CHAPTER TWENTY
EMERSON
I glance out the windows as the clouds gather across Lake Michigan. The horizon spans as far as I can see in the distance from this far up.
Sam doesn’t realize how lucky he is to live in a space with a million-dollar view like this.
I’ve finally made myself at home in the apartment that serves as my temporary home. I bite my lip as I study the canvas in front of me. Charcoal coats the tips of my fingers as I compare my progress to the scene unfolding outside. The picture doesn’t have any detail at that point, just a basic outline of what is going where. And then I’ll add the paint. I prefer to work with oil, and this time is no different.
I was trying to work in my bedroom initially, but when I came out to the kitchen to get something to drink, the lighting was so amazing through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and the view was so great as the storm clouds were building over the lake that I moved my easel and paints into the main room. And I’ve been here ever since.
“I’m not bothering you, am I, Emerson?” Milo says from the kitchen.
Milo is a chef that Sam hired when we got back into town. He’s a tall, charming guy, and he’s been friendly since we met earlier today. The plan is for him to come to the apartment two to three times a week and prepare healthy, hearty meals for Sam. Apparently, he worked for a professional basketball player in the past, so he knows all about the calorie content and nutritional requirements for athletes at this level. I guess my criticism of Sam’s poor eating habits hit home with the hockey player. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence that Milo showed up after we returned home from the West Coast. But I was still surprised when he arrived a few hours ago.
He’s in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. By the smells emanating, I’d say this guy was worth every penny, though I have no idea how much he gets paid. We’ll see if that stands when I taste his work sometime later, like I plan to.
“Not bothering me at all, Milo.” I smile over my shoulder at him. “Am I distracting you?”
“Well, you are nice to look at, Emerson, but, no … you aren’t distracting me.”
A blush fills my cheeks. “That’s not what I meant.”
He chuckles. “I know. I’m just teasing you.”
The door slams as Sam enters the space, glancing between Milo in the kitchen and me across the living room with a scowl across his handsome face. He looks turbulent, like the storm that’s building.
Milo wipes his hands on a dish towel and extends one toward my roommate. If the cook notices the hockey player’s foul expression, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “Sam Anderson?”
Sam slaps his hand and pumps it once or twice. “Yep.”
I think I see Milo grimace, and I wonder how firm Sam’s grip is.
“It’s nice to formally meet you. I’m Milo Ambrose.” The chef recovers quickly, walking back to the island and dicing vegetables again.
Maybe he’s used to moody, alpha-male athlete types. I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to the ever-changing moods of Mr. Anderson.
“I got the list of your food preferences, and I’m making enough meals for the entire week. What you don’t eat now, I’ll store in containers in the fridge or the freezer with instructions on reheating.”
“Sounds good,” Sam says, his gaze stuck on the canvas in front of me rather than the chef he’s speaking to. He walks into the living room and stops a few feet away from where I’m working. “What’s this?”
“Is it okay that I’m painting in here? I promise not to make a mess.”
I wonder if he’s mad that I’m invading his space. He sounds irritated. He looks like it, too, an angry god standing there in his predatory stance. I moved my easel into the living room while he was at practice this afternoon, so it’s not like I asked for permission. I might be staying here, but this is his place.
“The light was so good in this room that I couldn’t resist. But I can move everything back.”
Sam’s brow furrows. “You’ve been painting in your room?”
“Yeah,” I say, mixing white and blue paint together until I get the exact shade of gray that I’m looking for while I wait to see what he prefers me to do.
“There’s not enough room for your bedroom furniture and your art stuff in there.”
Sam’s never been in my room since I moved in, but it’s his apartment, so he knows the general square footage. What he doesn’t know is, my bedroom here is bigger than the one I had at Suki’s townhouse.
“I make it work.” I wave him off. This entire place is a luxury of space and amenities that I don’t take for granted. “I just saw that”—I point to the sky outside the apartment with my brush—“and I got inspired.”
“It’s fine,” he insists gruffly. “You can paint in here anytime you want. But your bedroom isn’t going to cut it. There’s not enough space for all this … stuff.”
His eyes linger on the curve of my shoulder as the wide-necked shirt I’m wearing slips down my upper arm.
“It’s an easel and canvas,” I say, drawing his eyes to my face.
“Huh?”
“This stuff … it’s called an easel, and this is a canvas.” I motion to the surface I’m painting on and the contraption holding it up.
“Whatever.”
I glance at him again. “I’m good, Sam, really. I have more room here than I had in other places where I lived. In fact, the size of my bedroom is huge. I appreciate it though.”
He says nothing as I study him for a moment.
“Bad day?” I ask, trying to uncover the reason for his grumpiness.
He shakes his head and turns away. “No, it’s been a good day. We had a great practice. The team has really been coming together lately.”
“The only new guy on the roster is you,” I remind him, trying to soften him up. “You must have something to do with the team gelling.”
He shrugs off the compliment the way he always seems to these days. It’s funny; my first impression of him was that he was an arrogant, young hothead. And he embodied those adjectives at times to a T. But if he was like that before, he’s changed now. He’s humbler. Quick to shrug off praise and shift it to someone else. He still exudes confidence, but in a less obnoxious way than I remember all those years ago.
Sam leans against the wall as Milo adds two steaks to a piping hot skillet. The meat sizzles when it hits the buttered surface, the fragrance filling the air.
“That smells incredible,” I praise him, shifting my attention to the chef.
Milo winks at me before adding sprigs of rosemary to the pan as he spoons melted butter over the filets. “It’ll taste even better.”
Sam is grimacing again as he runs a hand through his messy blond hair.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, my patience starting to run thin. “Why are you so grouchy today? You said you had a good practice …”
“I did,” he grunts, appearing inconvenienced. “I’m going to take a shower.”
