His lips crack into a wide smile. “I know. I can see you.” Amusement suffuses his voice and it’s smooth and satiny like caramel. “What can I do for you?”

“You can stop playing games with me,” I snap, jamming my finger at the phone for emphasis.

In front of me, a slightly stunned, barely legal bar patron points to his own narrow chest, eyes widening. “Me?” he mouths.

“No, not you,” I mouth back. Rolling my eyes, I motion at the phone. Hello, can’t you see I’m talking here? I turn my back on him.

Graeme’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know we were playing a game.”

“Oh, give me a break. You act all innocent, but really you’re a manipulative asshole!” Silence. I barrel on, glorying in the renewed vortex of anger churning in my chest. “I got your voice mail. Biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard after the stunt you pulled today—”

Graeme jerks forward, frowning. “Okay, pump the brakes. What stunt? What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You’ll have to enlighten me.”

“Eavesdropping on my meeting with James?” I grit through clenched teeth.

“You… you think I was eavesdropping?” A dog barks somewhere on his end, a series of loud, gruff yips. If it’s his, it’s probably some obnoxious purebred.

“Yes, I do. Like you do for every meeting, skulking on the phone, letting people forget you’re even on the line. Except this time, I wasn’t expecting you to be there at all so it was extra shitty.”

A crease forms between his eyebrows. “Is that really what you think I do?”

“If the shoe fits.”

Graeme brings the phone closer to his face and his eyes flash. Are they blue? Green? It’s too difficult to make out in the growing darkness. “How much have you had to drink?”

Busted. Goose bumps rise along my arms.

“What? Pffff. None. Nothing. Zip.”

“I can hear you’re in a bar. Some guy just ordered a Naughty Nellie. Where are you?”

“What do you care?”

He lifts and lowers one shoulder. “I don’t. Except who would I argue with about work if you end up floating facedown in the bay?”

I snort. “Your mom.” A not-so-attractive feature of my personality: I get dreadfully immature when I’m drunk.

Craaaaap. I’m drunk.

My empty stomach gurgles, suddenly longing for food to soak up the booze sloshing around in there, and my head swims. Graeme stands and makes a sound of frustration halfway between a huff and a growl, and I finally catch a glimpse of what’s behind him—headstones.

“Are you in a graveyard?” I blurt.

“It’s a good place to walk my dog.” Scrubbing a hand across his jaw, he glances away.

Weird. “Okay, Buffy.”