Where You Are (12 page)

 They call it
falling in love
because it’s less like stepping and more like tripping. Tripping is the part where you’re still trying to remain upright. I hadn’t fought it with Zoe. I just fell right in, head first. With Emma, I fought it all the way down, and now, I’ve lost.

Emma:  Are you sleeping here?

Me:  Not a good idea tonight

She didn’t answer for several minutes, during which I called myself all sorts of idiot, because that was an open invitation, as was the progressively unreserved look in her eyes all evening. I only wanted to be sure of her feelings, not make her wonder about mine.

Me:  This has nothing and everything to do with how much i want you. If i was in your bed tonight…after the alcohol…i want you. Trust me.

Emma:  I kind of feel like a hussy now

Me:  NO, that isn’t what i mean. It’s me. It would be too difficult. Tomorrow night, no drinking, and i can be good.

Emma:  Well dammit you should have told me this before margaritas. I would have practiced my just say no. To alcohol that is. :(

Me:  God how do you make me laugh through this. Hussy, indeed. I’m one nudge from coming to your room and ravishing you to hell.

Emma:  I want you to

Me:  OMG emma…

Emma:  I’m sorry

Two rings. Three rings.
Please don’t go to voicemail
was running through my head. She answered talking. “Graham, I’m sorry, really, I—”

“
No
, please don’t be sorry. That’s why I’m calling you.” I lay back on my bed, eyes closed. The alcohol buzz was diminishing but not gone. “Don’t be sorry, Emma.” My voice was almost a whisper. “Do you remember those things I said I wanted to do to you?” A few of our calls and Skype conversations over the past couple of weeks had reduced both of us to mush.

Her reply was an exhalation of a pant. “Yes.”

“None of that has changed. Increased, maybe. Some of those things are looking quite tame, in fact.”

“Oh, God. I’m not even sure what that—what that means…”

I pictured her lying back on her bed exactly as I was on mine. “Yes. I
know
. Which is why we’re waiting a bit.”

“But you’re going back to New York.”

Her sulky tone made me chuckle. “Yes. And I’m coming back to LA in three weeks.”

Her sigh was faint. Not relieved, or exasperated. Just… accepting. “Okay,” she said, sounding so much like Cara when she doesn’t get her way and she knows she isn’t going to.

“I just don’t want to take advantage of you, or push you—” Lies, lies, lies—I wanted her so bad I could conjure up her scent, imagine the feel of her skin under my fingertips...

“But Graham, I’m pushing
you
.”

“Yes.” My voice is like a growl—so appropriate to the feral hunger coursing through my body. “And in three weeks, I’m going to let you. If you still want to.”

“I will.”

***

At 5:30 a.m., we meet in the lobby—which is deserted except for a bored desk clerk who gives us a disinterested once-over. Flashback to our mornings in Austin, up before everyone and heading out to run. I remember stepping out of the elevator and seeing her waiting in the lobby, or getting there first and waiting for her, looking up at the soft chime, stainless steel doors swooshing open and delivering her to the ground floor. I loved those mornings.

I hand her a thermos when she comes to stand next to me, fighting the urge to slip my arms around her and kiss her. “Ready?” I ask, and she nods. Tossing the backpack onto one shoulder, I take her hand. This is a risk, if only to cross the lobby. I don’t want her mortified over stories of multiple hookups like she was in Austin, so we have to remain a secret until after the premiere. I get that, but it still sucks. “I packed water, bagels and a blanket. I figured this morning was more about watching the sunrise and less about exercise.”

Her hand squeezes mine. “Sounds perfect.”

The Jeep is ideal for the early morning drive and the cool weather but not conducive to quiet conversation. We have to yell over the road noise to hear each other. Falling silent after a few minutes, we just hold hands and watch the street lamps start to pop off as the sky begins to lighten. I spent an hour on the Internet last night, making sure of the route to Griffith and the trail to take once we get there. The sun is already a half-orb above the horizon by the time we get to the spot I mapped out and spread the blanket.

