Her reply was an exhalation of a pant. “Yes.”
“None of that has changed. Increased, maybe. Some of those things are looking quite tame, in fact.”
“Oh, God. I’m not even sure what that—what that means…”
I pictured her lying back on her bed exactly as I was on mine. “Yes. I know. Which is why we’re waiting a bit.”
“But you’re going back to New York.”
Her sulky tone made me chuckle. “Yes. And I’m coming back to LA in three weeks.”
Her sigh was faint. Not relieved, or exasperated. Just… accepting. “Okay,” she said, sounding so much like Cara when she doesn’t get her way and she knows she isn’t going to.
“I just don’t want to take advantage of you, or push you—” Lies, lies, lies—I wanted her so bad I could conjure up her scent, imagine the feel of her skin under my fingertips...
“But Graham, I’m pushing you.”
“Yes.” My voice is like a growl—so appropriate to the feral hunger coursing through my body. “And in three weeks, I’m going to let you. If you still want to.”
“I will.”
***
At 5:30 a.m., we meet in the lobby—which is deserted except for a bored desk clerk who gives us a disinterested once-over. Flashback to our mornings in Austin, up before everyone and heading out to run. I remember stepping out of the elevator and seeing her waiting in the lobby, or getting there first and waiting for her, looking up at the soft chime, stainless steel doors swooshing open and delivering her to the ground floor. I loved those mornings.
I hand her a thermos when she comes to stand next to me, fighting the urge to slip my arms around her and kiss her. “Ready?” I ask, and she nods. Tossing the backpack onto one shoulder, I take her hand. This is a risk, if only to cross the lobby. I don’t want her mortified over stories of multiple hookups like she was in Austin, so we have to remain a secret until after the premiere. I get that, but it still sucks. “I packed water, bagels and a blanket. I figured this morning was more about watching the sunrise and less about exercise.”
Her hand squeezes mine. “Sounds perfect.”
The Jeep is ideal for the early morning drive and the cool weather but not conducive to quiet conversation. We have to yell over the road noise to hear each other. Falling silent after a few minutes, we just hold hands and watch the street lamps start to pop off as the sky begins to lighten. I spent an hour on the Internet last night, making sure of the route to Griffith and the trail to take once we get there. The sun is already a half-orb above the horizon by the time we get to the spot I mapped out and spread the blanket.
Pressed together, we sip the coffee and watch what’s left of the sunrise. Perhaps I should say she watches it while I watch her. I’ve seldom been this close to her and allowed myself the pleasure of staring, of drinking her in—all the seemingly trivial details. The indistinct image of a webcam never revealed the fine blondish hairs at her temple, and the darkness of her bed hides the freckle behind her ear and the blush across her cheeks when she realizes I’m examining her.
Leaning to her, I tell her softly, “You’re so beautiful.”
Her lashes lift as she glances into my eyes before closing hers. “No, you are.”
My mouth pulls up on one side. We’re a little off the beaten path, but not so far that we can’t hear people walking by, talking. “God,” one of them says, stopping just out of sight where there’s a perfect view of the sunrise. “So beautiful!”
Emma and I suppress our laughter, attempting to avoid detection. I kiss her softly. “See, he agrees with me,” I whisper.
She leans up, her hand on my jaw. “Maybe he agrees with me.” When she starts to giggle, I cover her mouth with mine, partly to silence her but mostly because I can’t escape the need to kiss her again.
*** *** ***
REID
It hadn’t occurred to me what a huge advantage this photo shoot is for getting Emma used to me touching her again. Not that she’s particularly responding to it. I mourn the loss of that wistful, spellbound look she had back when we first began filming School Pride last August, but then again the fact that she’s less affected by me makes up for it.
Yes, I’m one of those guys—more turned on by what I can’t have than anything else. When you think about it, though, how surprising is that? When getting girls is as simple as deciding that you want one—no different, really, from deciding what to have for lunch—of course the ones who stand out will be the ones who don’t come when called. Emma is like that pizza I can only get in one hole-in-the-wall place in the middle of Brooklyn, and nowhere else. If I lived in Brooklyn, maybe it’d be no big deal. But I live in LA, and goddamn do I hate it when I think about that pizza I can’t have.
We’re on some estate in the LA hills, but the backdrop is very middle of nowhere. The grounds are rustic and native, but carefully cultivated to look that way rather than just left wild. My parents would probably hate it. Our lawn looks more like it belongs in the English countryside—bordering hedgerows and shaped shrubberies and roses, etcetera. It’s impressive but sort of laughable and out of sync at the same time.
Emma is perched on the wooden-slat seat of a swing attached to a high limb of a stories-tall tree. Staring straight up through the branches, I wonder how they got the ropes attached that high—if someone climbed this tree like they might have done a hundred years ago, or if they brought in a truck with a ladder or one of those bucket things like the guys who work on telephone lines use. While the photographer reframes the shot for what feels like the hundredth time and we wait for instructions, I grip the ropes just over Emma’s hands, my pinkies grazing her index fingers.