Graham Teaser #2

"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.

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