I go still.
Unfortunately, there is a version of stillness even siblings can hear through a phone.
Graham does not jump on it.
He does not tease.
He just waits.
Which is worse, obviously.
Because when Graham waits, he does it with the calm patience of a man who has spent his adult life letting other people talk themselves into diplomatic incidents.
“Pippa is the subject of a professional assignment,” I say eventually.
“Of course.”
“She is very good at her job.”
“I imagine she is.”
“And this is complicated.”
“I imagine that too.”
I rub a hand over my face, then remember I no longer have a beard to make the gesture feel properly thoughtful. Still annoying.
“She’s…” I stop.
There is no neat way to say it.
Sharp, but not cruel. Funny when she forgets not to be. Tired in places she hides well. Capable in a way that makes everyone around her settle. Tall, strong, steady, with dark blue eyes and a mouth that knows exactly how little it needs to move to destroy me.
And sexy.
That, too.
She is sexy in a way that has become genuinely inconvenient. Not vague hot. Not abstractly attractive. Not the sort of good-looking a man can acknowledge and then put away in a sensible mental drawer. Pippa is six kinds of physical distraction in steel-toe boots, and I have spent four days noticing things I should not be noticing at work.
Her arms when she lifts equipment.
The line of her back when she bends over a desk.
The way her thighs look in uniform trousers, which I have most certainly not thought about while trying to fall asleep.
The way she says my name when she is warning me not to do something stupid.
The way she said it after the call-out, lower and quieter, when she was making sure I was still breathing properly.
That one has been particularly unhelpful.
“She’s difficult,” I say.
Then he says, “That sounded like it took you a long time to reduce her to one word.”
“I preferred you when you were being reasonable about my article.”
“I can do more than one thing.”
