Page 62 of Never Been Matched
“Hi,” I manage. But before I can open my mouth and say anything else, the air in the room shifts, the pressure suddenly dropping.
Nearly every head in the room turns toward the door, the laughter and chatter dimming.
I drag my focus away from Vivien and follow the gaze of the crowd.
Standing in the doorway to The Palace is Graham Deadwyler.
Chapter Fifteen
Vivien
* * *
He’s here. I can’t believe it.
This might actually work.
Graham stands in one of the entry doors of the theater, outlined by the glare of the theater lights shining on the street behind him, his chiseled face hard and full of thunder. In dark jeans and a gray hoodie, he is like a storm cloud compared to everything around him, the colors and sparkle of the other moviegoers, the crimson of the walls, the general smiles and laughter.
He glances around at the assembled crowd, who are doing a terrible job of pretending to make conversation and not stare at him. The conversations are still present but softened to a loud hum.
“When is this punk supposed to show up?” someone says too loudly. Sounds like Jerry.
Graham spots me. Our eyes connect. His gaze narrows.
Uh-oh.
Daphne waves in my periphery.
His gaze shifts to where she’s standing at my side, then moves over another notch. He blinks. Then he blinks again. “Mrs. Hammond?”
His whole vibe changes in an instant. He goes from granite-faced avenging god on the warpath to a golden retriever looking for a belly rub.
He stalks toward us, a grin wreathing his face.
“Holy shit,” Daphne says under her breath.
Holy shit, indeed. Graham is attractive even when he’s mad and dressed like a scrub. But when he’s happy and in clean clothes, he’s an absolute smoke show.
He hugs Mrs. Hammond, wrapping her up in his arms. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
I glance away. Now that we’ve got him here, this whole thing is like a farce. What am I even doing right now?
I grab Daphne’s arm and pull her away a few feet. “Now what?”
“Now she gets him to watch the movie.” She inclines her head toward them.
They’re too far away to catch details of their conversation, and the volume of the room has increased enough to drown out any words we might catch.
Mrs. Hammond pats him on the arm while they chat, her eyes are bright, his focus is earnest.
I can’t believe it’s even the same man who slammed the door in my face. He looks so . . . nice and normal when he’s talking to his old teacher. More than nice and normal. Take the sincere gratitude in his eyes and mix it with his chiseled jaw and piercing eyes and damn. Is this why Beverly made him my match? She saw something beyond the hobo aesthetic and hermit habits?
Mrs. Hammond gestures to where Daphne and I are standing, and he glances in our direction.
He shakes his head. He does not want to talk to me.
They go back and forth a bit, and then she grabs his arm and drags him in our direction.
