At the sound, Pickles hops into my lap, and I scoop him into my arms, squeezing him and planting kisses atop his head. “I didit, Pickles!” I exclaim, but he only accepts my attention for a few more moments before hopping away.
In the end, it was all worth it. Mostly.
While I might have spent a few nights crying myself to sleep over Graham, I’m chalking it up to a learning experience. One that gave me the ability to write a damn good sex scene, and to know to be a bit more cautious with my heart in the future. Both good lessons.
One a little harder than the other, but … fine.
I’m still trying to ignore the twinge in my chest every time I think about Graham—which happens much too often.
Speaking of that twinge … I get up, cross my apartment to my kitchen, and pull a bottle of champagne from the shelf. Someone had given it to me as a birthday present last year, and now seems like a pretty good chance to celebrate. Who knows? Maybe this book deal will lead to future ones. It’s a whole new genre for me.
I struggle with the cork for an embarrassingly long time before popping it open, sending Pickles fleeing for the hills before hesitantly slinking back in a few minutes later.
I pour myself a glass, toast the empty room, and take a sip.
My eyes land on a pile of papers on my desk, and I cock my head in thought. Maybe …
A knock on my door startles me, and Pickles goes fleeing for cover again. I set my glass down and head to the door, glancing through the peephole. It’s late—almost eight o’clock.
And the person I see has my heart hammering in my chest and that stupid,stupidtwinge returning with a vengeance.
I suck in a breath of air, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. But I can’t just leave him out there.
I swing the door open, and Graham locks eyes with me. “Hey, Trouble,” he says softly, and fuck—that namehurts.
I consider slamming the door in his face, but before I can react, he asks, “Can I come in?”
I swallow and simply step aside, staring at the floor until I can shut the door behind him.
I hear his intake of breath, know he’s about to say something, but I interrupt, “Why are you here?” I force my eyes up to meet his, my voice steady but stern.
A mixture of emotions flash through his eyes at my tone—surprise, hurt, resignation. But I don’t waver. If anything, it makes me angrier.
“I thought it wasn’t a good idea to see each other anymore,” I parrot his words back at him. “I thought we were going to pretend like this never happened and go back to—to nothing.” I wave my hands in the air.
Graham opens his mouth to speak, takes a small step forward. “We were."
“Then why are you here?” I nearly yell, feeling the familiar lump at the back of my throat. Shit, shit, shit. I shake my head. “I can’t move on if you’re …here.”
Graham is silent for a moment, and then, softly, he says, “Then don’t move on.”
I flick my now tear-filled gaze up to his, incredulous. “What?” I whisper. “Why would you—”
But my words disintegrate as Graham spans the distance between us and sinks to both knees, his blue eyes gazing up at me. I stare down at him, mouth still open, blinking. “Don’t move on, Trouble,” he repeats, and his hands move to the backs of my bare thighs, right below my lounge shorts, holding me.
I suck in a shaky breath at his proximity, at the look in his eyes, at … whatever the fuck he’s saying right now.
Graham swallows. “Delilah, I was just supposed to be your first stop before moving on and finding someone so much better, someone you deserve. That was the whole point, right? You useme and cast me aside.” He flashes a grin, one I would have found annoying months ago and attractive weeks ago. Now, I’m not sure what I feel. “I thought I was doing the right thing pushing you away. Letting you go. Especially after Harrison found out.” His smile falters. “But fuck, I can’t stop thinking about you. Everything about you.” His gaze tears from mine to the spot on my thigh where his fingers meet my flesh. He squeezes gently, and he looks almost pained. “And Icannotthink about anyone else. I scroll through those stupid apps, I go to bars, and no one compares to you. No oneisyou. You’ve ruined other women for me. You’ve ruinedme.” At this, his gaze returns to mine, and my breath hitches.
Everything I wanted to yell at him, everything I wanted to say, shrivels up inside of me. Because Graham Whitaker on his knees before me is a sight unlike any other. And I’m the one who put him there.Iruined him.
“You asked if I’ve ever been in love,” he murmurs. “The answer is once—and it’s with you.”
That twinge in my chest is back, only it’s not hurting anymore. The lump in my throat is still there, only I think I’m crying for a completely different reason now.
Graham leans forward to press his lips to my upper thigh, soft, slow, tender. “I know I’m not good enough for you, Delilah,” he breathes, his eyes never leaving mine, “but I’m begging you to love me anyway.”
A soft whimper escapes my throat, and I sink to my knees as well, taking his face in my hands. “Graham Whitaker, if you ever say you’re not good enough for anything ever again, I’m going to sic Pickles on you.”
