Page 87 of Rush of Jealousy

Graham joins me at the island with his half-nibbled plate. We eat in silence, except for my little moans breaking through, all over the deliciousness of the meal.

“These are really good.”

“Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.” His smile is adorable. Despite the stress, he seems younger. Lighter. I’m amazed at how quickly he can shut off his emotions, like a switch.

“Is your mom a good cook?” I have never really learned much about his family, so I see this as the perfect transition into a discussion—since he was the one who mentioned her first.

“Almost as good as my grandma, who would make everything from scratch, using the freshest ingredients. But my mom has the gift of making everything she touches look pretty. Including her food.”

My heart smiles with memories of my own grandparents. While they are no longer living—on both sides—I still have pictures of the time we spent together. To remind me of what I had, and what I want to have for my own life in the future. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I stop and think—

It is like an epiphany. I never really cared about what my future would look like, beyond having a career, but here I am wanting the same things that I grew up seeing with the generation before me. It’s like my entire universe shifted with a new outlook on life.

I went through a long period of time thinking I had nothing to live for, but now I can see that maybe all of the things I once thought were impossible are really just at a fingertips’ reach.

I want the connection with someone and a home with a foundation for making memories and traditions built on love. My heart that I thought was incapable of that level of emotion was just scared of another crack in it.

“I can tell something heavy is on your mind,” Graham says, frowning.

I fake a smile. “Are your parents in Portland?”

His eyes twitch but he doesn’t apply pressure with another question directed back at me. “They spend most of the year in Hillsboro and the coldest months usually in their Florida home.”

Must be nice to have multiple homes. I imagine his entire family comes from wealth. It is easier to make more money when you have a chunk to invest. I know being an investigative journalist will not bring in a hefty paycheck, but at least the work will feel rewarding. It just seems so out of reach right now. Like I am running a race that has no course.

“That sounds nice.”

“Although this past year, they haven’t been traveling in case Penny needs them in Seattle.”

“Makes sense.”

I stare at Graham’s throat as he swallows a mouthful of waffle and takes a sip of his coffee.

His eyes darken. “It’s hard to continue talking about my family when you are looking at me like this.”

“Just enjoying my view, Mr. Hoffman,” I hum with a smirk. It is refreshing to move away from the serious talk.

He leans across the island, his fingers moving in heated slow motion, gliding through the air toward my parted lips.

The soft touch on my cheek sends electrifying pulses through my entire body. I lean into his palm, my eyes drifting shut at the magnetic pull, the sound of static sizzling and crackling through the air. His touch is like a wildfire, coursing through my body, extending all the way to the tips of my fingers and to even my littlest toes.

I feel his thumb rub the corner of my lip. I open my eyes and am met with a smoldering gaze, locking on mine as he makes a primordial alpha male sound. His thumb leaves my skin wanton and needy, the fleeting heat liquefying my flesh and melting me in a delicious feeling of euphoria. I watch in disbelief as he sucks on it between his dry—yet surprisingly soft—lips. I shift in my seat, rubbing my bottom into the surface—hard.

I need friction, dammit!

He skirts around the island, like an animal anticipating the next move to hunt its prey. My breath catches in my throat. My backed stool turns in his direction—fully at his mercy. If he knew that I would do anything at this point to have more of his touch, he could take advantage of me willingly. I would give him an open-ended invitation. He just needs to ask.

The same hands that caressed my face grip my waist at my hips with a level of urgency. In a fluid motion, I go airborne and am situated on top of the cold surface, my empty plate sliding out of the way in a hasty retreat as my butt settles down in its vacant spot.

“Grah—”

He silences me with a look. His hips zero in on the junction between my thighs, as he uses his weight to part my knees. He slides between with ease, crushing his body into my heat. I feel the humidity of his sweet smelling breath on my face as he nuzzles his nose into my hair, my name falling off of his lips in a chant of seductive whispers.

The back and forth of are-we-together-aren’t-we-together is messing with my mind. I need to stop him. I need to tell him we can just be friends, to stop blurring the lines. Ha, like that is even a possibility with us. The rational thinking side of my brain gets overruled by the irrational side that says to take the leap.

I need him.

I want him.

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