothing,” Graham says, shaking his head.

  “Mind your own business, Camilla.” Mr. Landry tosses me a wink. “May I cut in?”

  Graham’s grip cinches down on me.

  “I’m your father, Graham,” Mr. Landry laughs. “Here. Dance with your sister.”

  Camilla takes her brother’s hand, against his silent objection, and guides him away from their father and I. Mr. Landry takes my hand in his and gently places his other respectfully on my hip.

  His forehead is lined in a way that showcases years of worry, hard work, and late nights. But it’s the lines around his eyes and mouth that paint a different picture. They tell the story of love and laughter, of ballgames and Monopoly. They speak of tea parties and car washes and early morning breakfasts.

  “I want you to know,” he says in a voice an octave lower than Graham’s, “that I never get involved in my children’s private lives.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. I just let him move me along to the music.

  “Graham has always been a peculiar child. When he was born, he didn’t cry. The nurses had to tickle his feet to force him to cry to dry his lungs.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.” He smiles down at me. “He’s always been an old soul, one of those kids that seems to be wise beyond their years. He didn’t want to play ball with Lincoln or go chasing girls with Barrett. He wanted to go to the office with me. I remember one Christmas, he asked for a calculator,” he chuckles.

  “In the last few weeks, I’ve seen such a change in him,” Mr. Landry continues. “I always wondered what would happen if he really fell in love. Would he pull away from the business? Would he channel some of the passion that drives him into something else? I see that some with Barrett. Now that he has Alison and Huxley, I don’t expect him to be in politics very long. Same for Lincoln. I think we can all see the changes Danielle has made in him.”

  “Certainly,” I agree.

  “My curiosity has been satiated when it comes to Graham. I now know what happens to Graham when he falls in love.”

  “Mr. Landry,” I stammer, my anxiety beginning to soar. “I’m not sure what he’s told you, but I don’t think he’s in love with me.”

  His chuckle is loud and hearty as he shakes his head. “Maybe not. I surely can’t speak for my son. But I can tell you that I know a thing or two about my boys, and Graham is well on his way, sweetheart.”

  My cheeks flush and I look away. I’m not sure he’s right, but I can’t stop the little bud of hope that blossoms in my belly.

  “Graham’s work over these past few weeks has only gotten better. It’s funny, in a way, to see him a bit strewn about. But it makes his mother and me happy to see him living outside of his office for once. And that, Mallory, is because of you.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I just want to ask that you give my boy some patience. Lord knows he’s probably in over his head,” he chuckles. “But if I know one of my sons, I know Graham. And I know Graham will come around.”

&nb
sp; The music ends and a faster number replaces it. Graham is to my side in a second flat.

  “Here you go,” his father says, taking my hand and placing it through his son’s elbow. He leans in and whispers something to Graham. I don’t know what he says, only that it makes Graham smile. They nod, a silent exchange of some unnamed emotion, and Mr. Landry disappears into the sea of people.

  Graham looks at me, his eyes shimmering. “You ready to go?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mallory

  THE HOUSE IS DARK WHEN we enter. All the wine I consumed has made me sleepy and I lean against Graham as we enter the house. He takes my jacket off and grabs a blanket off the sofa before guiding me back outside onto the patio.

  I doze off, warm from the alcohol and the fire Graham started in the fireplace. He awakens me, having changed into a pair of black sleep pants and a long-sleeved, black shirt.

  “Hey, sleeping beauty,” he whispers, sitting down beside me. I struggle to open my eyes as I sit up. “Come here.”

  He moves me so I’m leaning against him, tucked protectively under his arm. My hair splays across his shirt, my legs tucked up under the blanket.

  Nothing is said and not a muscle is moved besides the rising and falling of our chests. It’s completely still outside. There are no barking dogs or police sirens. Just Graham and I and a crackling fire.

  “If I could just stay here, like this, for the rest of my life, I would.” His statement wakes me up. I think I mishear him, but when I look up at his face, he’s watching me. “I love having you here.”

  “I love being here,” I say, snuggling into him more. “I really just love being with you.”

  I wait for the regret, but the wine must have dulled my reactions, because I feel none. I also don’t feel drunk, just buzzed, and I’m not sure if that means I’m safe to speak or I’m so out of it I need to play dead.

  “What would it take,” he says, clearing his throat, “for you to give me a chance?”

  “A chance like in a raffle?” I ask, trying to stop the roaring of the blood past my ears.

  He laughs quietly. “No, Mallory. A chance as in maybe helping me trying to figure out how to love.”

  Drunk, buzzed, or sober, I’m wide awake. I’m afraid to move because that might shatter this alternate reality I’ve woken up in.

  “How to love yoga?” I offer.

  Moving me so I lie across his lap, he sighs. “I’m blaming this on Lincoln.”

  The confidence in Graham’s posture that I’ve never seen him without is gone. His features are stern, his face pulled tight. There’s a glimmer in his eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s from the flames of the fire or something . . . else.

  “I have some issues,” he begins. “I know that. I can be exacting and difficult and a little overbearing at times.”

  “A little?”

  “A little,” he says, giving me a look. “I thought I was happy before you came into my life. Everything was in its place, everyone in their roles, and I liked it. It was comfortable and predictable. Then you walk in and take all that and toss it on the floor.”

  He runs his fingers through my hair, brushing it away from my face. “It drove me crazy at first. I had an anxiety attack for the first week,” he laughs. “But then something changed.”

  Sliding my hand so it touches his chest beneath his shirt, I try to encourage him to go on.

  “I guess it was partly Lincoln and a speech he and Barrett gave me at the Farm that I can keep my crutches or keep you. They told me I’d know when I’d fallen in love because I couldn’t replace her. I wouldn’t want to.”

