“Anything for my star student,” he says, dipping a piece of bread into the French toast batter.
I purse my lips, standing to grab wine glasses from the cabinet. “I don’t know if your student has learned all that much yet,” I quip.
At this, Graham pins me with a gaze over his shoulder. “Well, we’re gonna change that today.”
I feel a blush creep across my cheeks, and I focus on grabbing the wine glasses, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“Only if you want to, of course,” Graham adds, his voice so natural and casual, I wonder how he does it.
“That sounds good,” I say, but it comes out as more of a squeak.
I pour two mimosas, setting one on the counter next to Graham and then returning to the couch and taking a seat. I appreciate what he’s doing. The campfire a few nights ago, the brunch this morning. He’s trying to make the whole situation more natural, letting things come organically. And honestly, it feels better than trying to force it like we’d done initially.
Even so, it doesn’t fully eradicate the nerves.
Hence, me guzzling my mimosa over here.
When Graham finally manages to finish the French toast—after a few failed attempts—he carries two plates over to the couch, handing me one as he sits beside me. I don’t have a formal dining table; my apartment is so small that it was either that or a desk.
“Wow, actually looks good,” I say, taking the plate.
“You’re welcome,” Graham retorts.
I grin at him before taking a bite. My eyes widen. “Okay, Mr. I’ve-Never-Made-French-Toast-Before.”
His eyes light up. “Good?”
I nod, and he opens his mouth, just as surprised as me. “Fuck yeah,” he mutters, taking a bite of his own. He makes a show of rolling his eyes back into his head and moaning. “Ugh, yeah, I’m good at this.”
I snort, shaking my head. We eat our brunch, chatting about life and work, and eventually Graham asks, “How’s the book coming along? Any progress?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I sent a section to my agent earlier in the week, and she replied basically saying the sex scene needs work.” I grimace.
“Read it to me,” Graham says immediately, and I almost choke on my last bite of toast.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
He smirks. “Read me the scene. I wanna know whether to agree with your agent or not.”
“I’m not reading you the sex scene I wrote!” I’m not exactly sure why, but this somehow feels even more intimate than actually having sex with him. Of course, it’s not—I know that. But … just, no.
“Come on,” Graham presses. “It can’t be that bad. I promise it can’t be worse than any sex sceneI’dever write.”
I simply glare at him.
He raises an eyebrow. “It might even help us figure out what specific areas you need …lessonsin.”
My face is the color of a tomato, and I don’t need to look in a mirror to know that. I turn away, unable to look at him. He might be right. It could actually be helpful in figuring out where my blind spots are. Besides, I’m a professional writer. It’s not like it’s complete shit or anything. And, I have pretty much committed to doing everything within my power to successfully write this book. I mean, the project—and more importantly, the payout—depends on it.
“Fine,” I mutter, standing and crossing the room to my desk, sitting down and opening my laptop. I refuse to look at Graham, but by his silence, I can deduce that he’s afraid I’ll change my mind if he opens his mouth.
I pull up the document, find the sex scene draft, and take a deep breath.
God, what am I doing?
“Our clothes fall in a pile on the floor,” I start, feeling my face redden even more. “Parker looks me up and down. His throbbing member stands upright—”
A barely audible snort has me halting and throwing a glare over my shoulder. “What?”
