Shipped(13)

“You can do this,” I murmur to myself as I wedge a hip against an empty patch of wall and scroll through my contacts. Graeme’s name pops up and I glare at it. My chest puffs and heat scorches my neck. Time to nip this—whatever this is, this game he’s playing—in the bud.

I tap his number. Ringing fills my ear. I notice the leather of my left shoe is pinching my little toe. I wiggle my toes, but the pinch gets worse. With a huff, I crouch and stick a finger inside my shoe, tugging.

“Hello?” Graeme answers.

I bolt upright and nearly lose my balance. My phone slips through my fumbling fingers and I manage to catch it with both hands before it hits the floor. I lift it, intent on returning it to my ear, and freeze.

Graeme’s face fills my screen. His eyebrows are raised, his expression expectant.

Oh God, we’re FaceTiming. We’re FaceTiming.

I must have accidentally pressed the FaceTime request icon and he… accepted.

Shit.

Graeme’s outside, and with the time zone difference, the sky behind him is blooming with the last vestiges of purple twilight. A streetlamp washes a dim golden glow over his face, which is obscured by a scruffy two-week growth of stubble. His eyes blaze at me and his jaw is as unforgiving as a mountain.

It’s been weeks since I’ve seen Graeme in the flesh—er, pixel—since he’s opted to keep his camera off for video conferences lately. And this is the best view I’ve had of him yet. The image is clear and his face isn’t too close to the camera. His hair is longer than I remember, and he looks rougher somehow—certainly older than his smooth-faced Outlook picture—but still no older than thirty.

Heat sizzles in my stomach. There’s no denying it: Graeme is hot. The thick stubble can’t hide his magnificent bone structure—the high, wide cheekbones, defined nose, and deep-set eyes.

No, no, no. Don’t be distracted by your conniving coworker’s ridiculously good looks.

He pivots to sit on a park bench. Rummaging in my purse, I pull out my earbuds with the built-in microphone and stuff them into my ears. “Uh, hi, Graeme, it’s Henley,” I begin.

His lips crack into a wide smile. “I know. I can see you.” Amusement suffuses his voice and it’s smooth and satiny like caramel. “What can I do for you?”

“You can stop playing games with me,” I snap, jamming my finger at the phone for emphasis.

In front of me, a slightly stunned, barely legal bar patron points to his own narrow chest, eyes widening. “Me?” he mouths.

“No, not you,” I mouth back. Rolling my eyes, I motion at the phone. Hello, can’t you see I’m talking here? I turn my back on him.

Graeme’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know we were playing a game.”

“Oh, give me a break. You act all innocent, but really you’re a manipulative asshole!” Silence. I barrel on, glorying in the renewed vortex of anger churning in my chest. “I got your voice mail. Biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard after the stunt you pulled today—”

Graeme jerks forward, frowning. “Okay, pump the brakes. What stunt? What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You’ll have to enlighten me.”

“Eavesdropping on my meeting with James?” I grit through clenched teeth.

“You… you think I was eavesdropping?” A dog barks somewhere on his end, a series of loud, gruff yips. If it’s his, it’s probably some obnoxious purebred.

“Yes, I do. Like you do for every meeting, skulking on the phone, letting people forget you’re even on the line. Except this time, I wasn’t expecting you to be there at all so it was extra shitty.”

A crease forms between his eyebrows. “Is that really what you think I do?”

“If the shoe fits.”

Graeme brings the phone closer to his face and his eyes flash. Are they blue? Green? It’s too difficult to make out in the growing darkness. “How much have you had to drink?”

Busted. Goose bumps rise along my arms.

“What? Pffff. None. Nothing. Zip.”

“I can hear you’re in a bar. Some guy just ordered a Naughty Nellie. Where are you?”

“What do you care?”

He lifts and lowers one shoulder. “I don’t. Except who would I argue with about work if you end up floating facedown in the bay?”

I snort. “Your mom.” A not-so-attractive feature of my personality: I get dreadfully immature when I’m drunk.

Craaaaap. I’m drunk.

My empty stomach gurgles, suddenly longing for food to soak up the booze sloshing around in there, and my head swims. Graeme stands and makes a sound of frustration halfway between a huff and a growl, and I finally catch a glimpse of what’s behind him—headstones.

“Are you in a graveyard?” I blurt.

“It’s a good place to walk my dog.” Scrubbing a hand across his jaw, he glances away.

Weird. “Okay, Buffy.”

“Drink some water. Don’t do anything stupid. Well, more stupid than drunk-dialing a coworker. Seriously, not smart. You know,” he says, tapping his chin, a mischievous gleam in his eye, “I could go to HR for this.”

Human resources at our company is about as useful as square wheels on a bicycle, but ice still fills my veins and my vision nearly doubles. “You wouldn’t.”