He stalks off down the hall, leaving me staring after him, wondering what his problem is. I shrug our interaction off and pull my attention back to the painting.
“Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes,” Milo announces a little while later.
“Do you want me to tell Sam?” I ask him.
I assumed he was only preparing food for my roommate, not me. After all, Sam is the one paying him.
“Sam told me what time he wanted to eat dinner today when we first spoke,” he explains. “And he had me make enough for two. In fact, I’m stocking the fridge with way more than Sam can eat in a week, per his orders.”
I arch a brow. “Have you seen him eat?”
Milo chuckles. “I know all about how much athletes eat. Trust me, this food is for you both.”
“Oh,” I say, resting the tip of the paintbrush between my lips for a moment.
So, the second spot at the dinner table is for me? I was supposed to eat with Eliott tonight. I was planning to talk about us finally. I didn’t realize I was included in dinner plans here.
“So, there’s enough for me?”
“Yes. There’s enough to feed an army.”
Milo has a funny grin on his face, like he can’t figure me out. Or maybe he doesn’t understand the dynamic between Sam and me. I should tell him not to try to make sense of our friendship because it changes minute by minute anyway. It’s a little love and a whole lot of animosity mixed together.
I put the paintbrush down and lift my phone from the side table. I send a text to Eliott.
Me: I need to cancel tonight. Something came up. Can we get together tomorrow night instead?
His response comes through ten minutes later.
Eliott: Sure. I need to study anyway. What came up?
I stare at the screen for a few minutes before I put the phone down rather than answering him. I’m not sure what to say.
Sam paid for a personal chef who is making this incredible meal that I just found out I’m included in, so I’m bailing on you for a better offer.
Somehow, I don’t think he’d take that well. And I don’t want to lie or make up another excuse. So, I leave him on Read instead.
But even I know I need to stop drawing this out. I’ve never been good at confrontation or uncomfortable situations, but I’m only making this worse for both of us when I already have one foot out the door and he’s making plans to meet me at the end of an aisle in some church.
I get lost in my art, which is the one thing that has always been able to sweep me away, like a good book can for others. I’m making headway on the sky as Milo continues to prepare food behind me. The glowing sunlight from before that drew me into the room is now fading behind the clouds, so I turn the overhead lights on. There’s something cozy about it all, the smells emanating from the kitchen and the warmth of the apartment right now. Sharing the space with another person while knowing Sam is also a room away. The vibe of the apartment is night and day different from when I first moved in. It’s comforting and … homey.
“You’re just in time,” Milo announces when Sam walks back into the room. He removes the filets from the oven where they’ve been cooking after searing the meat on the stove.
Sam’s hair is still wet from the shower, and he smells clean like soap when he walks by me. He’s wearing sweatpants that are slung low on his narrow hips and a T-shirt with the Hawks logo on the front. He walks over to the fireplace, hits a few buttons, and the flame ignites.
“I’m starving,” Sam admits, and he seems to be in a better mood now. His tone is better at least.
Maybe he washed his bad attitude down the drain.
Milo plates the steaks, then adds garlic mashed potatoes, roasted carrots, and asparagus next to them. He sets everything on the table, detailing everything he made for the meal before excusing himself. He gathers his things, shrugs on a jacket, and is out the door before we’ve sat at the dining table.
“This looks amazing,” I say, practically salivating all over the food before I’ve even tasted it. I take my seat. “The smells have been driving me crazy all afternoon.”
“Was it the food or Milo you were drooling over?”
My eyes whip to Sam’s as he lowers into his chair, but he isn’t looking at me. “What?”
“You heard me.” His tone is sharp.
I guess I was mistaken a minute ago. He’s not softer.
I place the napkin in my lap, trying not to dwell on the way his tone hurts and makes me feel weak, all at once. “Milo was nice.”
“Nice.” He laughs mirthlessly, cutting into his steak. “Are you sure you have a boyfriend?”
“Pretty sure,” I answer, my hurt transitioning into anger as my temper starts to flare. “If you’d like to meet him, I can ask him to come over tonight.”
Sam shovels potatoes into his mouth, watching me from across the table. “I’d love to meet him and ask him a thing or two.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “And what would you like to ask him?”
“If he knows that his girlfriend is hitting on my teammates and the hired help every time I turn around.”
My fork drops to the plate with a clang. “What’s your problem tonight?”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t react. He just chews his food before shoveling more into his mouth, meeting my eyes with a challenging stare.
“I’ve told you before … I’m just being nice. You might try it sometime.”
“I would, but Milo’s not my type.” His tone is condescending, just like the smirk on his face.
“That’s surprising. I thought everyone was your type. And anyway, what do you care if I was flirting with him? Why are you suddenly acting like a jealous boyfriend?”
“Please,” he scoffs. “I really don’t care. You can do whatever you want. And I wouldn’t even know what a jealous boyfriend acts like because I’ve had exactly one girlfriend years ago. That experience cured me of relationships forever.” He takes a drink of the tea in his glass and glares at me from across the table. “I’ve never been jealous in my life.”
This must be my karma for canceling on Eliott tonight.
“Whatever, Sam. I’m not going to let you ruin this beautiful dinner.” I stand in a huff so quickly that my chair almost falls and stalk toward my room. I stop abruptly as my stomach growls, returning to the table to grab my plate and silverware. “This food is way too good to waste on fighting with you.”
I turn my back again with my plate in hand and head to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me to emphasize my anger, just in case Sam missed it. I sit cross-legged on my bed and start eating dinner in peace, counting the days until I’ll be able to get off this roller coaster ride. And no longer sure if the money is worth all the chaos.