  He shifts me on his lap so I’m sitting up more. “Imagining you not coming in to work every day makes me not want to go either, and that job is all I’ve ever wanted. Then seeing you with my family . . . I get what my brothers were saying, Mallory.”

  “Oh, Graham,” I say, feeling his heartbeat quicken under my hand.

  “I’ve never been in love before. I’m not sure how it works. If we get to that point, and I mess it all up . . .”

  “You’ve been in love before.” The words sting as I reference Vanessa, the one woman I would risk getting arrested to punch in the face.

  “I haven’t,” he says, looking me in the eye. “I might have thought that at one time, but I’m one hundred percent sure that wasn’t love. A young infatuation, maybe. But love? No.”

  My heart leaps in my chest and I struggle to sit up. My head is a bit wonky from the alcohol, but I press on.

  “What are you saying, Graham?” I ask.

  “I’m saying . . . I’m saying I’d like to risk my mental stability and grip on life to have you in it. But I’m warning you—”

  I leap forward, pressing my lips to his. He winds me up in his arms, kissing me for all he’s worth. When we pull back, we’re smiling and breathless.

  “Was that a yes?” he asks. “You didn’t even hear the disclaimer.”

  “This isn’t a contract,” I laugh. “There are no execution dates or amendments or fine print.”

  “That’s what I mean. I don’t know how this works.”

  “It works like this: we take each for what we are. We know each other well enough to know our weaknesses and annoying behaviors.”

  “Like the trash in your car?”

  “No,” I state. “Like the fact your stapler has to sit three inches from your desk phone. That’s annoying.”

  “That’s practical!”

  “Well, I’ll overlook that and you overlook the misplaced scrap pieces of life on my floorboard.”

  He rolls his eyes, but laughs. “Fine. But we’ll never take your car anywhere.”

  “Compromise, Graham. It’s a key to relationships.”

  “I don’t do that well.”

  “I’ll teach you,” I say happily.

  “I’m going to need a learning curve,” he admits. “I need you to have patience with me.”

  “And I need you to give me room to grow,” I volley back. “I’ve been making progress on me and I don’t want to lose that.”

  He kisses me sweetly. “I don’t want you to lose that.” He stands, offering me his hand. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Inside.”

  “Why?”

  He smirks. “I want to celebrate with my . . . girlfriend?”

  “That’s so high school,” I laugh.

  Shaking his hand, he motions for me to take it.

  “How do you plan on celebrating?” I ask, pressing my lips together.

  He wiggles his brows.

  “I think we managed to do that,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows back at him, “out here last time, didn’t we?”

  “Last time was different.”

  “Why?”

  He grins. “Last time you weren’t mine.”

  Swooning, I take his hand and let him lead me into the house.

  The sensation of light wakes me up. It’s odd because my room has one small window that faces west, so there’s not a lot of sunlight in there. Especially in the morning.

  Stretching, my arms brush over sheets that aren’t mine. They’re softer, silkier . . . nicer. My eyes flip open and land on a large painting of a city in the dark. It’s a black canvas with dots of white and pink and blue. You can make out the streets and mountain ranges. It’s gorgeous. It’s also not mine.

  I roll over and face the bedside table. Graham’s watch and day planner sit there next to a blue lamp with a cream-colored shade.

  Flopping back against the mound of pillows in his four-poster bed, I can’t help but giggle as everything from last night floods back. His declaration. His sweet smile. His delectable tongue.

  Shivering, I burrow under the covers as I hear something in the hallway. It takes a few seconds for him to appear.

  Wearing a pair of grey boxer briefs and nothing else, he carries a wooden tray and a big smile. “Morning,” he says. “I made you breakfast.”

  Scents of bacon and pan
cakes drift through the air, blending with the smell of Graham. It’s a divine, heady combination.

  I sit up and realize I’m naked. The air hits my nipples, causing them to form stiff peaks. Graham’s eyes go to them immediately.

  “Don’t think about it,” I warn. “You have to feed me first.”

  He grins, climbing in bed with me. “I don’t know what I love more. Seeing you in my bed in the morning or just seeing you naked.”

  I swipe a slice of bacon off the tray and stick it in my mouth. “Perfect. Not too crispy, not too limp.”

  “There’s nothing about me that’s limp.”

  “True that.” I wipe the bacon around the plate, picking up the excess syrup. “This is the best way to eat it right here.”

  I dangle it over my mouth in a very un-ladylike fashion.

  “This explains so much,” he notes.

  “Like what?”

  “Like why there was syrup on the console of your car and why it smelled like bacon.”

  “Sue me.” I open my mouth and begin to drop the bacon into it when a drizzle of the maple goodness misses my tongue and slides down my breast.

  Graham is on me in a second, the bacon falling on the bed. I shriek, reaching for it, but he pins my hands above my head. His eyes burn with unbridled lust. “If I tell you to keep your hands here, will you listen?”

  “What do you think?” I tease, kicking the blankets off my body. I lie on his sheets, completely exposed. His free hand, the one not holding my hands against the headboard, cups me between the legs.

  “I think you can’t be trusted.”

  His mouth lowers ever-so-slowly until it hovers just over my syrup-covered nipple. I arch my back, desperate for contact, but he just pulls back.

  Looking at me through his lashes, he grins. His tongue darts out, barely flicking the top of my pebbled bud.

  I moan, struggling to work my hands free. He keeps them still against my effort.

  The top of his tongue lays flat at the top of my chest and rolls slowly down the sensitive skin of my breast. The trail behind it is chilled, a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth.

  My head falls deeper into the pillows, his free hand gripping my vagina harder. One finger slips inside me and I release a moan.