Page 132 of Rush of Jealousy

I walk out into the living room and scan through some of the decor magazines that Graham collected for me to use to help make this living space more my own. I find the storage sections in a few of the more modern catalogs and start dog-earing pages and circling my favorite organizers that would be great in my sewing room. I need places to put fabric, buttons, thread, and patterns.

Everything is so expensive but definitely looks to be high-quality. I grab a sour peach ring from the plastic bag of candy and pop it into my mouth. I am chewing the last bite when I feel Graham’s lips at the back of my neck.

“Hey you,” I say, turning around on the sofa to see him.

He points to some of my circled items. “Find anything good?”

“Too many things. That’s the problem. I can’t narrow down what I want.”

“Just pick the most expensive item. Then you’ll know it’s the best.”

I scoff at him. Is he for real? There is no way that is any indication of something being better than other items—especially when the retailers are completely different.

He shrugs and smiles. “Just order a couple of things and if you don’t like them, we can schedule a return pickup. No big deal.”

This is something I am not going to get used to no matter how hard I try. The ability to snap fingers and have people come running to make everything better is so foreign. It is like he has the world at his fingertips with people just waiting to help make his life easier.

“Want to go out for dinner?” he asks, sitting beside me and grabbing my legs for his lap.

“Not when you are rubbing my feet like that,” I say with a laugh. “Feels so freaking good.”

“I can continue after dinner. But we need to eat.”

I nod my head. “We can go out. But you pick the place. I don’t have a preference.”

“I have the perfect idea.”

I freshen up my face and hair, as well as change into a more suitable outfit of tights and a sweater dress. I slip on a pair of knee-high boots and follow Graham out the door into the elevator.

I look up at him. “Where are we going?”

He smiles. “It’s a surprise.”

It takes us ten minutes to arrive at a little tavern in the heart of downtown Portland called Olive Oil. The corner restaurant has tinted windows, and the lighting inside is dim and intimate. We seat ourselves and look at worn cardboard menus that are propped up on the table between the saltshaker and the metal cup that holds rolled up napkins with eating utensils inside.

I scan over the listed items and am surprised at how small the menu actually is. It makes me think that all the food here is extra good since the venue has had a chance to master the favorites.

“The olive oil bread here is so delicious. We have to get some.”

“Sure,” I agree. “I think I want soup too.”

He nods his head and looks down at his menu. “We can get one of the market salads with shrimp and share if you want. And a small meat and cheese plate.”

I excitedly agree. My stomach is hungrier than I thought. Skipping lunch probably was not the best idea, because now I am starving.

Graham pushes back his metal chair and goes up to the register to place the order. Several men in business suits line the bar with a smattering of a couple of females sitting in groups in the table area. The layout is small but cozy.

An iced drink is put down in front of me, and I smile at the little rubber ducky bath toy floating on top. “It’s their signature drink,” he responds with a chuckle. “Figured you would find it cute.”

I laugh. “Oh, I do. What’s in it?”

“A lot of different flavored vodkas and some sweet mix-ins.”

I take a sip and my nose bumps against the rubber ducky, making me laugh some more. The drink is delicious.

“How was your day?” I ask. “Living your best life while conquering the world?”

He leans back in his chair and takes a swig of his beer. “It was a little on the stressful side. Not every day can be a win.”

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