Chapter 30
THIRTY
Emerson
I’m having such a great time with Twila, I’m finding it difficult to remember this is all supposed to be fake.
She reminded me, though, in the elevator on the way up here when I held her hand longer than necessary.
She was stiff and barely breathing, and I imagined her inner conflict.
The fight between rescuing her hand from mine and causing unnecessary friction between us by pulling away.
I don’t ever want to give her any reason to feel uncomfortable, so I released her hand despite wanting to hang on a while longer.
“Want to watch a movie?” she asks when we are safely behind the closed door of our suite.
“Yes,” I say, and she smiles at the enthusiasm in my voice.
“Let’s change into our comfies, first,” she suggests, and I nod.
With one last smile, she disappears into her bedroom, sliding the barn-style door closed behind her.
I rush into my own room, stripping quickly before pulling on some athletic shorts and a t- shirt.
Padding to the bathroom on bare feet, I wash my hands and face, brush my teeth, and spritz on some cologne.
Okay. Once again, the cologne is overkill. Shoot me.
But I want to smell good for Twila.
When I get back out into the common area, Twila’s not there and her bedroom door is still closed.
I head straight for the mini bar and find a bag of microwave popcorn.
Tossing it into the microwave to pop, I find some sodas in the tiny refrigerator and take them to the coffee table in the living room area.
I turn on the T.V. and log into my favorite streaming service before heading back to the kitchenette to retrieve the popcorn.
Just as I open the steaming bag, Twila emerges.
“Oh, that smells delicious,” she says, breathing deep.
I barely register the words, though, because her “comfies” consist of a pair of tiny cotton shorts and a tank top that leaves a wide strip of her midriff bare. Her hair is tied up into a messy bun, and her face is clean and fresh, revealing a smattering of freckles across her nose.
Shaking myself out of the catatonic state her appearance instigated, I clear my throat and head for the couch. “Does anything smell better than freshly popped popcorn?”
“Hmm,” she hums, sitting next to me, her hand snaking out to snag a handful of popcorn from the bag I’m still holding. “Fresh baked bread?”
I nod slowly, offering, “Sautéed onions?”
“Good one,” she says after swallowing a mouthful of popcorn. “Cinnamon rolls.”
“Cotton candy,” I say, and her eyes widen as her nostrils flare.
Her gaze drops to my mouth, and the message she sent in response to my picture at the Santa Monica Pier suddenly flashes through my brain.
I wish I could taste that spun sugar on your lips.
Twila’s tongue peeks out to wet her lips, making my heartrate spike. Then she clears her throat and looks away, ending the charged moment.
“So, what kind of movie are you in the mood for?” I ask to break any leftover tension, picking up the remote and holding it out to her.
She shakes her head. “You choose.”
“I insist,” I say, pushing the remote closer to her hand, but she pulls it away and shakes her head again.
“I want to see what kind of movies you like,” she says, her lips hitching up. “Pick something you want to see, and I’ll know if this relationship is doomed, or not.”
She may have said the word “relationship” like it was a misnomer, but I can see the challenge in her eyes. This is a test. Twila wants to see if our tastes in movies line up. And though her tone is teasing, I can feel the importance of this analysis in her expression.
“Okay,” I say, drawing out the word as I point the remote at the television and navigate the menu to a list of only movies and no shows.
I navigate past the romantic comedies and dramas, because while I can enjoy those types of films, they aren’t my first choice.
I’m more of a horror, sci-fi, and thriller kind of guy.
Some action movies are okay, but psychological warfare and end of the world scenarios get my blood pumping way more than bombs, guns, and machetes.
“This is my favorite movie,” I say, stopping on the tile depicting a picture of the Statue of Liberty’s torch visible above a massive wave.
“Shut up,” Twila says, looking over at me with wide eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“I’ve seen The Day After Tomorrow at least twenty times. It’s my favorite, too.”
“No way,” I say, shaking my head.
“ Sir, I am president of the Electronics Club, the Math Club, and the Chess Club. Now, if there’s a bigger nerd in here, please, point him out,” she quotes perfectly, and a laugh bursts out of me.
“Okay, The Day After Tomorrow it is, then,” I say, starting the movie.
Twila grabs another handful of popcorn in one hand before grabbing a soda off the table and leaning back. And, God, it’s the perfect choice.
We spend the next two hours trying to outdo each other by reciting lines along with the actors, tossing popcorn toward each other’s mouths, and bantering about what we’d do in that kind of natural disaster scenario.
When Jack finally finds Sam and his small group of survivors at the end, I see Twila swiping her fingers beneath her eyes before sniffing quietly.
I don’t look directly at her or acknowledge her tears in any way, but her sensitivity warms my chest. She’s still affected by the scene even after seeing the movie enough times to be able to quote most of it.
Twila Greene is a big old softy, and I kind of love that.
And damn, I want to kiss her right now.
I silently berate myself for the thought. This is fake, dipshit . If anything, Twila and I are just friends. Buddies. And friends don’t put their tongues in other friends’ mouths.
After the movie ends, Twila grabs her phone, so I grab mine, too. We’d set them to “do not disturb” before the movie, and as my screen lights up, I see dozens of notifications from BingBang. I look over at Twila, and she’s frowning at her screen as she taps a finger against it.
“Holy shit,” she breathes, and I quickly open the app.
My travel video has gone viral. And I’m tagged in about a hundred comments from Twila’s, which also has over five-hundred-thousand views.
I look over at her, and she meets my gaze with a slightly dazed expression. Her eyes clear and she grins before looking back down at her phone.
“Oh, my God, Emerson,” she says suddenly. “Someone posted footage of us together.”
I quickly find the video we were both tagged in.
It’s a shot of us walking through the casino after dinner.
I say something to Twila, and she laughs.
She looks like an angel, the lights of nearby slot machines dancing over her skin and hair.
My smile is as bright as the sun, showing my joy at being able to make her laugh like that.
It wasn’t for show. Neither of us knew we were being filmed.
The caption says, “So in love.”
As we watch, the number of likes, shares, and comments on the video multiply. The poster confirms we’re at The Black Hart, and several locals and tourists in the area pledge to find us and get more footage for everyone.
I look over and meet Twila’s eyes, and as if on cue, we both shout and jump to our feet.
We bounce around before falling into a tight hug.
My body reacts to her nearness and the fact that her breasts are pressed against my chest. I stiffen slightly, and Twila must feel the change because she leaps away from me like I’m on fire.
She clears her throat and smiles, saying, “This is amazing.”
“It really is,” I say, returning her grin. “I’m so happy you agreed to do this with me.”
“Me, too,” she says, her voice filled with honesty and conviction. “Me, too.”