Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Twila
I’m showered, dressed in a cute, flowery sundress paired with a lightweight white denim jacket and sandals, and I’ve finished drying my hair into fat waves and applying some light, natural-looking makeup. I stare at myself in the mirror with a critical eye.
What will Emerson think when he sees me?
I roll my eyes at my reflection as I cuff the sleeves of my jacket. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks. This is all an act, and as long as he appears smitten with me in public, we’ll be fine.
But I can’t lie to myself. It matters to me. I want him to find me attractive, and no amount of self-admonishment is going to change that. He’s too good looking. Too nice. Too funny. Too fun, period.
I really need him to do something to give me the ick, or else I’m going to be spending this entire weekend trying to pretend like this thing is as fake for me as it is for him.
Taking a deep breath, I leave the bathroom and grab my purse off the bed. After confirming my phone and room key are inside, I stiffen my spine and leave the bedroom. My eyes immediately find Emerson by the windows, staring out at the strip.
I must make a noise, because he turns toward me, mouth open like he’s about to say something. Then he freezes, his mouth still hanging open as his gaze glides down to my feet and back up again.
Ditto, indeed.
He’s wearing a pair of neatly pressed khaki shorts and a lilac polo shirt that makes his eyes pop, the sleeves straining against his biceps. His hair is styled into an artistic mess, and he’s wearing deck loafers with no socks. It’s a preppy look, and on him, I don’t hate it.
As if someone flipped a switch, we both clear our throats and leap into action, moving about the room while talking over each other. When we realize what we’re doing and stop, we lock eyes and burst into laughter.
“Awkward,” I sing-song under my breath, and he chuckles again.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“So do you,” I reply, then nod toward the door. “Shall we?”
As we walk down the hall, I start to feel a bit uncomfortable. Should I hold his hand like I did before? You know, just in case? Why isn’t he trying to hold mine? Does he not want to? Shit, are my palms getting sweaty?
“So,” he says as the elevator doors swish open, and we step inside, “we probably should’ve come up with a game plan for dinner.”
The doors close, and I cock my head at him. “A game plan?”
He nods. “For how to act when we’re in public and may be recognized. I don’t want to do anything you’re not one-hundred percent comfortable with. We held hands earlier, so am I safe to assume that’s okay?”
“Yeah, holding hands is good.”
“Good,” he says, then slips his hand into mine and tightens his grip. “What about hugs? Or draping my arm around your shoulders?”
“That should be fine,” I say, the business talk making my brain finally start firing on all cylinders for the first time since I left my bedroom. “But no kissing. We did just meet, after all.”
“No kissing,” he repeats slowly, and did I hear a note of disappointment in his voice?
“At least not tonight,” I rush to add, and he nods slowly as his lips hike up at the corners.
“Got it,” he says.
The elevator stops and the doors slide open, effectively ending the conversation. He holds onto my hand as we step out onto the casino floor. His scent envelopes me as he leans in, speaking directly into my ear so I can hear him over the cacophony of slot machine noises.
“What kind of food were you thinking? There are several restaurants here, or we can go somewhere else if you have something in mind.”
“There’s a pizza and wings place on the other side of the casino floor,” I suggest, and his eyebrows hike up.
“Are you sure? I can take you someplace fancier, if you want. It’s my treat.”
I shake my head. “I’m not fancy. And I love pizza.”
“Okay, then,” he says, his smile blinding me. “If the lady wants pizza, then pizza, she shall have.”
I laugh at his serious tone, and he shoots me a wink before pulling me across the casino.
There’s no wait at the restaurant, thank God, and the hostess takes us to a table right away.
It’s a booth, and Emerson waits until I slide in on one side before he takes his seat on the other.
I’m a bit relieved, yet somehow, equally disappointed that he didn’t slide in next to me on my side.
It’s confusing and frustrating, and I could really use a drink.
A waiter appears beside our table, and Emerson and I both order draft beers as well as a basket of bread for the table.
As the waiter leaves to put in our order, I stare at the menu with blind eyes.
I can feel Emerson watching me. And I can’t decide whether to meet his gaze or to keep pretending I haven’t noticed.
I don’t react as he clears his throat and picks up his own menu, saying, “Okay, serious question. And think hard before you answer, because this could make or break our relationship.”
My eyes shoot toward him without my permission, and I’m not quite sure what to make of his expression. He looks like he’s trying to appear solemn and serious, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes that’s impossible to miss.
“Okay, shoot,” I say, holding the eye contact.
“Pineapple on pizza. Yea or nay?”
“Yuck. Nay,” I say, shivering like someone just walked over my grave.
“Good answer,” he says, grinning widely. “What toppings do you like?”
“I like meat ,” I say, and when his eyes widen a fraction, a chuckle bursts out of me. “Oh, my God, pervert. I meant pepperoni. Bacon. Sausage. On my pizza.”
“I knew that,” he murmurs, his expression relaxing into a warm smile. “I like meat, too. What about mushrooms and peppers?”
“I’ll allow it,” I say. “But no olives.”
“Of course, not,” he says, feigning shock. “Only monsters like olives in any form.”
“Truth,” I say, and he chuckles.
“Okay, what about wings? Buffalo or barbecue?”
“Buffalo. And before you ask, ranch dressing all the way. Blue cheese is blech .”
“Agreed,” he says. “Sauce or dry rub?”
“Both,” I say firmly, and he nods.
“I think we’re going to get along just fine, Twila Greene.”
So do I. I don’t say the words aloud, but I can tell by his grin he knows I agree with him.
We drink our beers and eat bread until the pizza and wings arrive, and the conversation never lags. Talking with Emerson is easy and comfortable, like we’ve known each other for ages. I wonder why that is until it finally hits me. It’s him .
Emerson is just so easygoing and friendly, he makes me feel relaxed and safe. He’s also funny and entertaining. It doesn’t hurt that he’s gorgeous, either. He has no problem holding my attention, and I never feel bored.
We decide to lay low tonight since we’re both a little tired from the drive.
We’ll hit the strip tomorrow, and maybe go to a club or a show in the evening.
Maybe we’ll be recognized, and someone will post footage of us together.
If not, we can film our own footage to post. But tonight, we just want to hang out in our suite and get some rest.
After dinner, we head back upstairs. In the elevator, Emerson holds my hand long after the doors close, leaving us alone. I don’t move, barely even breathe, and a few beats later, he squeezes my hand before releasing it.
The feeling of loss is surprising while somehow simultaneously expected. I didn’t want him to let go. I like the feeling of his palm against mine.
But nobody’s watching, so there’s no reason for him to hold on. Right?