Pressed together, we sip the coffee and watch what’s left of the sunrise. Perhaps I should say
she
watches it while I watch her. I’ve seldom been this close to her and allowed myself the pleasure of staring, of drinking her in—all the seemingly trivial details. The indistinct image of a webcam never revealed the fine blondish hairs at her temple, and the darkness of her bed hides the freckle behind her ear and the blush across her cheeks when she realizes I’m examining her.

 Leaning to her, I tell her softly, “You’re so beautiful.”

Her lashes lift as she glances into my eyes before closing hers. “No,
you
are.”

My mouth pulls up on one side. We’re a little off the beaten path, but not so far that we can’t hear people walking by, talking. “God,” one of them says, stopping just out of sight where there’s a perfect view of the sunrise. “So beautiful!”

Emma and I suppress our laughter, attempting to avoid detection. I kiss her softly. “See, he agrees with me,” I whisper.

She leans up, her hand on my jaw. “Maybe he agrees with
me
.” When she starts to giggle, I cover her mouth with mine, partly to silence her but mostly because I can’t escape the need to kiss her again.

*** *** ***

REID

It hadn’t occurred to me what a huge advantage this photo shoot is for getting Emma used to me touching her again. Not that she’s particularly responding to it. I mourn the loss of that wistful, spellbound look she had back when we first began filming
School Pride
last August, but then again the fact that she’s less affected by me makes up for it.

Yes, I’m one of those guys—more turned on by what I can’t have than anything else. When you think about it, though, how surprising is that? When getting girls is as simple as deciding that you want one—no different, really, from deciding what to have for lunch—of
course
the ones who stand out will be the ones who don’t come when called. Emma is like that pizza I can only get in one hole-in-the-wall place in the middle of Brooklyn, and nowhere else. If I lived in Brooklyn, maybe it’d be no big deal. But I live in LA, and goddamn do I hate it when I think about that pizza I can’t
have
.

We’re on some estate in the LA hills, but the backdrop is very middle of nowhere. The grounds are rustic and native, but carefully cultivated to look that way rather than just left wild. My parents would probably hate it. Our lawn looks more like it belongs in the English countryside—bordering hedgerows and shaped shrubberies and roses, etcetera. It’s impressive but sort of laughable and out of sync at the same time.

Emma is perched on the wooden-slat seat of a swing attached to a high limb of a stories-tall tree. Staring straight up through the branches, I wonder how they got the ropes attached that high—if someone climbed this tree like they might have done a hundred years ago, or if they brought in a truck with a ladder or one of those bucket things like the guys who work on telephone lines use. While the photographer reframes the shot for what feels like the hundredth time and we wait for instructions, I grip the ropes just over Emma’s hands, my pinkies grazing her index fingers.

“If we don’t get a lunch break soon, I’m going to start nibbling on
you
,” I murmur, careful not to lean too close. “I’m freaking
starving
.” Emma’s stomach growls just then, which makes both of us laugh. The photographer’s head snaps up and he starts taking shots. Damn if I’m not thinking about that pizza now. And then Emma telling me
yes
in my room that afternoon last fall, hours before everything went to hell.

“Reid, go ahead and give her a gentle push.” I pull the swing back and let her go, and she swings out and right back to me.

I’ve never tried to win a girl over by feigning friendship-only intentions, mostly because it seems counter-intuitive. Brooke’s plan isn’t infallible, but if she succeeds in getting Graham in her bed, Emma
will
be distraught. And I’ll be right there to assure her she’s desirable and provide emotional support—the sort of support everyone needs after discovering infidelity. She was attracted to me before. There’s no reason those feelings can’t be revived, with Graham out of the way. All I have to do is be patient.

Not exactly my forte.

Brooke

“Okay people!” Elevating my voice above the music and general bar noise, I clank a spoon against my daiquiri glass until everyone looks my way. “We’re here to celebrate—or mourn, depending on your interpretation of the event—the fact that our friend MiShaun has decided to take this smokin’ hot body—” I pull her up from her chair and pirouette her in a circle “—and give it to
one guy
for the rest of eternity.”

“
Booooo
,” Tadd says, hands cupped around his mouth, and everyone laughs.

“Tadd Wyler, what the hell do you care what I do with my body?” MiShaun asks him.

