Graham explodeswhen we’re alone back in his car. “You are the fucking worst.”
“Seriously? Your family loved me,” I slur, holding my to-go pastry.
“Why did you even come back?”
I take a big bite of the lemon-filled croissant. Crumbs spray all over the car. Graham curses.
“You have my dog, remember?” I stuff another bite in my mouth. “God, those fancy places never give you enough to eat.”
“What’s your deal? What are you up to?” He’s suspicious.
“Drive.” I point.
Graham swears again.
“The server guy was right—I have had way too much to drink. The mimosas were really strong.”
“Really, the mimosas? You’re sure it’s not the cognac you dumped into your ginger ale slushie? It smelled revolting, by the way. That was expensive cognac.”
“Then you should have swung those big billionaire balls around and made them bring me more mimosas.” I hiccup.
“You had too much to drink. I can’t have you drunk around my parents. They already didn’t like you.”
“What?” I screech at him, crumbs spraying all over his suit. “Your parents liked me. Parentslikeme. I’m the good girl. The one they know their sons aren’t going to get pregnant.”
“Why—because the thought of touching you is so off-putting?”
I feel like I’m going to vomit. Right. Thefakerelationship brunch. The way he pulled out my chair and helped me into my coat and kept his arm possessively at my waist. Fake. Because guys who look like Graham Richmond can have any girl in New York they want. And he doesn’t want me.
He’s tense.
I cross my arms. “Just take me home.”
He’s quiet. The corners of his mouth turn down. “I can’t do that right now. Not yet.”
I squint at him.
“Then where are we going?”
“Back to the penthouse,” he says quietly.
Oh. Right. Because that’s his home and my prison.
Clouds are blowing in—whenwe get back, I can see them from the massive windows in the penthouse living room that overlook Central Park.
“I’ll show you to your quarters,” he states.
I look longingly out the window.
“I should care that I’m about to be locked back up in your closet and never see the sunshine again,” I tell him, trying to swallow the champagne burp, but I’m so drunk that I don’t even care right now. “You need to get what you need out of there, because I’m probably going to puke. I’m not feeling so hot.”
“You’re not staying in my closet.”
“Oh, is the kidnapper rewarding me for good behavior?”
His hand tightens on the banister. “I just don’t want you in my space anymore.”
Alarm cuts through the alcohol fog.
