You can call me Mr. Graham
THE GRAHAM HOUSE LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF A HALLMARK movie. It’s
a sprawling brick colonial in an affluent neighborhood, set far back from the tree-lined street, with a four-car garage and pillared entrance. Inside, the front entryway is intimidating, but once I venture deeper into the house, I realize it’s actually cozy in here. The furniture isn’t modern and sterile, but warm and lived in, and the décor is mostly family photographs and framed achievements.
“Have you always lived here?” I ask after Gigi gives me the tour.
It’s Christmas Eve and we got here about an hour ago. We’re the only ones in the house right now; her folks stepped out to grab something from the store, and Wyatt hasn’t arrived yet. His flight from Nashville doesn’t get in till the afternoon, according to Gigi.
“No, after Wyatt and I were born we spent the first couple of years in a brownstone downtown. But my parents wanted more space.” She rolls her eyes. “The house they picked is probably overkill for a family of four. Six thousand square feet, eight bedrooms, four bathrooms. It’s a bit intense.”
She leads me into the cavernous living room, which she calls the great room. I stop at the wall of windows overlooking the yard, admiring the carpet of white and the threads of frost clinging to the skeletons of the trees. It started snowing last night and Gigi was thrilled, raving about how much she loves a white Christmas.
A wet nose nudges my hand. I peer down and grin at Dumpy the golden lab. The dogs have been following us around since we got here.
“They really like you,” Gigi remarks.
“Why are you so surprised?”
“With your prickly demeanor? Seems like you’d scare animals away, send them fleeing in terror.”
I bend down to rub behind Dumpy’s ears. “Nah, man. We understand each other.” I look at Bergeron. “Right?”
The husky tilts his head, listening intently.
“Are you sure you’re cool staying in the guest room?” Gigi says. “It’s the only way my dad would let you stay here.”
I want to ask if Case stayed in the guest room when he visited, but I don’t want to sound like I’m bitching about the sleeping arrangements. Truth is, I wouldn’t step foot in Gigi’s bedroom even if her parents rolled out a red carpet in front of it. I don’t have a death wish.
As if reading my mind, she says, “Yes, Case always stayed in the guest room. But if you’re good, I’ll let you sneak into my room after everyone is asleep.”
“Hard pass.” “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I don’t want to get murdered by Garrett Graham.”
Then again, judging by the way he frowns at me when he and his wife get home, murder is looking like a likely option, regardless of where I sleep.
“Mr. Ryder,” he says coolly.
“Please don’t call him mister,” Gigi orders, rolling her eyes at her dad.
Mrs. Graham is a lot friendlier. “Welcome, Luke. I’m glad you’re spending Christmas with us.”
She flashes a smile that sparkles in her forest-green eyes. And since I don’t want to correct her for calling me Luke, I suppose I’m going to be Luke this week, whether I like it or not. Because there’s no way I’m doing anything to alienate the Grahams.
“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Graham.” “Oh, call me Hannah, please,” she insists.
Her husband offers a deceptively pleasant smile. “And you can call me Mr. Graham.”
So that’s how it’s going to be.
“Do you need help preparing dinner?” I ask, because it’s officially time for the awkwardness portion of the day to commence.
It’s always like this the first time you spend a holiday with people. I went through the same thing with Owen’s family, Lindley’s family, Beck’s. You’re just kind of standing there, not really part of it, but pretending to be. It’s fucking brutal.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fit in somewhere.
Hannah tries damn hard to include me, though. When I offer my services, she puts me to work chopping vegetables and peeling potatoes for dinner, while Gigi and her father watch football in the great room.
“You know you could go watch with them, right?”
I blanch. “Oh, God, please don’t send me out there.” I’m only half joking.
She laughs. “Oh hush, he’s really not that scary.”
“I need you to think about how scary you believe him to be and then multiply that by five million.” I reach for another potato to peel. “Is he protective of Gigi’s brother too, or just Gigi?”
“Oh, trust me, Wyatt’s not exempt. There’s a reason he never brings girls home. He did it once when he was nineteen. Poor girl spent the weekend being interrogated by my husband, and then flew back to Nashville and never spoke to Wyatt again. The morning she left, Wyatt walked into Garrett’s study, said, Never again, and walked right out. Swear to God, that boy isn’t introducing us to anyone else unless they’ve already eloped.”
