We left his mother’s house early this morning, and thanks to York, we’re at an indoor rink.
“Well, I’m trying,” I say, as York skates up to us, like the pro he is. He sends a fine mist of ice flying when he twists to a stop.
“Want to play a game?” he asks Graham.
“Yeah, right.” Graham laughs. “I think the odds are not in my favor. Besides, I’m busy.”
York smiles at me, and I still can't believe I’m actually in his presence. Not only is he the best player in the league—he’s the hottest. I know that sounds bad to downplay his skills on the ice, but obviously I don’t watch hockey because I love the game. Of course, he’s not Graham gorgeous. And it would be nice if Graham wasn’t either. Instead of clinging to his masculinity wrapped up in jeans and a black sweater, I cling to the wall. “I guess my secret is out,” I say.
“What, you’re really a professional skater?” Graham teases.
I laugh, almost losing control of my skates, but his large hands steady me. “My secret is I didn’t grow up in the snow like you all did. I’m a Florida girl.”
“I couldn’t tell.” He kisses my nose. It’s an intimate gesture that’s hard not to twist into something other than what it is—a ruse. It’s part of the act, since his family, and Trudy, are here to enjoy the show.
Lindsey and her kids fly along the ice like they were born on it. Is there anything this family is bad at? I really need some space to keep my head straight, especially after that crazy dream.
“Go scrimmage with York,” I tell him.
“You’ll be ok?”
“Yes, go spend time with him.”
Graham lands a soft kiss on my forehead and then skates away. I manage to get myself off the rink and out of my skates without incident, and find a seat where I can be a voyeur. I watch as Graham and his cousin pass a hockey puck back and forth between their hockey sticks. It’s just me and my mom—no cousins, no siblings, no dad—and we don’t do this whole family thing. This is all new to me. It’s all so busy, and loud. Yet, I’m finding myself loving every minute of it.
After the ice skating, we head back to Graham’s to relax before dinner.
“I have some business things to take care of before we leave,” Graham informs me when we arrive at his parent’s house. “Will you be ok on your own?”
“Of course,” I assure him. It’s actually nice he seems concerned, but again, as much distance as possible from him is probably best, lest I forget the purpose of this arrangement. “I’m just going to grab something to drink.”
Wine, preferably. He leaves me with a promise to be back soon, and I watch him ascend the staircase before unrooting myself from the foyer. When I enter the kitchen, Eleanor stands at the granite counter filling a glass of Chardonnay to the rim. I suppress the urge to bolt. Maybe, just maybe, I can get her to like me. I don’t know why this is so important to me, but for some reason, I feel if she likes me, maybe it will take some of the pressure off Graham. I mean, it’s obvious why he asked me here. His mother has probably been arranging his marriage to Trudy since his birth.
Such different worlds we grew up in. Hell, my mother would be happy if I just brought a guy home...ever. It’s not for lack of looking that I’ve not found anyone. Believe me, I’ve tried to find true love. After a while, it’s time to stop the dreams of fairytales and start getting a plan in place for your life. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I don’t need a man to make my dreams come true by asking me to marry him and live happily ever after. Sure, it would be nice to have that special someone to share things with, but I’m not going to settle just to say I have someone. I‘ve never felt that undeniable spark—until Graham. On that scary thought, maybe I need the whole bottle of wine.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask, moving across the room.
She looks taken aback for just a second, before masking it behind a smile. “Not at all.” She slides another glass from a fancy contraption beneath the cabinet. “How was the rink?”
I tell her about how skating just isn’t for me—I’m more of a coffee and fire kind of girl—while she pours. She stops three quarters from the top. “Oh, don’t be shy, fill her up.”
She laughs. “I can see why Graham likes you so much.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re different from anyone he’s ever dated in the past. Most women like what he likes.”
I don’t know if I like this answer, but I smile as she slides the now full glass to me.