“I’m objecting on general principle,” he answers. Standing, he takes her hands and holds them out to her sides, scanning her curves in the tight little black dress she’s wearing. “Plus, it seems a shame to deprive the straight end of the male population of this sort of perfection.”

MiShaun shoves him back into his seat with a laugh. “The male population has mostly
been
deprived of it on
personal
principle.” Smoothing her hands down her hips and cocking one eyebrow at him, she adds, “This body is more discriminating than some
others
seated around this table.”

“Hey now,” Tadd says. “There’s no need to talk about Quinton that way.”

Details of Quinton’s on-again, off-again relationship with his childhood sweetheart, along with allegations of a few casual hookups around LA, have been plaguing him for the past month. Apparently, Mr. Hottest Up-and-Coming Star played the field too close to a designated “
on
” period, and his girlfriend—who’s close friends with his
sister
—caught wind of it and went on a tell-all rampage.
Boys.
They never learn.

“Dude!” Quinton says, shaking his head. “
Low
.”

“
Anyway
,” I say, rolling my eyes and raising my glass. “To MiShaun. May she be happy with her computer guy, and may he be freaky in hot and stimulating ways.”

MiShaun hides her face behind her hands as everyone clinks glasses.

One of the bodyguards walks up behind Reid and leans over to speak to him in a low voice, pointing to a couple of girls—women, actually—standing off to the side. They’re early twenties and hot. Not good, and no way for me to telepathically threaten him because he’s
pointedly
refusing to look in my direction. As he slides from his chair and strolls over to his drooling fans, I try not to watch too closely because I don’t want to call Emma’s attention to him.

Too late—dammit, she’s already watching him. He’s smiling that easy, sexy smile, and the women are all stupid-melty at the sight of him so close, in the flesh. One of them asks to squeeze his bicep—hello,
creepy
—and when he consents, flexing, they both coo over him.
Ugh.
Directing the bodyguard to take their phones, he poses with each of them separately and together, their arms wrapped around his torso like seaweed. And then, still grinning, he shakes hands with each of them before turning and walking back to the table.

I have to admit, I’m astonished. He didn’t pull out his phone, or jot a number on a napkin, or confer with the bodyguard to escort them back to the hotel to await his pleasure.
Nothing
.

Emma’s head leans at the slightest angle, observing him. Glancing her way as he pulls his chair out, Reid smiles at her. When Meredith asks her a question and she turns to answer, he turns those stormy blue eyes on me, one eyebrow rising in a quick non-verbal
See
?

I incline my head.
Well done
. Smug son of a bitch. I signal the waiter for another round of daiquiris for MiShaun and me, and scan everyone from my vantage point at the head of the table.

Reid sits at the opposite end, now chatting with Quinton and knocking back another Jack and Coke. Jenna sits next to Quinton, and then Graham, next to me. MiShaun is on my right, then Tadd, Emma and Meredith. My eyes shift back to Emma, who’s having a silent exchange with Graham as she sips her drink. I thought she’d ordered a Long Island iced tea, but from the looks of it, it appears she’s drinking an
actual
iced tea. And Graham is either drinking straight-up vodka on the rocks or
water
. What the hell?

“Some reason you’re going teetotaler tonight, Graham?” I smile, chin in hand. “Not planning on driving anywhere, I assume?”

His glance towards Emma and back is rapid, but not rapid enough for me to miss it. “Mmm, no, just not in the mood. I have an early flight tomorrow morning. Nothing worse than flying hungover.”

He says this as though he’s ever in his life flown hungover, which I doubt. I’ve seen Graham under the influence, but never smashed. This is just another of his always-in-control qualities—one that used to bother me, when I was in my phase of going hard and getting as trashed as humanly possible. I wanted him to join in. I didn’t see then that getting liquored up and trying to seduce him was never going to work. Graham doesn’t do drunken hookups.

Ding
.

Oh shit. Are he and Emma hooking up tonight? Is that what this is about? Is this the first time, or a repeat? This could affect my best laid plans—so to speak. I can’t imagine how to discover the answer to that question, though. Damn, damn,
damn
.