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“I’m going to make you forget every bad fuck you’ve ever had.”
She laughs, amused. “You’re on the right track, Evan. But if you keep this up, I won’t just forget the fucking, I’ll forget my own name.”
I smile and kiss her on the lips, basking in the sweetness of this moment. “If you want, I can be more tender.” I can’t hold back a smile when she frowns, almost offended.
“Don’t even think about it. I want you to fuck me until my brain explodes. And when we go back to New York, we need to find a four-poster bed.”
I burst out laughing and kiss her again. My heart pumps in my chest at the thought of returning to New York and having other days like this.
I’ve always planned out every detail of my life, both work and private. But recently, I’ve learned to appreciate the small moments of unexpected happiness that life decides to give me, like this one. Lying on the bed, holding in my arms the woman who makes me lose my mind, planning where to put a four-poster bed, is the closest I’ve come to paradise. I realize I’ve never known true happiness until this moment. All my problems are thousands of miles away—I’ll think about them when I go back to New York. For now, I just want to enjoy a moment of normalcy that I’ve never had before.
I peel my eyes open at a persistent knock on the door. Evan hasn’t woken up yet and holds me in his arms as if he doesn’t ever want to let me go. I struggle to get up while I look for our clothes and push him to wake him up.
“We’re up! Give us a minute!” I shout as Evan finally stretches and, when he realizes someone is at the door, gets up in a hurry, picking up the clothes we left on the floor yesterday. Neither of us put anything back on during the night, not even underwear.
Evan possessed me in so many different ways it seemed ridiculous to play modest and cover myself to sleep in his arms. I put my feet on the floor, and my legs struggle to support me. It’s the first time in my life that I’m physically exhausted from a night of sex. I glance at Evan, who’s smiling. Last night radically changed our relationship. The things he did to my body while I moaned his name went beyond just sex in the heat of the moment. He branded me, engraved his name in my soul, and nothing can ever erase it again. I just hope that amazing sex doesn’t cloud my judgment about Evan.
He kisses me gently before slipping into clean clothes while I run to the bathroom. We both need a shower, but I don’t think the person behind the door will wait.
When Evan opens it, we’re more or less presentable, and the sheriff glances at us, perhaps realizing we’re not just colleagues but also lovers, but he doesn’t say anything. Fortunately, I should say. Because I wouldn’t be able to answer a direct question about it. Defining our relationship wasn’t at the top of the nighttime activities list.
“Are you still interested in Emma?”
“Of course, can we go and talk to her?” Evan’s voice is a mixture of excitement and hoarseness from just waking up. I’ve never heard anything sexier, and every part of me awakens in an all-too-powerful way.
It’s obvious the sheriff has done some checks on us and decided we’re good people or that we really work for a record company, but he wants to keep an eye on us for a while longer.
“I’ll go with you to her house and stay until you’re done.”
“Absolutely. If it’s not a problem for Emma to discuss the contract with other people in the room, it’s certainly not a problem for us.” I intervene so Evan can grab what he needs and make himself presentable for our meeting.
The sheriff nods and waits to escort us out of the hotel to a small two-story house not far away, at the end of a dirt road. The family certainly isn’t rich, given the modest home, but the lawn and grounds are well cared for and tidy, if a bit old and worn. It reminds me of my mother’s house, where every little broken thing has been fixed with what they can afford. Not always with the best materials, but nothing is left uncared for. It has that air of dignity of those who don’t have much money but aren’t going to be defeated by it.
Emma comes out on the porch as soon as she sees us get out of the car. With her floral dress and light brown hair flowing past her shoulders, she has a girl-next-door beauty, the kind that drives audiences crazy. She watches us carefully, blushing, her feet drawing invisible lines on the planks of the porch. Her hands squeeze the screen door so tightly her knuckles have turned white. She’s nervous, and I’m a bit nervous too because she’s my first client, and I’m afraid of doing something wrong. Evan’s hand resting lightly on my back is a reassuring touch, moving me forward with a firm step and a smile on my face.
“Emma, we finally meet!” I reach out to shake her hand. “I’m Emily, and this is my colleague, Evan, the person who tried to contact you on social media.”
Her grip is firmer than I expected, but her mouth is frozen in a tight smile. “Nice to meet you. My parents are inside. They’re not particularly thrilled about this and may seem a bit grumpy.” Her voice is almost a whisper, perhaps to avoid being heard by the people inside.
The squeeze in my stomach tightens. I hoped I wouldn’t have to deal with overprotective parents in my first experience with a client, but I try to calm my nerves and step up. “Don’t worry. We’re here to answer any questions you may have.”
We step inside and notice the family’s shoes carefully stored under a small bench with crocheted pillows. Emma has a pair of slippers on her feet, so I put my hand on the wall and start untying my shoes.
“Oh, you don’t need to take them off.” Emma tries to stop us.
“Do you usually wear shoes in the house?” I ask her with a smile.
She shakes her head and blushes.
“We don’t mind either.” I finish taking off my shoes, and Evan does the same.
I learned visiting the homes of lower income people that they’re often quite careful about where they live. You don’t walk around with dirty shoes, partly for hygiene reasons, but mostly to preserve the floors and carpets from having to be washed or replaced, costing money the family doesn’t have. It’s a matter of respect for the residents of the house.
When we enter the living room, a woman in her forties and a slightly older man, Emma’s parents, are standing in front of a fireplace, its mantel full of family photos. They’re dressed simply in jeans and T-shirts and seem more nervous than their daughter, perhaps even annoyed. In a suit and tie, Evan is definitely overdressed here.
Emma’s mother notices our bare feet, and a mixture of surprise and gratitude appears on her face.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Emily, and this is my colleague, Evan” I shake her mother’s hand first and then her father’s.
