Page 81 of Playing the Field

By the time we make it to my apartment, I’ve convinced myself I’ve made a responsible, adult decision.

One that prioritizes professionalism.

One that keeps us safely within the boundaries we need to maintain.

One that doesn’t involve me straddling Graham Callahan on my very uncomfortable couch while his hands do terrible, wonderful things to my body.

The problem is, I’ve also learned that Graham doesn’t do well with boundaries.

He shatters them.

Crushes them beneath the weight of his presence, his gaze, his stupid, unfair, knee-weakening charm that is only amplified when he decides he’s in the mood to play nice.

Right now?

I have no idea which version of Graham I’ve just let into my apartment.

I close the door behind us, tossing my keys onto the small console table, and turn to find him watching me.

Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching.

Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll run.

Like I’m the one who needs to be cautious around him.

Which—yeah, fair.

I clear my throat, moving toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Do I need one?”

I don’t look back as I reach for a glass from the cupboard. “I don’t know, Graham. Do you?”

His silence is heavy, loaded. I hear the soft creak of leather as he shifts, the sound of his jacket being tossed over the back of a chair.

And then⁠—

“You heard Brooke.”

I freeze.

For a fraction of a second, my fingers tighten around the glass, the words burrowing into my skin like an accusation.

I force myself to stay calm, to move like he hasn’t just cracked open the vault on something I was planning to avoid altogether.

“I hear a lot of things,” I say lightly, filling the glass with water. “People talk.”

Graham exhales a laugh, low and sharp. “That they do.”

I turn, glass in hand, and lean against the counter. He’s still watching me, but now, there’s something sharper in his gaze. Something coiled and tense, like he’s waiting for me to strike first.

I don’t.

Instead, I take a slow sip of water and meet his eyes. “Did you?”

His jaw tenses. “Did I what?”

I lift a shoulder. “Did you pull strings?”