I chuckle. “All right, so I’m not the only one intimidated.” “He’ll warm up to you, don’t worry.”
I allow myself to feel hopeful, but then Gigi’s brother arrives, and suddenly I’ve got two dudes staring me down.
Wyatt and Gigi are twins, and while I see the resemblance, there are more differences than similarities. His hair has more of a wave to it and is a lighter shade of brown. He’s got green eyes like his mother, while Gigi’s are gray. Gigi’s short. Wyatt isn’t—I’m six-five, and he and I are nearly eye to eye. He gives off a total musician vibe with his ripped jeans and black T-
shirt, a leather band on one wrist, and a few other bracelets on the other. I can’t judge the bracelets, since I’ve been wearing the same string around my wrist since I was sixteen. For some reason, that damn thing never came off. Owen and I assumed the bracelets would fray and fall off in a few months, yet here we are, five years later. I guess that says something about our bond.
Dinner’s delicious, just as Gigi promised. I don’t say much, despite her looks of encouragement. The only time things really get animated is when we discuss my teammate Austin Pope’s performance in the World Juniors yesterday. For one glorious moment, Garrett Graham acknowledges my existence.
“Is his skating really that good, or was that a fluke?” Garrett asks. “I don’t remember seeing that speed in his game film.”
“He’s that good,” I confirm. “His speed is deceptive. He fools you into thinking he’s slower, just moseying along, and then he shifts into a whole other gear and you’re like, What in the actual hell?”
I take a sip of my water, then set down the glass.
“If you’re not against picking freshmen for your Hockey Kings camp, Pope would be a great pick,” I tell Garrett. Hesitant, because I don’t want him to think I’m bringing it up for my own selfish purposes. Truthfully, I’ve given up on being selected as a coach.
“Yeah?” He sounds skeptical. As expected, he’s eyeing me like I’m running some con on him.
“Definitely. I know he’s young, but he’s a good kid. Patience of a saint. He stays late at the rink all the time to help his teammates improve their game. He’d be an asset to any camp.”
Garrett nods, the suspicion fading from his expression. “Oh. Well, we do try to avoid freshmen because they’re too close in age to some of the boys at camp. But I’ll keep him in mind when the time comes. Thanks.”
I’m just thinking we made progress when Gigi reaches for my hand. As I instinctively lace my fingers through hers, her father’s gaze tracks the movement. Then he gets all irritable again, as if suddenly remembering I’m
dating his daughter and not just some dude with whom he’s discussing the World Juniors.
The finger interlocking was probably a boneheaded move on my part, but I can’t just pretend she’s not my girlfriend, so I let her squeeze my hand. I notice Hannah watching us with an indecipherable expression.
“All right, you know the drill. I cook, you guys clean,” Hannah says after we’ve demolished our meals. “I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine and start a fire.”
Gigi has to use the bathroom, so now I’m in the kitchen gathering dishes with her dad and brother. Both of whom eye me like I’m an international terrorist who somehow wound up in their house.
After a prolonged silence, Wyatt crosses his arms and says, “What do you want with my sister?”
“Wyatt,” Garrett says.
Gigi’s twin glances at his dad. “No, I got this. I’ll tag you in if I need you.” His green eyes return to me. “Well?”
I smother a sigh. “We’re together. Not sure what else you want me to say.”
“Together,” he echoes. “What does that mean?” “It means we’re together.”
“I’m tagging in,” Garrett says. His arms cross too. “Where do you see this going?”
Everywhere.
But I don’t want to say that. I’m not used to talking about my feelings in general, let alone with two men I barely know.
“I’m not exactly sure how to answer that. We’ve been together a while now. It’s going good.” I force myself to meet their respective gazes. “I consider it to be serious.”
Wyatt narrows his eyes. “I looked you up. You beat somebody up in the Juniors.”
I nod. “Yeah, I did.”
“Got an anger problem? Is that what this is?”
“Wyatt,” Garrett chides. Then he raises an eyebrow. “Although I am curious about that particular incident.”
“Guys, stop grilling him.” Gigi walks in, annoyance clouding her face. “Stop it. You don’t have to answer any of their questions, Ryder. In fact, Ryder helped Mom cook, so he doesn’t have to clean. He’s excused.” She jabs her finger at them. “You two do it. We’re going to hang out with Mom,
a.k.a. a normal person.”
