12. LIAM
12
LIAM
Six Summers Ago
She didn’t show for dinner.
I found myself quite disappointed in the fact. Not that I should have expected her to show. She warned me, but a guy can dream, right?
That’s what she feels like—a dream.
I never thought I’d see her again in a city of three million people and tourists. Ever since yesterday, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head.
But then I saw her today, again.
Hours ago, laying in the sun on a stone wall overlooking the city and ocean. Her head propped up on a bag, a book in her hands. I’d never seen someone look that serene and equally alluring at the same time.
The way her chocolate hair fell behind her, waves flowing out on the stone. Even from where I was sitting, I could tell she wasn’t wearing any makeup, not that she needs it, anyway.
I sat on the bench, a novel in hand, reading her between sentences. A pestering itch to know her, to be close to her. She looked over at me, a hauntingly angelic smile on her face, and damn if that didn’t do something to me. My veins singe at the memory of her smile.
Who smiles that big while reading? She does.
It fell away as she drew her mouth into a straight line and told me to take a picture.
If she only knew the amount of mental pictures I took. I’d be seeing her in all my favorite dreams now .
And maybe those dreams might come true tonight.
Her eyelids flutter. Emerson does her best not to show any other emotion except for leave-me-the-fuck-alone.
Whatever gloss she painted on tonight is reflecting in the light, drawing my eyes to her lips. Her tongue darts out of her mouth, wetting her lower lip. It makes them shimmer even more, and my blood rushes lower, turned on by everything that wicked tongue could do.
It doesn’t take long for one drink to become three, then four. Each drink loosening her walls.
Emerson is like an iceberg; what you see isn’t everything. What you should be afraid of is under the surface, just as the depths of her are more dangerous than this icy front she’s putting on.
I don’t know why. . . someday, I plan to ask, but tonight, I count myself lucky that she’s even showing it to me.
A comfort between us settles in quickly, and I fret that with one wrong move, it will be redacted as quickly.
There isn’t an arrogance to her like some beautiful women. Don’t get me wrong—Emerson is a sass, but in a funny, protective, captivating way that makes me want more of it. Every time she talks, I’m captivated by what she says and how she says it. Her lips move with such precision that I wonder what they’d be like on me.
I watch Emerson intently. I can’t take my eyes off her. Lost in a daydream of everything I want to do with her, but also simply lost in this moment with her.
I wonder if Emerson realizes how amazing she is.
In the time we’ve been talking, the bar has slowly transformed into more of a club. The center of the room has become a dance floor, lights are dimming, tables have all moved to the outskirts, and a DJ is now located in a corner booth.
“I think the two guys behind you are trying to get your attention,” Emerson says, gesturing over my shoulder.
Behind me, George and Callum are on the dance floor with girls in their arms. George points at me. Or is he pointing at Emerson? Definitely her. He raises his eyebrows toward the both of us and then turns his finger to beckon us to join them on the dance floor.
“Oh.” I turn back to her. “Those are my friends. They want us to join them out there, but we don’t have—”
Emerson cuts me off, surprising me with what she says, “Sounds fun. Let’s go.”
She stands up, leaving her drink on the table. Without asking, she takes my hand, pulling me to my feet and behind her as we make our way to Callum and George.
I interlock my fingers with hers, curious to see if they’d fit. Like a key in its lock, they do.
We’re almost at the center of the dance floor when she stops. I bump into her. She turns to face me, placing her other hand on my chest.
“Warning. I am not a good dancer.” She hesitantly chuckles.
Emerson meant it. She is quite terrible—no coordination, no control. But she left out that she doesn’t care that she is bad.
From beside the guys, I watch her spin in a circle, tossing her hair over one shoulder, when her eyes lock with mine.
I don’t know if the alcohol provides liquid courage or if this is always her, but the way she moves is even more magnetic, pulling me to her. I join her, mimicking her ridiculous dance moves.
George and Callum flash us caviling glances, but I don’t care. Judgment is the last thing on my mind right now, from them or anyone in the place.
At this moment, nothing else matters but her. All I see is her. All I feel is her. All I want is her.
At this moment, there isn’t anyone else here but us. All I see is us. All I feel is us. All I want is us.
I don’t think I ever want this to end. And I don’t know if my mind means tonight or whatever this bond I feel with her is.
I pull Emerson to me. Up against my body and wrap my arms around her. I rest my chin on top of her head. Pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, the smell of coconut and macadamia nut fills my nose. It’s warm and savory. Which I imagine she is. Emerson isn’t a sweet girl, not someone I want to indulge in but savor forever. Leaning down so that my head is level with her ear. “Do you want to get out of here?” I ask her. Quiet enough that only she can hear me, but loud enough that my question doesn’t get lost in the music.
“Liam—”
My stomach drops at how she says my name for the first time.
“You’d be much happier leaving with any other girl here,” she says frankly. An invisible barrier rises between us. “I’m not that type of—”
“We don’t need to sleep together,” I blurt out.
“It’s not that,” she says.
“Then what is it?” I find her eyes and search them.
“It’s that. . . the way you just looked at me.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you want to fall in love with me,” Emerson says.