To seem cultured, I breathe it in, before taking a sip. “Well, if I didn’t have my own thoughts and opinions, I wouldn’t be me.” I take another sip. I’d like to think differences can be appreciated. “Christmas, for example, he’s not a fan. I can’t pretend to not like Christmas to please him.”
She leans back against the counter, looking very philosophical. “Sometimes in life, you do have to pretend though. For the greater good.” Don’t I know it. “Do you love him?”
Her direct question makes me wonder if she can see right through this transparent sham and knows I don’t. I like him, a lot, but I don’t love him. I mean, I could easily fall for a man like Graham. So far, he pretty much has it all: personality, brains, and great bedroom skills. Like otherworldly on the last one. And now that I think about it, why am I not rushing to love a man like Graham?
“Yes, I do.” I’m in love with the idea of being in love with a man like Graham, so, even though I feel guilty as hell, I’m not technically lying.
Her hazel eyes watch me over the rim of her glass as she drinks. “Since you’re going to be a part of the family, why don’t you take Thursday as your entertainment day.”
I'm not sure what that is, but I’m probably supposed to know. As terrified as I am at this prospect, I feel like this is some type of honor being bestowed upon me. One I can’t refuse.
“I’d love to,” I agree, feeling like this is becoming way more than I thought it would be when Graham and I made our deal. I’m just going to stay as far away from him as possible.
“Great.” She drains her glass. “We’re going out for dinner in an hour, so you should probably get ready.”
“Well, that’s what I’m doing,” I mumble to myself before taking a large gulp, as she exits.
How am I supposed to entertain these people? Instead of finishing off the entire bottle, I head to my room for a quick shower and dress in a mid-thigh cranberry sweater paired with black tights and boots. Because I don’t want to make a faux pas and be late, I slap on mascara and gloss in a hurry and quickly descend the staircase to find Graham standing in the entryway, looking like a GQ model in dark jeans and a slate grey sweater.
“Let’s go before anyone wants to ride with us,” he says, taking my hand and leading me quickly out of the house to a black SUV.
“Listen, we need to talk,” I tell him as he backs out of the driveway.
“Uh oh,” he says, looking over at me.
“I’ve been assigned an entertainment day. What does that even mean?”
“Really?” He looks over a bit incredulous. “My mother has a tradition of assigning everyone a special day to come up with things to do. She either likes you or is testing you. “
“Well I’m not sure I’ll pass.”
“Something tells me you will.” His hand lands on my thigh, giving me reassurance with a gentle squeeze. “Whatever you need let me know.”
What I need is to be able to resist the lure of his hand caressing my thigh. “We don’t have traditions like these. Can’t you just make cookies like regular people?”
“You’re turning me on,” he says in a husky voice, trailing his hand higher.
“What? How?”
“Talking about cookies.” His fingers inch into the zone, running along my seam.
“Talking about cookies turns you on?” That’s a strangest fetish, but the thought of him being turned on, turns me on.
“Cookies,” the pressure he touches me with intensifies, “make me
think how I only got a small taste of your pussy. I need more.”
My face is on fire at the casual and unapologetic way he says such naughty things. And then I can’t help myself, I test my dirty talk skills in a breathy voice as his thumb presses against my clit. “You like the cookie warm?”
“Fuck, you’re turning me on more. I’m hard over here.” He pulls over in a wooded area, and cuts the engine. “I’m starting to crave you, Zoe.”
“I already do crave you.” And I do. So bad. I grab his face with my hands and devour his lips.
“I need to feel your tight little pussy, right now.”
“What about dinner?” I say as he unlatches my seatbelt.
“Fuck it,” he answers.
I’m so turned on, I can’t think straight, and after a wrangle of removing my tights, I climb into his lap. He moans as he slides in deep, filling me completely. We’re loud and feral. Like wild beasts, unable to get close enough to one another.
He pumps his dick inside me, and it feels too good. I love having sex with this man. This can’t be normal. His hands fondle my breasts, and I lean my head back, eyes closed, and bite my bottom lip.
“Yes, don’t stop,” I say, riding him faster.