Then she drags me out of the kitchen.
“Jesus Christ. Thank you,” I murmur when we’re out of earshot. “Sorry. They can be a little overprotective.”
“A little?”
“Now aren’t you glad you went shopping with me? It’s always good to have some bribery in your back pocket.”
Well, technically, she picked out all the gifts because I don’t know her family well enough to go beyond generic. But my presents do seem to be a hit, especially the sheet music I got Wyatt, which came in a cool metal box. He grudgingly thanks me, looking pleased.
“So, if you have dinner and open gifts on Christmas Eve, what do you do tomorrow?” I ask the Grahams. We’re sitting in the great room, the twinkling lights of the tree casting shadows on the walls. Of course, they have a bunch of old sentimental ornaments, tiny plaster casts of Gigi and Wyatt’s baby feet. It should be nauseating, but I don’t mind it.
“We get lazy.” For a moment, it’s as if Wyatt forgot there’s a fox in his henhouse. He answers me like I’m a normal person and not someone who’s trying to despoil his sister. “We eat leftovers. Break open the boxes of Grandma’s holiday cookies.”
“Maybe we’ll get a skate in at the pond down the street,” Gigi pipes up. “I want to see a shootout between you two—” She flicks her finger between Wyatt and me.
He scowls at her. “Please don’t force me to play hockey.” “You’re good at it.” She sounds exasperated.
“Yeah. Do you know how exhausting it is to be good at something you don’t want to do?”
Garrett snickers. “Ungrateful little shit. I give you all my talent, and what do you do with it? You sing songs.”
“Hey, that’s my talent,” Hannah says.
He’s quickly shamefaced. “Sorry, Wellsy. Your talent is way better than mine. Hands down.”
I think he truly means that. And the sheer love in his eyes almost has me feeling like a voyeur. I never saw my parents look at each other like that. I’ve never seen anyone look at each other like that.
I wonder what people see when I look at Gigi.
Eventually we all head up to bed. I walk her to her bedroom, and she stands on her tiptoes to whisper, “Sneak in when everyone’s asleep?”
“Absolutely not.” “Come on.”
“I already told you, I’m not touching you under your father’s roof. This situation is precarious enough.”
“What about sexy texting?”
I stubbornly shake my head. “What if he and I accidentally switch phones?”
“Why would that ever happen? Come on, just one dick pic.”
“What is your obsession with me?” I drawl. “Do I need Jensen to send you his PowerPoint on sex addiction?”
I kiss her good night—on the cheek—and go to the guest room. The bed is insanely comfortable, but for some reason I can’t fall asleep. I toss and turn for a while, finally deciding to raid the liquor cabinet and try to force sleep. One of the dogs follows me silently into the kitchen. The other dog is already down there. Lying on the floor in the adjacent dining room, where Hannah is wrapping presents.
I poke my head in there. “I thought we opened presents already,” I say dryly.
“Oh, this is the second part of the tradition. We pretend all the gifts are gone, and then the kids wake up the next morning and find something extra waiting for them on the kitchen table.”
“That’s a really nice tradition.” I shrug awkwardly. “Mind if I grab a drink? Something harder than water or milk, I mean.”
“Having trouble sleeping?”
“Yeah. Unfamiliar surroundings, I guess.” “Come on. I got just the trick.”
She leads me down the hall toward the den, which Garrett must also use as his office because there’s a commanding desk and shelves full of awards and framed photographs. There’s an actual shot of Garrett shaking hands with the president, yet my total lack of interest in politics has me moving toward a different photo. A group shot featuring around two dozen people on the dock of a lake.
Hannah follows my gaze. “That’s from our annual Tahoe trip. Garrett always insists on taking a group photo. Nobody is ever prepared, and someone usually falls in the lake.” She shrugs. “You’ll see for yourself this summer.”
“Who says I’ll be there?” “You will.”
She pours two glasses of whiskey, and we settle on opposite ends of the brown leather couch.
“You love my daughter.”
My head jerks toward her in surprise.
She sips her whiskey, looking amused. “You’ve figured that out, right?” I gulp my own drink. “It’s still…early.”
“So? When you know, you know.” Her lips twitch as she examines my face. “Got it. We’re still fighting it. Don’t worry, Luke—we’ll save this for another time.” She laughs softly. “Give your head some time to catch up to your heart.”
