Chapter 11. GRAHAM

Chapter 11

GRAHAM

The first shoot is in the studio—the layout: a stylized schoolroom. Everyone is made up, hair is runway-model-styled, and the clothes are exclusive labels—fitted to us with pins and clips. If people got a 360-view of us, we’d all look a hell of a lot sillier.

Like the shoot in Austin, the majority of pics are Reid and Emma, separate or together. Emma’s hair is teased and coiffed and I can tell by the set of her mouth and the way she holds her head that she hates it. Her eyes are darkly lined and shadowed, her lips filled in, and she looks closer to twenty-eight than eighteen. I know she hates this, too, though she looks beautiful. Not as beautiful as she did this morning when I woke up to her face snuggling against my chest, but beautiful in a different way—aggressively sexy. The photographer has her biting on the string of pearls around her neck, invoking the memory of her nipping my earlobe last night.

I’ve never in my life gone over so many sports statistics in my head so frequently. I didn’t know I knew so many sports statistics.

Batting averages for Jose Reyes become unnecessary mental fodder a few minutes later, when Reid joins Emma and I’m trying to psyche myself for the positions in which they’re about to be placed. They’ve put him in a navy pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt and loose red tie. Next to him, Emma’s outfit is an elegant compliment—a very short, very tight, strapless red dress, which she hitches up at the bodice between shots until the photographer’s assistant pins it tighter down her back.

Why do photographers insist on putting her in his lap? The guy from Vanity Fair had her wrapping her legs around him, though her posture screamed how uncomfortable she was doing it. Now, she perches on his thighs with his hands splayed at her waist, and then he leans her back like he’s about to kiss her. My entire body is rigid with irritation. The audible photographer instructions would negate this if I wasn’t imagining—if I didn’t know—that they’ve done this before, in private. All illusions that I’m keeping these deliberations under control are shattered when Brooke leans closer, her brow knit, and whispers, “You okay? ”

I nod, failing at pretending to be unconcerned as Reid pulls Emma up and turns her so that she’s facing out from him, her legs straddling one of his. His arms are wrapped around her, his head on her bare shoulder, their faces jammed together as the photographer hops around, babbling words like sexy and hot and baby. Is this photo shoot for a PG-13 movie, or an ad for high-priced escort services?

Emma’s eyes find me and her gaze immediately falls to my thigh, where Brooke’s hand sits. She stares, puzzled, her brows furrowing until the photographer asks her in an annoyed whine why she’s frowning and she wrenches her eyes from my leg.

I’m smoldering from my head to my toes, watching Reid’s hands move over her body like they belong there, and she’s annoyed that Brooke’s hand sits passively on my leg.

I suppose one could argue that there’s no photographer ordering the placement of Brooke’s hand. Removing it to her own knee, I shoot up and walk to the back corner where bottles of water and snacks are located. Grabbing a bottle and twisting the cap from it, I wish I could just pour it over my head. It’s not that I don’t trust her. I don’t trust him. And I don’t trust his history with her.

“Hey, ” Brooke says, appearing next to me, one hand on my back, stroking down. I take a deep breath, her touch calming me. “What’s the matter? ”

I shake my head and laugh once, turning and looking down at her with a grim smile. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I just really hate photo shoots. The makeup. The crap in my hair. The clothes. ” I gesture to the black suit that screams either “church” or “funeral, ” depending on your mood. Anyone could guess mine right now—at least Brooke certainly can. I hope it’s because she’s known me for so long and not because I’m so ridiculously transparent.

She tilts her head to the side a bit, glancing back at Emma and Reid. I don’t follow her gaze. I’m still just trying to breathe while Reid Alexander practically makes out with my girlfriend in the live version of photos millions of people will see. Many of those people already think they make an attractive couple. Against all better judgment, I glance towards them and get confirmation of this fact. They’re both beautiful. Of course they look good together. How could they not?

“Is there… something going on between you and Emma? ” Brooke asks, her LA-smile, as I call it, firmly in place.

“Why do you ask? ” I hedge, and she does that low-laugh thing, still smiling up at me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen jealous Graham before. ” She squeezes my bicep and arches a brow. “Mmm, very alpha-male. ”

When I scowl, she laughs at me again and I take a deep breath, feeling years less mature. “God, am I that obvious? ” I start to run a hand through my hair, but can’t. The styling for the shoot looks better than my Bill Collins helmet-do during filming, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, it’s untouchable. “Aauuugh, ” I say, and Brooke laughs again.

“So you and Emma, huh? ” She selects a Perrier from the ice bucket and fingers through the snacks, choosing nothing. “How long has this been going on? ”

I shake my head once. “Not long. ”

The photographer calls us for group shots, and I’m happy to end this conversation. Talking to Brooke has had a dual effect. I’m less tense, but instantly worried by the jealousy accusation. Alpha-male? Good God, no. Mom and Brynn would lecture me until my ears rang. Possessive men are at the top of their lists of to-be-scorned things. “A self-possessed man is what a psychologically healthy woman wants, ” preaches my mother, the psychologist. “Not some guy who dispenses orders and punishment—whether physical or emotional—and distrusts her every move. ”

She brought home enough codependent client stories, a few complete with stalking—two of which turned criminal—to scare my sisters away from those type of guys and scare me away from that type of girl. The type who wants—needs—the jealous boyfriend to prove she has worth. My eyes are on Emma as she talks and laughs with Jenna and MiShaun, and I know she’s not in that category. Compromising and generous, yes. Forgiving, too, I think, watching as Reid moves near her and joins the conversation.

Her response to being held too tightly would be a quick exit.

Her eyes swing to meet mine, and everything in me snaps and sings with pleasure. A slow burn begins at my core and I know it will build until we’re alone in her room again, the rest of the world shut out. There’s a line at the edge of possessive, and she makes me want to walk it. This three-second glance between us reinforces what I know. I love her. Everything else—the ins and outs of my feelings and hers in conjunction with what it all means—can be deciphered in due time. I love her. That’s all that matters, and in this moment, that’s all I am.

***

Brooke

Well, shit. This is more serious than I thought. He may actually believe he’s in love with her.

I’ve put far too many years into this relationship to lose him like this, to her. I care about Graham deeply, but if he pairs up with Emma, what we have will be over. For some reason, I know this. My intuition is screaming it at me—that I’m losing him. I could be what he wants. I could be sweeter and softer with him. Not so hard. God, I’m tired of being so uncompromisingly hard all the time.

If I backpedal and stop this now, linger forever off to the side as his friend and confidant, I could convince Emma that I’m not a threat. I could hold onto his friendship, which means more to me than he’ll ever know.

But, no. Friendship isn’t enough. I want him. All of him. He’s exactly the type of guy I need, and all I have to do is get Emma out of the way and convince Graham that I can be what he needs. Somewhere between Reid and myself there’s enough deviousness to pull this off. And if this has to be an all-or-nothing battle, then so be it. No time to be squeamish. I’ve lied my ass off for worse causes than landing the perfect guy.