Forever With You Read online

  Oh, I know exactly what she means. She wants to follow in Carol’s footsteps, not Nancy’s. I decide the best way to handle this is with brutal honesty.

  “Lee, I’m twenty-five. I’m not thinking about marriage right now. I like you a lot but if you’re looking for me to commit to you long term, I can’t. I can’t. And I don’t want to lead you on because I don’t know where we’re going to end up.”

  Silence. I can imagine her expression, the downward turn of her mouth as her brow furrows. The weightiness of her sigh comes through loudly over the line. “Yes, you’re twenty-five and I’m thirty-one, but lately the sound of my biological clock ticking is getting louder and louder.”

  Engagements, marriages and now babies. I’m in over my head. To me, those things feel like they’re another lifetime in the future.

  I carefully choose words I believe will do the least damage. “I don’t expect nor do I want you to put your life on hold for me. I care about you too much for that.” Because that is what she’d be doing if she sticks around.

  “Yeah.” The disappointment is heavy in that one word. “I, uh, could probably use some time to think. I care a lot about you, Graham. A lot. If I didn’t think there was a possibility that you’d end up breaking my heart, I’d probably have already fallen in love with you. But, I think we should take a break.” She lets out a dry laugh. “And not the Rachel and Ross kind—”

  Who are Rachel and Ross? And why does she expect me to know them? You know what? Safer not to ask.

  “—I wouldn’t expect you not to see other women.”

  “Lee, if you want to break up—”

  “No, I don’t want that. Believe me, I don’t. I just think it would be better if we checked back in a month or two. See where we are. If we still feel the same way about each other. Who knows, maybe we’ll decide to give it another try.”

  She attempts to sound optimistic but it falls flat. She knows just as well as I do that we won’t be getting back together. It’s over.

  I rub my temple and sigh. “Okay. I understand.”

  “Alright then, I’ll let you get to work. Take care, Graham, and keep in touch.”

  “You too, Lee.”

  She disconnects the call without saying goodbye.

  Chapter 19

  Getting back into the routine of school has been remarkably easy. Maybe that’s because it’s the one place in my life that I feel most in control.

  This year will be a challenge though. Going by the syllabuses, my classes will be the farthest thing from a cakewalk. I’m going to have to work hard if I want to maintain or exceed my current 3.85 GPA. It’s a good thing I basically only work weekends. Not sure I could handle work and classes together more than one day a week. It’s also a good thing I’m not dating anyone. I don’t have time for a relationship.

  But then, who needs regular sex, right? Well, except for my friends. I’ve lived without it long enough that I’m well past the withdrawal stage. Although it would be nice to be getting some once in a while. I guess I could if I were into casual, no-strings sex, but I’m not. It’s hard not to miss it when I live with two people whose vocal enjoyment of it sometimes penetrates my bedroom door.

  And then of course there’s Graham.

  Sigh. I’m not sure if it’s because he was my first or the first guy to bring me to orgasm, he’s still the best lover I’ve ever had. Which is something I try not to think about but that hasn’t been easy since he’s come back into my life. Lord, I haven’t laid eyes on him since our detente yet I’ve been thinking about that—sex with him—a lot. Honestly, a good working memory can be a dangerous thing.

  Get a grip, lady. Sex with Graham is never going to happen. Remember that and you’ll never be disappointed.

  I know. I know. And even if charges of statutory rape wasn’t a gulf between us, there’s still the matter of his girlfriend. Those are lines I refuse to cross.

  These are the thoughts clanging around in my head when I arrive at work on Thursday, along with words of caution to play it cool. Just because Graham’s forgiven me doesn’t mean we’re anything more than coworkers. Coworkers with a sexual past.

  “Milt called out today so his section will be split between you, Claire and Joe.” Ian gives me a head’s up on the change when I present myself on the floor at the beginning of my shift. I rarely get a chance to work with him. He usually closes during the week and opens on weekends because of his kids’ schedules. Sandra told me his wife is a charge nurse at the local hospital and her schedule can get pretty crazy.

