6. Six
Six
Sam
The moment I walk into Emily's office, the air changes. She's perched behind her desk, all long legs and curves wrapped in a charcoal pencil skirt that should be illegal. Her white blouse dips low yet still high enough to be professional but distracting as hell. Those red-soled heels she's wearing again make her legs look endless. Everything about her screams control, but all I can think about is messing up her perfectly polished image.
"Sam." Her voice is crisp, businesslike. "Thanks for coming in."
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "What's up, Boss Lady?"
A slight flush colors her cheeks at the nickname, but she maintains her composure. "Close the door."
I raise an eyebrow but comply, deliberately taking my time. "Planning on firing me?"
"Don't tempt me," she mutters, shuffling some papers on her desk. "We need to discuss your recent... attitude toward my position with the band."
"My attitude?" I push off the door, taking slow steps toward her desk. The way she shifts in her chair tells me my approach affects her, even if she's trying to hide it. "What about my attitude?"
"You know exactly what I mean." Her eyes narrow. "The constant challenges, the eye-rolling during meetings, the way you deliberately do the opposite of what I suggest—"
"Maybe I just don't like being told what to do." I stop in front of her desk, hands in my pockets.
"Well, that's too bad," she snaps, standing up. "Because, like it or not, I'm in charge of managing this band now."
"Yeah, you keep reminding everyone of that."
Her eyes flash dangerously. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means maybe you're trying too hard to prove yourself." I lean forward, palms flat on her desk. "Always so proper, so professional. So... controlled."
"Someone has to be." She comes around the desk, those heels clicking against the floor. Bad move on her part. Because now there's nothing between us but tension. "The band needs structure, organization—"
"The band needs authenticity," I counter, straightening to my full height. "Not some corporate puppet show."
"Puppet show?" She jabs a finger at my chest. "I’m willing to work my ass off to help this band succeed—"
"Nobody's questioning your work ethic, Emily." I catch her wrist gently, and her words stop. The air crackles between us. "Just your motivation."
"My motivation?" She tries to pull her hand away, but I hold firm. "What exactly are you implying?"
"I think you're hiding behind all these rules and schedules because you're scared."
"Scared?" She scoffs, but I notice she's not trying to pull away anymore. "Of what?"
"Of losing control." I step closer, backing her against the desk. "Of admitting that maybe there's more going on here than just business."
"You're being ridiculous." Her voice wavers slightly. "This is strictly professional—"
"Is it?" I release her wrist but don't step back. "Then why does your breath catch every time I get close?"
"It does not—" she starts to protest, but I lean in closer, and sure enough, her breath hitches.
"See?" I murmur, close enough now that I can smell her perfume. "Just like that."
"Sam..." It comes out as a warning, but her eyes drop to my lips.
"Tell me to back off," I challenge softly. "Tell me you don't feel this."
"I..." She grips the edge of the desk behind her. "This isn't appropriate."
"Appropriate?" I laugh low in my throat. "Nothing about the way I feel is appropriate, Boss Lady."
Her eyes darken at the nickname. "We can't—"
“Can’t what?”
She tries to pull away, put some distance between us. "Back to why I called you here. Your… ah… resistance to my suggestions isn't helping anyone."
"Maybe I just like pushing your buttons," I say, my voice dropping lower.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about." She lights her chin haughtily. "You can't keep undermining me just because—"
I step closer, reaching out to take her hand. The tension between us rises. "Just because what, Emily?"
"Because..." Her eyes drop again to my lips, then snap back up. "Because you think it's funny to get under my skin." She pulls her hand away.
"Trust me," I step closer, backing her against the desk, "there's nothing funny about what I want to do when I'm under your skin."
Her breath catches. "Sam..."
That's all it takes. I lift her onto the desk in one smooth motion, stepping between her thighs. Her skirt rides up, revealing a hint of lace that makes my mouth go dry.
"Tell me to stop," I whisper against her lips.
"This is completely wrong," she breathes, but her hands are already gripping my shirt.
"Completely," I agree, before capturing her lips with mine.
The kiss is everything we've been dancing around for weeks—hot, hungry, and just this side of desperate. She tastes like coffee and something uniquely Emily that drives me crazy. Her fingers tangle in my hair as I deepen the kiss, and the little moan she makes in the back of her throat nearly undoes me completely.
She breaks the kiss, panting slightly. "Sam, we can't—the band—"
"Can't what?" I growl against her neck, trailing kisses down her throat. "Kiss my wife?"
Her hands push against my chest, but there's no real force behind it. "That was supposed to be annulled—"
"But it wasn't." I catch her chin, making her look at me. "You're still Mrs. Ryder, whether you want to admit it or not."
"A half-drunken Vegas wedding doesn't count—"
"Really?" I slide my hand up her thigh, feeling her shiver. "Because I have a piece of paper that states otherwise."
Her hand flies to her throat, "I just... I haven't had time to—"
"To what? File for a divorce?" I smile against her skin. "You’ve had over a year."
"I..." She gasps as I nip at her pulse point. “We shouldn’t—”
But my mouth covers hers roughly, stopping her protests. She finally begins to kiss me back, but then she stops with a hand on my chest, pushing me away.
“We shouldn’t—this is… is… totally unprofessional.”
"Stop hiding behind that word." I pull back to look at her, my hands framing her face. "This thing between us? It's real."
