“Exhaust!” I hurry around the island and flip the exhaust switch. Immediately, the cloud of smoke begins to clear.
I turn to Graham, who is looking positively sheepish with his spatula in one hand and a potholder in the other, and I burst out laughing. “Give me that.” I take his spatula and use it to make shooing motions. “Make way for a professional. You clearly need a proper class in when to flip your pancake.”
His brows bob playfully up and down. “That sounds dirty. I didn’t know you wanted to flip my pancake.”
“Oh, but I do,” I say in my best sexy voice, tossing my hair over my shoulder as I grab the least offensive bowl of batter from the counter. “Get me a fresh skillet, baby. The student is about to become the teacher.”
Graham offers a snappy salute. “Yes, ma’am. One fresh skillet coming up.”
Ten minutes later, I’ve instructed my eager pupil in the proper temperature, timing, and flipping technique to achieve perfectly browned pancakes every time. And I actually manage to get a small stack of ready-to-eat hotcakes stacked on a plate next to the stove before Graham circles his arms around me, and my devotion to the curriculum begins to wander.
“You are so hot right now.” His fingers slip beneath my T-shirt to skim my ribs as he kisses my neck. “All bossy, taking charge of my kitchen . . .”
“Someone had to take you in hand.” I bite my lip as his palms glide higher. “You’re clearly a pancake-flipping virgin.”
“You’re so right.” He cups my breasts, making my next breath rush in on a gasp of awareness as his thumb brushes across my nipple. “And so generous and patient with me. I wonder how I can ever repay you.”
Flipping off the heat to the burner, I lean against him, offering him unimpeded access, glancing over my shoulder to meet his gaze as I whisper, “I have a few ideas about repayment.”
“Oh, yeah?” He somehow manages to maintain his innocent expression even as he rolls my nipples harder, making me fight to hold in a moan. “Might they have anything to do with a lesson in up-against-the-refrigerator sex?”
I lick my lips, pressing them tight together as hunger floods my every cell. “I think refrigerator sex is a good start. Though, I may require further payment after breakfast. I have some questions about alternative uses for maple syrup that I would like to explore.”
Graham makes a contemplative sound deep in his throat. “Tell me more.”
But before I can answer, and tell him exactly what I have in mind for syrup, he’s captured my mouth with his, sending the taste of sweet, sugary coffee and Graham flooding through my mouth.
And it is as fantastic as always.
The best taste. My favorite taste.
Pancakes are definitely going to have to wait.
Chapter Twenty-One
CJ
The lesson in alternative uses for syrup goes well—very well, if I do say so myself. By the time I’m finished with Graham, he’s so useless I have to bring his plate of pancakes to him on the kitchen floor and feed him syrup-soaked pieces until he recovers his strength.
“You’re such a drama king,” I tease as I pop a bite between his lips before stabbing another triangle for myself.
He smiles, his eyes closed as he chews. “Am not. This is what happens to a man when you give him the best blow job of his life.” He continues before I can challenge the truth of that statement. “Besides, I’m conserving my energy for the afternoon’s adventures.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask, intrigued. “And what might those be?”
His eyes open in a sleepy, sexy way that makes my body start to hum again. “You’ll see. It’s a surprise. Something to push us both out of our comfort zones. It’s going to be fun.”
I arch an eyebrow, unsure what he’s getting at. “If you say so.”
“But you will need to dress for moderate to strenuous physical activity in the out of doors.”
My brows lift. “You want to go outside?”
“Hard to conduct the lesson I have in mind in an apartment.”
I twist my features into an exaggerated frown. “All right. If you insist. But I confess I was having fantasies about keeping you in bed all day. With few to no clothes on.”
“Tempting. Very tempting, but there will be time for that tomorrow. Today, we’re taking it to the streets. Get dressed, Butterfly. We’re going out.”
An hour later, after two subway rides—a trip to The Village Vet to check on Stephen King and spoil him with petting and tuna treats, and a walk through a part of Brooklyn I haven’t seen before—we arrive at the Prospect Park outdoor roller-skating rink, and Graham holds open the gate to usher me inside.
“You have to be kidding,” I say, my gaze sliding to the families, couples, and wild, sticky-faced kids rolling in frenzied circles. “We both stink at roller-skating.”
“Which is why this is a perfect chance to learn something new together.”
“While I love the idea, might I remind you of the debacle known as Chloe’s roller-disco party two years ago?”
“I know. That’s what’ll make it fun. We’ll fall on our assess in unity.”
I shoot him a skeptical stare. “Have you forgotten that you nearly wound up with a shattered tailbone? I, for one, have a crystal-clear visual of you landing smack on your cute butt in the middle of the rink.”
He smirks. “You think my ass is cute.”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously. But that’s neither here nor there. Why don’t you park that cute butt on a paddleboat and we can do that together instead? They rent those. I saw a sign back there.”
He shakes his head, wiggling his eyebrows. “I’d rather see your cute butt skating in front of me.”
