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On the dinner coming our way.
We eat our lamb in a comfortable silence. It’s so good that taking my mind off it for half a second seems sacrilegious.
And yet, I do.
I wonder at myself. Why I’m like this with him, going off on these pseudo-philosophical tangents.
Why?
I swallow a too-big piece of lamb in my anxious reverie and end up cough-choking on it before finally washing it down with a huge gulp of water.
Gelato that cools my tongue with rich minty decadence is dessert. We argue over the bill, and he insists on getting it. “After all, I was the one who invited you.”
“Beach walk?” Emerson offers as we rise to go, but I shake my head.
“I think I’ll... turn in. Everything’s happened so fast that... slow might be good. For tonight, at least.”
Emerson pauses, his disappointed frown contrasting with the blank eyes he turns on me. “Yeah?”
I turn my head and nod. “Yeah.”
Emerson doesn’t mention how it’s only nine o’clock. He doesn’t mention how, tonight, the hotel activity program delivered into our rooms had at least three worthwhile activities—a comedy show, a bonfire, and stargazing. Instead, he takes my hand and says, “I’ll walk you, then.”
As we walk along, I can’t help a “That’s it?” from slipping out.
An ironic look. “You’d rather I argue?”
“No.” I laugh a little. “I just figured—”
“That I’d pressure you?” He gives his head a small shake as we continue on, into the violently air-conditioned hotel lobby with star-shaped black and white tiles.
“Not exactly,” I admit.
We lapse into silence as we venture in further, passing lazily pleased-looking hotel guests making their way to their rooms or the bar. His hand in mine is as steady and right-fitting as a mitten.
At my door, we pause.
No sooner has the question—Will he?—entered my mind than he is, his lips landing on mine. His kiss is an answer and a question, a leading and a straying. He kisses me like his lips want to say what’s been unsaid this whole time, whatever it is.
He’s the one to pull away, though, and we stand there with our faces close, breathing hard.
In an abrupt motion, he jolts himself away, tearing his gaze off my lips, off me.
“I’ll respect your wishes,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
We stand there, looking at each other, daring the other to make the final move.
It doesn’t help that Emerson is stupidly, ridiculously gorgeous. That tousled blond hair, those blue eyes, that sculpted jawline that magazines would pay good money for. His massive hulking shoulders and arms, the sculpted six-pack-clad torso that I know looks even better naked.
“Goodbye,” Emerson says again, this time more for himself than for me, turning away.
And it’s a good thing that he leaves since I couldn’t hold it in any longer. There’s this physical want in me, as intrinsic and basic as a gnawing itch, a piercing toothache, to press myself against him and let our bodies do the rest.
Seconds later, though, he’s striding back. “Wynona, there’s one more thing I want you to know.”
A phone rings.
We freeze.
Emerson scowls, hand going instinctively to his leather coat pocket. Then he shakes his head and drops his hand again.
“You should get that,” I tell him.
“It’s fine. Really, it’s fine,” I tell him.
Scowling, he picks it up, then, seeing the caller, his scowl deepens.
“I have to take this,” he growls, stalking off.
I watch him go, wondering who it could possibly be.
Chapter 10
Emerson
“This had better be good,” I tell her back in the lobby.
To think I strode right by her minutes ago, was so engrossed with Wynona that I didn’t even notice.
Now, though, there’s no escaping her.
Mary looks at me, teary eyes wide yet narrow at the same time. Not believing what they’re seeing. Not liking it one bit.
“That’s it?” she asks quietly.
That same husky voice that could carry a tune ridiculously well.
She’s done something different with her hair, cut it or something, but she’s all the same. Same pretty olive-skinned oval of a face, brown eyes, dyed blonde hair. That cute mole on her chin is still there. Her nervous smile shows tiny little teeth like a rabbit.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask her in a low voice. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”
“No,” she says slowly. “But you did ask for another chance.”
I eye her. “Yeah, half a year ago.”
“I...” She trails off, eyes finally narrowing. “Wow. You’re really still bitter, aren’t you?”
“That you dumped me with no explanation, nothing but a ‘goodbye’ text out of the blue? No, actually.”
It seems too cruel to admit the full truth of it. When I look at you now, I feel nothing.
“Then what is it?” she asks.
She takes a step forward, and her same perfume washes over me—like clean rain on a summer day.
Next thing I know, she’s wrapped her arms around me, murmuring, “Tell me, Emerson. Do you really feel nothing now?”