He keeps thrusting, and we rock against each other as our moans escalate. “Zoe, do you feel what you do to me?”
I keep grinding, seeking release from his torture. And then his fingers massage my clit, his thumb tracing circles against it, and I can’t hold back.
“I feel you,” he pants out. “Come on me.”
All my built-up angst explodes, and I tug at Graham’s dark hair as he slams into me, hitting that treasure spot that only he’s ever reached. Before my orgasm is done, he sends me into another with his ragged breaths and soft pleas of how good it feels and how he’s so close.
His head falls back against the seat, and I bring my lips to his. “I’m coming,” he groans.
As I hold his gaze, my hands cupping his beautiful face, I want to tell him things. I want to tell him how good he makes me feel. How it’s never been this good before. And how I don’t care about the soap deal. But instead, I kiss him through his orgasm. And when it’s all over, he kisses my fingers. “I like doing that with you.”
“I like the way you do it.” I smile.
He laughs, then is serious once again. “No, I mean I really like it.”
“I really like it too.”
I like it way too much. It’s something I could easily become addicted to and not have the willpower to quit. But, I can’t ignore the fact, he didn’t say he liked me. So, I can’t let multiple orgasms cloud my judgement and twist this into something more. Because that’s all this is—sex. If I tell myself that enough times, maybe it will stay true.
Chapter 9
Graham
“I should just trek off into the damn forest, and keep going,” my father grumbles. “We have enough money to buy a tree so why am I chopping one down every year?”
“Because it’s tradition,” I mimic my mother’s words. Every year, we do this, and every year dad complains and then complies.
“Yeah, well, so is turkey, doesn’t mean I’m going out to shoot it.” And then he gets to the real reason he woke me at the crack of dawn when he arrived to hike into the woods for a Christmas tree search. “You’re going to need a prenup if you really plan on marrying this girl.”
Even though our engagement is fake, I’m offended for Zoe. Having her sign a piece of paper essentially expecting it to fail wouldn’t be in the cards, if this were real. I don’t do failure.
“We’re good,” I say, stalking away to scope out trees while he continues to advise me of the dangers of not having an agreement in writing while he surveys our choices of pines.
“Listen,” he says, “I don’t care who you marry. Your mom has her heart set on Trudy because of what she brings to the table.”
“Yeah, well, she can sit at the table with her then. I’ve got what I want.” I don’t want to be at the table, I want to be coming hard in the car because I’m with someone who makes me forget about the table. Zoe has my head all fucked up. Two nights ago, after I took her back here, and kissed her goodnight, I couldn’t sleep. At All. She’s avoided me since that night, and I’m sure she’s compartmentalized all of this into not mixing business with pleasure. And she’s right; I shouldn’t mix business with pleasure. But, it’s too fucking late. Now I’m trying to not mix pleasure with feelings. I’m not supposed to have feelings. And getting feelings for Zoe is not what I need right now. It’s not what should be happening. But guess what? It kind of is happening. Maybe after we break off this engagement we can go on an actual date.
“Up here, Graham,” my father calls to me. “Found one.”
I trod through snow, over to where he stands, eying a gorgeous Douglas Fir with full branches.
“Ah yeah, it’s perfect.”
We get to work chopping it down and then tie it with rope atop the red sled my father brought along. No one is stirring when we arrive back at the house, and my father and I set the tree up in the living room.
“A real tree,” Zoe exclaims as she comes into the living room. She takes a deep, calming breath, and lets it out slowly. “I’ve always wanted one, but my mother always does a fake tree.”
“Oh, there’s nothing fake when it comes to me.” Except our relationship, and that thought stings when my mind goes there.
“It’s really beautiful,” she says, stepping closer to examine it.
But what’s really beautiful this early morning is her in something as simple as jeans and a cowl necked black sweater. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, emphasizing the beauty of her face. Is it bad that all I want for Christmas is Zoe? I want her wrapped in a big red bow, that I can undo and use to tie her to my bed. She’s smart, and sexy. And she’s ...cute. Have you ever met a girl who’s just plain cute? Every smile, every little glint in her eyes, is just cute.