  “Okay.” I glance around. The dining area is full but there isn’t a waiting line like there had been last week. The bar area is already overflowing with guys who look like a group of visiting Goldman Sachs employees.

  Following the direction of my gaze, Ian responds to the question in my eyes. “IT Sales convention is in town. They’ve been here since Tuesday. Watch yourself around the guys over there.” He directs his attention to a group of suits milling around at the end of the bar. “Sandra said one of them was getting handsy with her.”

  Most of the guys look fairly young, mid-twenties to mid-thirties if I had to guess. And by the way the brown-haired, stocky one is checking me out, it’s a safe bet he’s the problem child.

  “I’ll make sure not to get too close,” I joke, hoping it’ll be that easy.

  “I’m out of here in an hour but if you need me for anything, I’ll be back in my office.”

  “Where’s John? Is he closing tonight?” I ask Ian before he goes. Graham said he’d see me Thursday but I’ve yet to see hide or hair of him.

  “John’s in his office. He said he has to finish up some paperwork before he goes home so it’ll be Graham closing tonight. He should be here in a bit,” he says with a glance at his watch.

  “Okay.” I refuse to acknowledge the feeling of pleasure and anticipation that washes over me at his answer. I’m keeping it cool.

  Graham has a girlfriend. Now get to work.

  Over the next hour, I’m kept crazy busy with what seems like a never-ending influx of customers. While there aren’t as many dinner-goers, there are a lot more customers opting for appetizers, finger foods and alcohol. Lots of alcohol.

  Currently, I’m serving a group of convention-goers who are on their fourth round of drinks. Everyone at the table appears able to hold their alcohol except Marty. And I know his name because he made sure to tell me. Three times.

  It’s not my job to cut customers off. We’re told to bring it to a manager’s attention if the customer gets out of line—slurring, stumbling, weaving or falling down drunk. Marty doesn’t technically fit into any of those categories but I get the feeling he’s getting there. Honestly, I don’t like the way he’s been looking at me with those glazed eyes of his, nor do I appreciate him calling me sweetheart as if I’m there solely to cater to his every need. It’s not that I don’t have to put up with men like him often enough that I don’t know how to handle them, but Marty is being particularly sneaky about it. No matter what I do, where I stand, he always finds a way to touch me.

  As I turn to go, a hand captures my arm and swiftly tightens around my wrist. I look down at the hairy-knuckled hand and then at the person it’s attached to.

  Marty strikes again.

  “Sweetheart, can you make mine a double?”

  I gently but firmly pull my arm from his grasp and give him a look I hope fully conveys my feelings about him putting his hands on me.

  Don’t do it. Ever again.

  I flash him a smile sweet enough to give him a toothache. Pure saccharin. “My name is Emily. I’d appreciate you using it if you need to get my attention.”

  My reprimand elicits muffled laughter from the others at the table. Marty is either too drunk to appreciate my sarcasm or he doesn’t give a damn.

  “Emily. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he says with a wink and a lecherous smile.

  It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.

  “Dick
head, leave the girl alone. She’s not interested in your sorry, old ass.” The man sitting beside him offers me an apologetic smile. My friend is an idiot.

  “I’ll be right back with your drinks,” I say before beating a hasty retreat.

  My step falters when I see Graham behind the bar. Our gazes meet and time seems to stand still. My irritation with Marty vanishes.

  Graham is dressed in typical management attire: a long-sleeved, button down shirt and I assume dark slacks. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Then why does he look hotter than ever? It must be because his shirt is almost the same dark-blue of his eyes. Or could it be because his usually clean-shaven self is sporting a sexy, five-o’clock shadow? I can’t pinpoint the reason, all I know is my stomach has suddenly become a bevy of activity of panicked butterflies, to say nothing of the throbbing going on between my legs.

  Why does he have to be so damn hot?

  To punish you.

  I continue towards him and accept my punishment.

  “You’re here.” Yeah, no kidding genius. Way to state the obvious.