I laugh at him and then take a deep breath. Come to think of it, what if I do fall on my butt? What if he falls on his?
We’ll get back up. We’ll keep on skating. We’ll figure it out together.
A fresh surge of confidence zips through me. “Fine, then let’s lace up, speedy. I’m ready to race if you are,” I say with a wink.
“Oh, I was born ready.” He takes my hand. “And don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.”
His words echo as we head to the rental counter.
I won’t let you fall . . .
Oh, but Graham, it’s already too late, don’t you see? I’m already falling. Falling so fast and I can’t seem to stop.
But I don’t say any of those things out loud. I just grip his hand, determined to hold tight for the time we have left.
We aren’t disco kings on roller skates. I’m not bopping along like a roller-derby girl, and he’s not a skate god on wheels. We are stiff and silly-looking and laughing more than any other couple on the rink.
And I like it that way.
As I watch him glide unsteadily around the turns, a little clunky at first but a whole lot determined, I find I’m even more attracted to him than I was before we arrived. I love that he’s not amazing at skating. I love that he’s awkward, but he’s doing it anyway. He’s not letting imperfection get in the way of a good time.
And neither am I.
I make it around a few times, skating more comfortably with each lap. Then he skates a few feet in front of me and comes to an only semi-shaky stop.
“Impressive,” I observe.
He holds out a hand. “How about a spin?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “No way. Straight ahead without falling is enough excitement for me.”
“One spin,” his wheedles, fingers curling around mine. “C’mon. No risk, no reward.”
“I’ll fall.”
“You won’t fall.” He takes both my hands, skating slowly in a curve. “I’ve got you, Butterfly. Trust me.”
“I do trust you. Obviously,” I say. My heart jerks as his eyes meet mine and something passes between us, something intimate that makes me forget I can’t spin in skates.
And in that moment, I’m sure he can see right through me, straight to that starry-eyed dreamer who wants so much more from
him than seven days. Will she scare him away?
But he just holds on tight and says, “Look at us. We rock.”
We glide faster, spinning in smooth circles, both of us relaxing as we gain confidence. We aren’t going to sign up for synchronized skating any time soon, but I’m smiling, and he’s grinning, and skating is even more fun with him by my side.
So are sleepovers.
And dinners.
And kitty scavenger hunts.
And pancake-making.
New things are better with him, too.
Like a certain physical activity he’s introduced me to. One that’s brought me so much closer to him than I ever bargained for.
Love . . . I’ve fallen in love.
But if I tell him I earned an F in keeping my heart out of this deal, I know there’s a good chance I’ll lose him as a friend. Graham has firm boundaries, and I’ve never seen him let a woman as close as I want to be to him.
So close. All the way close.
And I can’t risk that. I care about him too much to excise him from my life by pushing for more than he’s willing to give.
My chest hurts, and a lump forms in my throat. The lump threatens to turn into something more intense, but I swallow it down.
I’m keeping my chin up and my head in the beautiful now, not the uncertain future. When I look back on this magical week, at least I’ll know I soaked it all in, from the first kiss, to hand-holding at the skating rink, to the moment we say goodbye.
Too bad there’s no class that can prepare me to let him go. Of that, I’m sure.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Graham
The day is passing too fast. Way too fucking fast.
I want to slow time. Or pull a Groundhog Day, wake up tomorrow, and live this day all over again, just like Bill Murray in the movie, but without the existential angst.
The more I get of CJ without the “just friends” wall that used to stand between us, the more I want of her. She’s like mint chocolate chip ice cream. I could eat a gallon of her without stopping.
A part of me wants to tell her that as we stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge. I want to tell her that her smile makes me hopeful in a way I’ve never been hopeful before, and that having her hand in mine makes me feel like the luckiest bastard on this bridge.
But you don’t say those things to a friend you’re teaching how to screw.
CJ didn’t come to me with a seven-day plan for me to get seven kinds of attached to her. And if I tell her that’s happened, I’ll risk messing up our friendship forever. She made it clear that this was a sex deal, and I can’t let the pancake haze or the skating mojo trick me into thinking she wants more, too.
I want this woman in my life, and I won’t take a chance at losing her. Some of her is better than none. I don’t want to let her go tomorrow, but I suppose I have to.
CJ sighs happily, looking at the endless sky above us. “This day is perfect. This sky is perfect. It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? Like a painting.”
“Yes, this is a perfect day. Every hour. Every minute.” I squeeze her hand as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, ambling along beside tourists posing for selfies in front of the skyline.
My eyes catch CJ’s, and a slow, wicked smile curves her lips. “What are you thinking?” she asks.
My shoulders tense as answers rattle through my brain.
You.
More.
Let’s keep doing this.
I’m falling for you.
I part my lips, tempted to throw caution to the wind and blurt out any or all of the above. Tell her that I need her to enroll for another semester of lessons because I’m not anywhere close to ready to let her go.
But I’ve never said those words before, so I fall back on old habits, waving a dismissive hand. “Just thinking about Monday.”
