Do I Know You?(47)

It’s fun. Not just how excellently we’re playing the perfect couple, either. I’m loving the way Graham and I have folded this pretense tonight into the opportunity to share what we love with each other like it’s the first time.

Under the table, I let a different sort of conversation unfold—one that starts when I shift my knee to brush Graham’s. He returns the gentle press. Then before I know it, I’m running the toe of my sneaker up his calf, sorely wishing this were the type of restaurant for the heels I rescued from Graham’s room earlier, ones I could easily slip my bare feet into and out of.

When dinner is winding down, Graham and I having unquestionably impressed with our connection, there’s just one more thing I want to prove to Lindsey—and to Graham. Looking him right in the eye, I ask him what he enjoys about his job.

While uncertainty flickers in Graham’s expression for the direction I’ve taken the conversation, he follows, sincerely sharing intricacies of Investment Banker Graham’s job I know relate equally to his own. Listening to him, there’s no denying it. Interest is sexy. This man could be describing traffic patterns or soil composition—if he were doing it with Graham’s warmth, his nuance, I’d be into it.

I speak up suddenly. “I think it’s really great you have so much passion for your career.”

Graham’s stare, which was elsewhere while he described the complexity of coordinating specialist teams, darts to me. So does Lindsey’s.

Stubbornly, I go on with the truth. “We should all be so lucky. Even if it’s not work I’m interested in myself, it’s interesting to hear you share something you love.”

In the next second, with Graham holding my gaze, I see the pretense fall completely from his face. I let mine do the same. The subtle change might be enough for David and Lindsey to intuit something’s different. Maybe we’re blowing our stories, our whole elaborate game, in this one naked moment. But I don’t care.

Right now, I want Graham to know what I’m saying is 100 percent real.





26


    Graham


DINNER WAS EXHILARATING but exhausting. Not that it was hard to flirt with Eliza. God, no. What was difficult was staying in character for so long in front of an audience.

It’s given me new admiration for what Eliza does every day. The effort of holding myself in character, of crafting every mannerism, every phrasing, every piece of backstory for the entirely different person I’m rendering, was herculean. To be in character means fighting the deepest instinct that makes you you. I know from now on when I watch Eliza record samples or practice lines, I’ll see her with new respect.

Fortunately, I wasn’t on my own tonight. When we met, Eliza explained to me the importance of a great scene partner, and tonight, she was a fantastic scene partner. Whenever I felt myself flagging, she was there. Prompting me with new questions, new topics.

It felt like we were really working together, collaborating instead of competing. It was incredible.

Then there was the way she praised this pretend Graham. That part didn’t feel pretend, not with her compliments in the bathroom echoing in my chest.

Now, finally, we’ve paid the bill. I’m itching to leave this restaurant, my stage for the past two hours. My own words to Eliza in the restroom fill my head with their incessant charged hum. Let’s have our date first. Then we’ll see what comes next.

I’m very ready for what comes next.

“Well, we should let this table go,” David says. “Does anyone want to get a drink at the bar?”

I could hug the man. “Definitely another night,” Lindsey says. “I’m getting up for a sunrise hike tomorrow.”

“I’m beat,” Eliza adds.

I know my window of opportunity when it comes. “Can I walk you out?”

Eliza nods, pleased, like I’ve just accepted the unspoken invitation she knew she was offering. We head for the front of the restaurant, leaving David with Lindsey for their own dance of post-date pleasantries.

It’s dark out now, only the sparse foot lamps lighting the path. The night is quiet despite the many lights on in the hotel windows. Over the past evenings, I’ve gotten used to the soundtrack of nighttime out here, the rustle of brush sweetened by the quiet chitter of insects. We walk in comfortable quiet, following the gently sloping gravel path into the woods.

It’s a few minutes until Eliza finally speaks up. “My room isn’t this way,” she says, like she regrets needing to deliver this information.

“Mine is,” I say.

The insinuation fills the space between us immediately. Eliza smirks.

“I know,” she replies.

Then she’s picking up her pace, walking—swaying—in front of me. I follow her up to the entryway of my suite, where she stops and turns. In the ethereal glow of the foot lamps, she looks up, her eyes roving over my face. When she places her hand on my chest once more, I’m locked in place, the shock of fantasy rushing to meet me.

This time, she tugs the fabric just enough to pull my face to hers to kiss me. Caught off guard, I take a moment to react. With her lips on mine, half of me is convinced this is only my imagination running away with me. The other half of me doesn’t care. Whether this is dream or fantasy or impossibly, perfectly real, I wrap my arms around her the way I wanted to in the bathroom, and I hold her close.