  “Just got here,” he says and flicks a glance over my shoulder. “Is that bloke giving you a hard time? Do I need to talk to him about keeping his damn hands to himself?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” I assure him, noting the tick in his jaw. I’m not sure what to make of the fact that he’d been watching me long and closely enough to witness my interaction with Marty.

  Graham snorts. “Two years ago one of the female servers broke her wrist trying to get away from a customer who’d had too much to drink. She ended up suing the man and the bar, and John’s insurance company forced him to settle. The moral of the story is this. Everyone thinks they can handle it until they can’t, and by then it’s too late.”

  And like that, the wind comes out of my sails. Not exactly concern for my wellbeing. It’s more, we don’t want you to sue the bar if you get hurt. Got it.

  “Right. I understand,” I say and hand him my drink orders.

  His gaze dips to my chest. “You may want to button up. The bloke over there asked Joe if you have a boyfriend.”

  Mortified, I look down to see just how exposed I am. Oh shit. With the top two buttons undone, I’m sporting enough cleavage to qualify me for a waitressing position at Hooter’s.

  My face goes up in flames as I angle away from Graham’s hooded gaze. In my haste, my fingers fumble the task of refastening the buttons several times before my modesty is saved.

  Knowing full well that my face must be ten shades of embarrassment, I dare a glance at Graham only to find him concentrating on mixing drinks. I don’t know whether to be grateful or put out.

  “That explains Marty with the grabby hands,” I mutter in an attempt to make light of it.

  He pauses what he’s doing and looks over at me. “No, it came unbuttoned while you were standing here. Believe me, he’d have been hitting on you if you were wearing a burlap sack.”

  Well, that’s something then, isn’t it? Only Graham had been witness to bra-gate and not all the customers at the last two tables I’d served. And it’s not like he hasn’t seen my breasts before. They’d once been intimate friends.

  Yeah, but that was a long time ago.

  “Joe thinks he’s going to ask you out.”

  I stare blankly at Graham. “What? Who?” Are we still talking about Marty with the grabby hands?

  “The bloke over there,” he says with an impatient jerk of his head toward the group of men Ian had warned me about.

  I sneak a peek at them only to find the guy in question staring directly at me. I quickly look away and huff a laugh. “It wouldn’t be the worse offer I get tonight.”

  Graham’s gaze darts back and forth between me and his task at hand, one eyebrow raised. “You interested?”

  “No,” I reply, although maybe a tad too emphatically. After the whole thing with Marty, I figured he’d get the joke.

  Graham pours the cocktail he finished mixing into a margarita glass. “Why, are you seeing someone?”

  Despite the personal nature of his question, he somehow manages to sound disinterested.

  “Why, do you want me to go out with him? Do I need to have a reason other than I’m not interested?” The guy is good-looking, and there’s probably a lot of girls who would say yes to him in a heartbeat, I’m just not one of them. Is that so difficult to believe?

  He gives a negligent shrug. “I don’t know, he looks like he’s your type.”

  I regard him skeptically. He thinks he knows me that well, does he? “Really? I wasn’t aware I had a type or that if I do, you know what it is.” I would understand Graham’s assumption if the guy looked anything like him, but he doesn’t. The guy’s features aren’t as angular, he isn’t particularly tall, has hair and eyes the color of dark mocha, and a build with more bulk than Graham’s lean muscular one.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he drawls. “He looks to be about, what, in his mid-to-late twenties? If you still have a thing for older men, he fits the bill.”

  In the midst of placing a frozen mug of beer on the tray, my hand halts mid-air. My gaze lifts to meet his. His expression is inscrutable.

  “By those standards, I should be thrilled that Marty’s hitting on me.” I do my best to keep by voice free of sarcastic bite.

  He sends a look Marty’s way. “You mean that one over there? I didn’t say your taste extended to drunk and obnoxious.”

  Seriously? Is that supposed to make me feel better?

