Page 73 of The Exception

Did he truly not understand? He’d been in relationships in the past. Surely he understood how this worked. What it meant to be a couple.

“Graham.” I leveled him with a look. “Do you think that’s why Sloan and Jackson are together? Or Emerson and Nate?” When he remained silent, I nearly shouted, “No! They’re in a relationship because they love each other. Have you ever watched them together?”

He furrowed his brow.

“Oh, come on. I’m sure you have. You’re one of the most observant people I know. So, tell me what you notice.”

“They smile at each other a lot,” he said.

“Yes. Good.” God, this was painful. Like pulling teeth. “What else?”

“They call each other ‘babe’ and ‘baby’ and ‘mi Cielo.’”

“And the name Jackson calls Sloan. Hay…”

“Hayati.”

“Yes.” I snapped my fingers. “What does that mean?”

“‘My life’ in Arabic.”

Swoon.

He gave me a pensive look but then asked, “What else?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, not ready to move on just yet. Not ready to concede the point. Perhaps I was being harsh, but if this was going to work, Graham needed to get on the same page with me. He needed to realize we were a team. And he needed to stop holding back.

“I get that you’re not big on PDA or showing emotion, but you can try to act like you care about me. Like you’re attracted to me. Otherwise, everyone is going to think it’s strange that you’re more affectionate with your dogs than your wife. Unless you really are the cold, heartless billionaire everyone claims you are.”

He clenched his fists, and I sensed that I’d touched a nerve. Good! Maybe it would finally spur him into action.

“Is that what you think this is about?” His nostrils flared. “You think—what? That I’m not attracted to you?” He stalked closer, and I held my ground. “That I don’t care about you?” I could feel the anger radiating off him in waves.

“I don’t know!” I threw my hands in the air, fed up with this conversation. With him. I needed space. “It’s not like you ever give any indication of what you’re thinking. I thought I knew you, could read you, but you keep shutting me out.”

By the time I was done speaking, my heart was pounding. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and I could feel the tension building like a storm ready to unleash.

He stepped closer, and I took a few steps back. The air was charged—one spark and it would combust. His eyes were dark, hooded. I licked my lips, feeling hot. Too hot.

But he didn’t stop. He kept pursuing me until my back collided with the wall. I let out a little squeak, feeling a bit like a mouse trapped by a cat. He was toying with me. Hunting me.

“Should I touch you?” He grabbed my hips roughly, and my breath caught, lips parting. I…liked it. Liked the harshness of his grip and the intensity of his gaze.

He gave my hips a squeeze, and I nearly moaned in appreciation. I wanted to push him away. I needed him even closer. I was angry. I was turned on. I wished my heart would stop beating so hard so I could think straight.

“Should I kiss you?” He leaned in, his breath fanning across my hair. He smelled of mint and whiskey, and for a split second, I forgot why I was mad. “Is that what you want?”

He dragged his nose along the shell of my ear. My knees weakened, my entire body aching for his touch, angling toward him like a flower seeking the sun.

“Would that make me seem like more of a real husband?” he taunted. “Would that make you happy?”

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

God, she smelled so good. Earthy and wild like my garden—my favorite place in the world. I inhaled her scent, waiting for her to pull away. Hoping she wouldn’t.

She was angry. Hurt. And so was I.

Her earlier words had echoed painful comments from my past. And more recently, the article that had given me that detested moniker. I wasn’t cold—I was calculating. Shrewd not heartless. People didn’t appreciate the difference.

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