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Emory’s parents could be pulling in a hefty amount of rent each month for this place, and instead, they’re letting me stay in it for free.
Good God, this feels like more than I deserve…
“Are you sure it’s okay I stay here?” I ask Emory uncomfortably. I appreciate her generosity, but that doesn’t mean I feel good about it. I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve ever had in life, and somehow, taking her offer in this time of need seems like a concession of morals.
“Of course. There hasn’t been a tenant in a couple of months, and my parents love you.”
“They do?”
She laughs. “God knows why.”
“Very funny.”
Emory grabs my arm and shoves. “Well, when you ask a dumb question, you get a dumb answer. My parents have known you almost as long as they’ve known me, Greer. You’re like a second daughter. I’m not sure why you’re surprised by that. Especially after I already told you before we left for New York that they were more than willing to help you out.”
God, the Collinses are fucking generous. Too generous. And there was no way in hell I could take them up on their offer to help me climb out of my garbage financial situation. It was way too much, and I didn’t feel worthy of that kind of charity.
Also, I didn’t want to feel like a charity case either.
My pride is far too thick and strong to allow that.
Insecurity of my vulnerabilities makes me play off her words. “You’re right. I mean, I’m entirely lovable. I’m probably even their favorite daughter.”
She squawks and drops one of my boxes unceremoniously. I set mine down gently and jump forward to put my finger in her face.
“That thing better have pillows in it, Emory Marie!”
Arms flailing, she comes at me like a wrecking ball, and I leap over boxes like an Olympic hurdler to get away.
“Favorite daughter, my ass!” she yells, chasing after me on a hyena-like laugh.
“All right,” I yell, dodging her fist with a bob and a weave. “All right, you lunatic! You’re the favorite daughter, obviously! I’d definitely respect someone who came out of my vagina more than someone who didn’t!”
“Oh my God!” she exclaims on a cackle. “Why are you so gross?”
“Because I was raised by wolves, Emory.”
“You were raised by men.” She wrinkles her nose, and I grin.
“I’m pretty sure we’re saying the same thing here.”
Emory’s eyes roll toward the ceiling. “We both know that’s not it. Your brother has way more manners than you do.”
I shrug it off. “I guess I just don’t conform to the societal ideal of a lady, then.”
“No kidding.” She snorts. “Quince and Trent’s friend Cap is right. You probably would get along great with him.”
“What?” I ask, stopping short as suspect rosiness colors her cheeks and her mouth closes. “Did you just say Trent? As in Trent Turner?”
“You know he’s friends with Quincy. And I’m dating Quincy. I can’t help it if my boyfriend is good buddies with your new boss.”
I glare. “So, you’ve been talking about me with my boss’s friends?”
“No, of course not,” she says. Too bad, her face says another thing.
“You have! Why were you talking about me?”
“We weren’t,” she refutes.
“Emory Marie!” I shout, arms raised like a lunatic. “What did you say about me?”
“It was just casual conversation—small talk—not the combination to your safety deposit box. Jesus.”
“My safety deposit box has nothing but lint and an old Altoid in it. I’d honestly rather you’d given them the combination,” I retort. “And when did all this happen?”
“That night I had to suffer through dinner with my lovely boyfriend and his, obnoxious, third-wheeling, caveman buddy, Caplin Hawkins. I already told you all of this.” She puts a defiant hand to her hip. “And you act like the details of our friendship are a state secret. Are you a Russian spy? Do I need to ask the FBI to conduct an investigation?”
“I just…” I pause and look down at my Converse sneakers as I try to formulate what in the hell I even want to say. “I just don’t like wondering what other people know about me,” I say seriously, and the tone of my voice sobers Emory up quickly.
“I wouldn’t say anything bad about you. I’m your best friend, and I’m always looking out for your best interests.”
“Talking about me with my boss’s best friends doesn’t feel like my best interests.”
“I swear I didn’t say anything bad.”
I mull over her words for a long moment. “So…Quincy is good friends with Trent?”
She nods. “Friends since they were kids.”
“So…he talks to him a lot?”
“I guess, yeah…” She pauses and searches my eyes. “What are you getting at here?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug one nonchalant shoulder. “Maybe Quince could, like, you know, talk me up to his asshole friend. Put in a good word.”
She quirks a brow. “You want Quince to talk you up to Trent?”