  “Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t have a ‘thing’ for older men. You were more a bug than a feature,” I quip with forced lightness. It had taken almost two years for me to get over him. To even think about going out with another guy. And the two boyfriends I’ve had since had been my age.

  Instead of placing the last drink he mixed on the bar top as he’d been doing, he holds it up for me to take. My effort to avoid physical contact proves unsuccessful given the limited surface of the martini glass. The brush of our fingers causes unwanted tingles from my nipples to my sex. On the other hand, Graham couldn’t look less affected, his expression opaque, making my body’s reaction not only inappropriate but embarrassingly one-sided. I quickly avert my gaze from his and place the drink on the tray.

  “I—they’re waiting… I’ll be back.”

  My heart pounds loudly in my ears and I’m painfully aware that my hands aren’t all that steady as I place the drinks in front of their rightful recipients.

  Ugh. Why had I said that? I’d all but admitted he’d been the only older guy I’d ever dated. Not that a four-and-a-half-year difference is that much older.

  It is when you’re sixteen and he’s twenty-one.

  Not anymore, though. Next month I’m going to be twenty-one and he’ll still be twenty-five. That’s barely considered an age gap. I mean, my dad is seven years older than my mom and is currently dating a woman over twenty years younger. Hypocrite.

  Not that any of this matters now. You’re not going out with him. And even if you were interested, are you forgetting that he has a girlfriend?

  Enough! I give my head a mental shake to quiet the competing voices in my head so I can concentrate on doing my job.

  After I finish with my table, I glance around and debate whether now is a good time to return the tray to the bar. Graham is still helping out back there and our recent interaction still has me rattled.

  The thing is, I’m still attracted to him. Powerfully. There, I’m admitting it. But I hate that I am. Honestly, he was easier to deal with when he was being a jerk. Now he’s just my ridiculously hot ex-boyfriend. The first and only guy I’ve ever loved, and that’s messing with my head. It’s making me yearn in ways I don’t want.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see an arm go up. Once I establish eye contact, the man to whom the arm belongs proceeds to motion me over. Clutching the tray to my side, I quickly make my way to his table. He appears to be in his mid-twenties and the blonde sitting across from him
looks my age.

  I greet the couple with a smile. “Welcome to Zenith’s. Are you ready to order?”

  “I’ll have whatever’s on tap and she’ll have Sex on the Beach,” he replies, flashing me an easy grin.

  The girl giggles.

  Really? Giggling at Sex on the Beach is still a thing? The drink’s been around since before she was born.

  “Will that be all?” I hope so. Two drinks I can remember, but if they want appetizers, I’m going to need to write this all down.

  “That’ll be it for now,” he answers.

  “I’m going to need to check your ID.” I eye his blushing date. She must have recently turned twenty-one because there’s no way she’s older than that.

  I’m immediately presented with their driver’s license. The guy, Holden Sanders, is twenty-eight and lives in Glendale. The girl, Daphne Anderson, is twenty-two and lives in—

  My gaze snaps to her. “You live in Oyster Bay? I grew up there.”

  It happens so quickly, I would probably have missed it had I not been watching for her reaction; the momentarily alarm that flares in her eyes.

  And that’s when I know without a doubt that her driver’s license is as phony as the smile currently pasted on her face.

  “Did you really?” she asks, her gaze briefly darting to her date.

  “My whole life. Which high school did you go to?”

  Her smile begins to show real signs of strain. “Oyster Bay High.”

  I silently hand Holden back his ID but keep a tight grip on hers. “Same here. What year did you graduate?” I ask, knowing full well that she hadn’t attended while I’d been there.

  She visibly swallows and opens her mouth to respond when her date interjects, “Class of ’14, right Daph?”

  My gaze shifts to him. Wrong answer. He must be in on it too.

  As if realizing things would only go downhill from here on, she hurriedly addresses me, “I think my bladder’s about to burst. Can you point me to the lady’s room?”

  Sudden bathroom break or desperate escape? The surreptitious look she sends me indicates it’s the latter—and maybe even more than that. “Follow me. It’s on my way.”