She nods knowingly. “Ah, the board meeting. Of course.”
But that’s not why I’m thinking of Monday at all.
We’re quieter as we finish our walk, and the air cools off rapidly. By the time we make it back into Manhattan, the sun is sinking behind the horizon, leaving a bitter wind in its wake. I call a car service—Gary isn’t working this weekend—and CJ and I wait inside a coffee shop till a black town car pulls up five minutes later.
Once inside, I say hello to the driver then raise the partition, taking CJ’s hands in mine to warm them up. I rub my palms against hers.
When she lifts her face and meets my eyes, my heart beats faster.
“Hey, you,” she says softly. “I had so much fun today.”
“Me, too. The best time.”
“I’ll miss this,” she whispers, and with those words something inside my chest cracks. It’s out of nowhere, but not unexpected.
It’s been happening all week long. Since she approached me at brunch. Since the night at the St. Regis. Since she settled into my home.
But it was simmering beneath the surface well before that. When I look back on the last two years, this woman has been here, right beside me, every step of the way. She’s seen me at the toughest times and the greatest times.
We’ve endured loss together, and now, somehow, we’ve found ourselves on the other side of grief and in each other’s arms.
And when I look into her eyes, that’s where I want to be. With her.
I drop my forehead to hers and whisper her name. It’s all I can say. I don’t know how to give voice to anything more than this. I never have. I’ve never felt this. I’ve never fallen so hard, so fast, and so truly for a woman.
All I know is how to touch her, so I use a language I’m fluent in, pressing my lips gently to hers in a tender kiss that I hope tells her what I can’t speak aloud. She has to feel it, too, has to know that what’s happening between us is worth investing so much more than seven days.
I move my hands under her shirt then down her yoga pants, peeling them off. “I want to watch you ride me in the car.”
A wicked grin spreads on her face. “Is this a lesson in seduction?”
I shake my head adamantly. “No. It’s not a lesson. It’s what I want. It’s all I want. You’re all I want.”
“You’re all I want, too.”
I push down my jeans, find a condom in my wallet, and roll it down my length as the car weaves through Saturday evening traffic.
Nervousness flashes in her eyes as she glances at the window.
“No one can see us,” I reassure her.
She nods then holds my face. “And I don’t care if they do.”
My heart thumps hard. She’s become so daring. Or maybe she was all along. Maybe she just needed someone to turn the key, to unlock her. God, how I want to be the only one who has that key.
But I will savor every second of her right now as I bring her down on me.
A sharp intake of breath.
Her wetness.
Her arms around my neck.
Her lips on my jaw.
My hands on her body.
Her taste on my tongue.
She moves on me, and I push up into her, and we engage in a time-honored Manhattan tradition—getting it on in the back of a town car.
Only it hardly feels like getting it on.
It feels like coming together.
Like making love.
Like being as close as I can be to the woman who’s opened my heart.
That’s what she’s done. She’s taught me something so much more vital than what I’ve shown her.
She’s taught me how it feels to fall in love.
Chapter Twenty-Three
CJ
After the past week, I thought I knew what making love felt like. But just now in the car, with Graham’s breath in my lungs and his heart beating in sync with mine and every kiss feeling like a confession that he feels the way I feel . . .
I’ve never been so close.
So deep.
So completely in harmony with another person.
I know he feels it, too.
> At least, I strongly suspect that he does.
I suspect it enough to climb up onto the high dive, wiggle my fingers in the rare air up here, where the wind is wild and full of possibilities, and seriously consider taking a leap into the great unknown.
As soon as Graham closes the door behind us and flips on the lights in his apartment, moving into the kitchen to fetch the mountain of take-out menus from the drawer, I draw a deep breath, turn my courage up to maximum strength, and say, “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents.”
He looks up from rifling through the menus, his brows raised. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Well, my mom died when I was so young, I don’t remember what her relationship with my dad was like.” I keep my tone casual as I wander to the island, crossing my arms on top. “And then Dad married Betty, and that’s a total circus. I mean, I know they care about each other, but he literally does anything my stepmother tells him to do. It’s like he got a lobotomy along with that wedding ring.”
Graham snorts. “Well, Betty is a pretty hot number. Better men than your dad have been sucked into a siren’s sex vibe.”
“Gross.” I make a gagging sound, and Graham laughs.
“Old people do it, too, baby. Or so I hear, when my mom has a few too many hot toddies on Christmas Eve and overshares about her last ski trip with the old man.” He holds up two brightly colored menus. “Thai food from the spicy curry place, or the place with the killer summer rolls?”
“But that’s why I love your parents,” I say, determined not to be swept off course by food, no matter how starved I am. “They still love each other so much, even after all the years and everything they’ve been through. It makes me want to believe that love can last, even though I haven’t seen it up close in my own life.” I swallow, my tongue sweeping out to dampen my dry lips as I inch closer to the edge of that diving board, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What about you? Do you think romance can last forever?”
He pauses, shaking his head as he glances down into the drawer. “I don’t know, Butterfly. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”
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