"The World: According to Graham" will be live on Tuesday, September 29.
I hate
him so much right now that I could claw his eyes out. Bastard! How dare he? Who
does he think he is? On top of a refrigerator? Really? Can this be any more
sexist? It’s like a bad I Love Lucy
episode. I should have known that the guy who could found the Sons of Liberty
and talk about such sexist trash on the radio would be the one to put a woman
on top of a refrigerator. I hope he meets an untimely demise by getting stomped
to death by women wearing spiked high-heeled shoes. And unfortunately for me,
this Neanderthal is my baby’s daddy.
“Uncross
your arms, Rachael. Wipe the scowl off of your face. I want to share with you
how the next two weeks are going to go.” He has the nerve to punctuate the end
of his statement with a gorgeous smile that makes that damn dimple under his
eye appear. I hate the dimple, and I hate what he does to me. Will our baby have that same dimple?
I do
uncross my arms, but the scowl is permanent until I’m on solid ground. “I know
exactly how the next two weeks and months are going to go. I’m leaving tomorrow
for Texas. I’m staying with Caroline and Colin until I determine where I want
to live.” He’s so smug that I wish I could throw something at him, hitting him
right between the eyes. Yes. That would make me feel better.
Just as
he opens his mouth to respond, I add, “And I’m going to write a book on how I
broke the glass ceiling in D.C. politics, and why women should just say no to
player pretty boys with dimples and seemingly normal jobs because they turn out
to be assholes.” Where did that come from? I haven’t seriously considered
writing my biography.
He
smirks. “Like my dimple, do you?”
Have I
called him a bastard in the last five minutes? Doesn’t matter. If the term fits
. . .
The
smile fades and his face becomes stoic. His shoulders tense and the muscles in
his sculpted arms bulge unnaturally against his skin. Damn him for not putting
on a T-shirt this morning. My pregnancy hormones make it hard for me to
remember why I’m so angry with him right now.
Oh yeah!
Refrigerator. Focus on where you are and not looking at his abs.
But they’re so pretty.
“Seriously,
we need to talk about us,” he begins. His tortoiseshell glasses enhance his
serious demeanor, and I contemplate why he doesn’t wear them more often. He
looks like freaking Clark Kent and images of him taking me from behind in a
phone booth penetrate my brain.
“Are you
listening to me, Rachael?” he asks, while I try to remember where I’ve seen a
phone booth recently.
“I’m at
too high of an altitude to listen,” I reply with a shrug.
He
sighs. “This is serious.”
“I’m
sure it is. Serious enough that my feet can’t touch the ground because I might
bolt.”
“Fuck,”
he yells, as his hands slap the counter. I jump, startled by his behavior.
Okay. That got my attention. I sit up straight and pay attention. “Will you
just let me speak?”
It’s at
the tip of my tongue—a sarcastic response—but I
keep it to myself, and instead just nod.
Pre-order your copy of "The World: According to Graham" here (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B013GUG21Q).
1 comments:
Oh Snap- just keeps getting better and better ;) Counting down wish it was Tuesday
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