“I’m Douglas, Graham’s dad,” my father introduces himself. “Nothing better than a real tree. Chop one down every year.”
I give him a little side eye as she shakes his hand and compliments his tree finding skills.
“It’s great to meet you. I better go find Eleanor so she can inspect it.”
When we’re alone, I curl my arms around her from behind as she continues to marvel at the tree. There’s no one to pretend around, but I still can’t let go of her. Truth of the matter is, I don’t want to let her go. I like holding her close.
The smell of warm vanilla takes over my senses, and I nuzzle my nose into the crook of her neck, smiling as I kiss along her smooth skin.
A cough behind us breaks us apart before I can get any further. We both spin around and come face-to-face with my mother.
“Hey, Mom, didn’t see you there. Like the tree?”
“It’s perfect,” she says. “Trudy brought breakfast.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not hungry.”
My mother moves closer, whispering, “Graham, it’s bad manners to not acknowledge her effort.”
“It’s actually kind of bad manners to have her here with my fiancée.”
My mother stops short, because she knows I’m right.
“It’s ok,” Zoe says, placing her hand on my arm, attempting to defuse the situation. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”
Her eyes plead with me to agree, so I do. Ten minutes later, I wish I hadn’t. Trudy brought the cavalry of breakfast. Catered eggs, French toast, bacon, sausage, and anything else you could want fill the chafing dishes in the dining room. Blueberry and chocolate chip pancakes are on display complete with flavored syrups. I’m expecting a damn omelet station, but to my surprise there isn’t one, Trudy explains this is supposed to be an ‘intimate’ breakfast.
Intimate, yeah, sure.
The crystal chandelier in the dining room twinkles over the linen draped table as the clatter and clang of the cutlery surrounds us. I’m not even sitting near Zoe,
which kind of pisses me off. I’m wedged between York and Trudy. It’s as if everyone is working against us in their rush to the buffet style set up along the wall.
“How’s resort living?” York asks, shoveling eggs into his mouth.
“I’m sure he loves being away from everyone, hiding up there in the mountains,” Trudy says, holding her glass of breakfast sangria close to her lips. “You’ve always been a bit antisocial.”
“Actually, York,” I stress, “it’s going great. I’m just about to add Zoe’s soaps in each cabin.” I give a little wink to Zoe from across the table.
“Soap?” Trudy says as if I said shit.
“Zoe makes soaps,” Lindsey offers, when I don’t make any effort to answer.
“That can’t be cost effective.” Trudy lowers her glass, her eyes narrowing on me. “How much are you probably paying for soaps now? Probably like three cents a bar.” Trudy won’t let up.
“Something like that.”
Trudy’s blue eyes glance over at Zoe, and we have the attention of the whole table now. “I’m sure Zoe can’t beat that cost, and even if she did she’d lose out.”
And listen, Trudy is one hundred fucking percent correct—I’m taking a loss by bringing on Zoe’s soaps.
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice low and deep, demanding not to be questioned.
Because that resort is my resort. And if I want to pay extra for soaps, then I fucking will. It’s not going to make or break me. And there’s not a damn thing anyone can say about it.
Zoe’s face falls flat, and I try to telepathically tell her everything is ok.
“Zoe,” Trudy turns her attention onto her, “you understand that’s not cost effective, right? You understand business?”
I don’t give a fuck if Trudy questions me all night about my business practices, but don’t fuck with Zoe. Leave her alone.
“Trudy, drop it already. I didn’t come all the way here to talk business over the holiday. I’m here to spend time with my family, which by the way you aren’t a part of.”
“It’s ok,” Zoe says, focusing her gaze on Trudy. “I’m sure you understand you could’ve gotten this breakfast at a much cheaper price at the grocery store, but you wanted something premium as a luxury for the people enjoying it. Even though it’s not cost effective.”
Graham Page 5