Page 9 of Back to Me

CHAPTER THREE

SARA

When I wake up the next morning, I roll over in my bed and slam my palm against the alarm clock. Rolling away from my nightstand, I make a tangled mess of the sheets and curl in on myself. Burying my head under my pillow, every single memory of last night comes flooding back, and I clutch my stomach, feeling the sickness overtake me.

I wasn’t even sure what to make of last night. It’s not like Julian technically did anything wrong. I had flirted with him prior to us going to the bar, but I still feel sick, remembering the way his fingertips slid up the skin of my thigh and over the front of my panties, the way his mouth smelled of sour whiskey. It’s as if the wind has been knocked out of me. I force the thoughts away, refusing to think last night was any more than a simple misunderstanding.

The truth was, I couldn’t give Julian what he wanted because I couldn’t stop thinking about Graham. I never stop thinking about Graham.

I stay hidden under the safety of my sheets and pillows until my head starts to pound. Removing the pillow from my head, I glance at my phone. My shift at the gallery starts in two hours.

I groan as I sit up, feeling a chill pass through my body. The feeling of Julian’s touch still lingers on my skin and images of his intense green eyes flash in my memories. I run my hands up and down my arms, deciding to take a shower and scrub away the remnants of Julian crawling across my skin. Grabbing my towel, I tiptoe out of my room and head to my bathroom down the hallway.

When we moved here, I insisted Graham take the master bedroom since it had been his idea to move to Dallas in the first place, and he had found the listing for this place. After hours of arguing, he finally conceded, but not before he told me he felt like a dick for not giving me the only bedroom with a bathroom. As a result, I not only have a smaller bedroom, but I have to walk through half the apartment, just to get to my bathroom.

As soon as I’m in the safety of my bathroom, I turn on the hot water and undress. It’s as if I can’t get my clothes off fast enough to rid myself of any lingering feelings of Julian.

I welcome the hot water the second I step into the shower. The water stings my skin, but I turn up the heat, convinced I’m not clean enough. Letting the water wash over my face and down my body, I close my eyes. I want to stay here forever.

Reluctantly, I finally step out of the shower when my skin can no longer take the scorching heat. Wrapping a towel around my body, I walk out into the hallway to find Graham standing over the stove in the kitchen. The entire apartment is filled with the warming scent of chocolate chip cookies.

Hearing my footsteps, he glances over his shoulder. His face is flat, and his eyes widen only slightly, seemingly unaware I would be dressed only in a towel. His mouth is closed as I watch his Adam’s apple slide across his throat as he swallows.

Heat rises in my cheeks, sensing his reaction to me, and I grip the top of my towel even tighter.

Transferring the cookies from a baking sheet to a plate, he clears his throat and says, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” I eye him curiously, wondering why in the hell he’s making cookies at seven in the morning. “Graham, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He sends me a smile as he loads the last of the cookies onto the plate, his smile still in place when he turns around and sets the plate on the center island.

I take two steps forward, crossing the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen. The main area of our apartment is one large open space, the stairs to the loft just between the living room and kitchen. The tile floor is cool against my bare feet, and any lingering water on my skin begins to dry.

“Why are you making cookies?”

Three lines crease the corners of his eyes when he laughs. “You know what? I don’t know. I woke up and had the sudden urge to make cookies.” He picks up two cookies from the plate and walks around the island to stand in front of me, holding one out to me as he takes a bite of his.

Grabbing the cookie from him, I narrow my eyes. I hold the cookie between my fingers, still finding his behavior odd. “You’re being weird.”

Bobbing his shoulders up and down as if to release any tension, he says, “I don’t know. I think maybe it’s because I’m nervous about today.” He turns around and walks back over to the stove, discarding the parchment paper lining the baking sheet.

It’s not until he says this I realize he’s talking about his meeting with the curator. My first instinct was to believe he was acting this way because of the conversation he had with his dad last night. Unfortunately, for the past six years, I’ve witnessed the never-ending feud between Bruce and Graham Ward. It’s almost as if their relationship is on some sort of tightrope. Stray from the obvious questions or same monetary topics, and suddenly, they slip, falling to a crash landing. Most of the time, it’s on Graham’s end and not his father’s. Over the years, I’ve come to believe Graham’s father is completely oblivious to his feelings.

Last night, when I was finally in the safety of my own apartment, I had unexpectedly walked into one of those moments. This time, it was Graham who slipped and fell.

Rushing up the winding staircase to our loft, I had quickly scanned the room, taking in the destructive scene, only to find Graham picking up his canvas and punching a fist-sized hole through the center.

Thoughts of Julian and what had happened less than an hour before, I immediately knelt down beside him, joining him amidst the paint-spattered floor. I felt a spark between us the second my skin touched his and wanted nothing more than for him to give in, to show me a sign, any sign, he wanted me just as much as I wanted him. Instead, he gently pushed me away, showing me he had no interest.

Considering the events of last night and the way it had ended, I had nearly forgotten how Graham had received an incredible job opportunity.

I quickly follow behind him and playfully slap his arm. “Oh my God, Graham. That’s today? You’re meeting the curator today?” My voice is filled with excitement, still surprised this is even happening.

“Yeah,” he laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. He’s nervous. “I have to be there in less than three hours.”

I survey the kitchen, glancing at the mess he made baking. A tipped over bag of flour sits on the counter along with half a dozen cracked egg shells. I dart my eyes back to Graham.

“What are you doing then? Why aren’t you getting ready?”

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