"Sam..."
"Tell me you don't feel it, too." My thumb traces her bottom lip. "Tell me you don't think about us."
"I think about it," she whispers, her fingers curling into my shirt.
"Then stop fighting this." I press my forehead to hers. "Stop fighting us."
"The band—"
"Will deal with it." I brush my lips against hers softly. "It’s no big deal."
She pulls back slightly, narrowing her eyes. "What?"
“It’s no big deal. Our being married—”
“Yes, Sam. It is.” I realize I’ve said the wrong thing as her expression changes. Hardens.
She then places a hand on my chest and pushes me away. I turn as she straightens her clothing and stands. But I notice the way her legs appear unsteady, and her face is flushed.
“This was a mistake—”
“No, it wasn’t,” I interrupt, stepping closer. “Don’t act like this is one-sided.”
Emily narrows her eyes. “I can’t deny that we have chemistry. But I don’t like being out of control. And you took advantage.”
I flinch at her words. “Really? You mean you dressed this way just to have a talk with me?”
Her eyes widen as my barb hits home.
“I made a mistake.” She looks up at me, her eyes blazing.
“That isn’t what I meant–”
Her expression hardens further, and she steps back, putting more space between us. “Sam, come on,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “We don’t get along. We’re too volatile when we’re together—too different.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Why, because you’re you, and I’m me?” I frown at her.
“Wow. That’s profound, Sam. Did you come up with that all on your own?” Her voice drips sarcasm.
“Don’t do that,” I snap, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You know what I meant.” Taking a deep breath to calm myself. “I’m tired of arguing. We need to talk and settle things once and for all.”
Emily narrows her eyes, lifting her chin. “Fine. Talk.”
“We need to stop pretending we can’t stand each other–”
“I’m not pretending anything,” she interrupts me, “You’re the one who started this, remember?” She crosses her arms, her gaze sharp enough to cut steel.
My head reels, and I hear Cass's voice saying to either tell her how I feel or leave her the hell alone. The way she's looking at me now, all fire and defiance, makes me want to kiss her again, to prove that what's between us is more than just antagonism.
"Look," I say, exhaling sharply. "What if we stop fighting this?" The words spill out before I can stop them. "What if we actually give our marriage a chance? Why not see if we can make it work?"
She stares at me like I've lost my mind, but I don't miss how her breath catches and how her pupils dilate slightly. She affects me in ways no other woman ever has. "You're kidding, right?"
“No. I’m not kidding,” I say, taking a step closer. “Let’s give it a shot.”
“Give it a shot?” Her laughter is sharp and humorless, her face clouded with disbelief. “Why can’t you, for once, be serious?”
“I’m not joking, Emily. I’m saying we—”
“You’re saying we should try to make our marriage work? A marriage where you’ve spent the last year treating it like a joke?”
Her words hit like a slap, but I force myself to stay calm. “I’m saying we’re already in this, so why not give it a try? What’s the worst that could happen?”
Even angry, she's beautiful enough to stop my breath. Her hair is slightly mussed from where my fingers tangled in it, and the memory of how she felt in my arms makes my hands itch to touch her again.
Emily shakes her head, her jaw tight. “You really don’t get it, do you? This isn’t some experiment, Sam. This is our life. And the idea that you—of all people—think we could make this work is insulting.”
“Insulting?” I echo, my frustration boiling over. “How is it insulting to think we might have something worth fighting for?”
“Because you don’t mean it!” she snaps, her voice rising. “A few minutes ago, you agreed that we’re too different! Make up your mind, Sam!” Her eyes flash.
I flinch. “That’s not fair, and you know it.”
“Isn’t it?” she shoots back. “You’ve spent the last year calling me nicknames and cracking jokes. And now, suddenly, you want to play house? Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
I take a step back, my chest tightening. “You really think that little of me?”
“I agree that we’re too different,” she says, her voice quieter now but no less cutting. “You thrive on pranks and chaos, Sam. And I—I don’t.” She looks down. “I don’t want to live like that. I won’t.”
The finality in her tone sends a chill down my spine. “So, what? You just want to give up? Call it quits?”
“Yes,” she says, the word heavy with finality. “We should get a divorce. This—whatever this is, it’s never going to work.”
Her words hang in the air, heavy and ominous, each one landing like a blow. For a moment, I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
Divorce.
It’s the logical choice, the clean break we’ve both been subconsciously avoiding. But the thought of it—of her walking away, of her believing our marriage was nothing but a drunken mistake, a fleeting whim, makes something inside me rebel.
But maybe she’s right.
“Fine,” I say finally, my voice tight. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” she says, but her voice wavers just enough to make me wonder if she means it.
We stand there in silence, the tension between us crackling like a live wire.
And then, without another word, she turns and walks out of the office, leaving me alone.
She’s made her feelings clear. She wants out.
But as much as I try to convince myself that letting her go is the right thing to do, the thought of it makes my chest ache.
She was right—I’ve spent the last year treating our marriage like a joke. What made me think she’d suddenly see it as anything else?
But then I think about the way she kissed me back, how she responded to my touch. There was something there—something real.
I just don’t know if it’s enough. But what I do know is that I’m not ready for this to be over. Not yet.
Standing, I make a decision. I’m not giving up without a fight.