Chapter 19 #2
Emma and Miguel stood chatting behind the take-out table at the airport.
I’d left a note on Emma’s kitchen counter after I fixed Liam’s car and had been trying to get my head on straight since I got home to pack.
I had some snacks in my backpack and had just eaten, so I didn’t bring a road meal with me.
And I definitely didn’t have the balls to start requesting something new now.
I wanted to talk to Chef so badly, but I knew I shouldn’t if we were going to lie low.
But Emma’s face lit up when Mom and I came into view. Inside, my blood turned bubbly. Was Emma happy to see me? She stepped out from behind the table and held out her arms. My heart leapt, and I hoped no one could tell that I was breathing faster.
“Bethany?” Emma asked.
“Emma! My gosh!”
Then my mother and Emma hugged.
I clenched my jaw while it felt like my feet were in quicksand.
“I didn’t know you worked here!” my mom said.
“Yep, sure do. Head of athlete nutrition and team chef.” Emma’s cheeks went pink. “And I didn’t know that you’re Royce’s mom?”
Mom put her arm around me and leaned her head into me. “This is my big boy!”
Emma’s nervous laugh had me ready to puke. Just last night, Emma learned what a big boy I could be. Mom picked up on none of this.
“Oh my gosh, Harlan, how lucky are you? Emma’s an amazing chef.”
My hands were cemented in my pockets as the awkwardness of the situation lapped at my ankles like waves crashing in.
My mom knew the woman I hooked up with last night.
What kind of small-town nonsense was this? We lived in Columbus, a city of two million people, and somehow the woman who birthed me and the woman who sat on my face and occupied my spare brain space knew each other?
This was going to be a hard one to shake off.
I cleared my throat and fought the clammy sweat building at the nape of my neck. “Yeah, she’s a good cook.”
Were she and my mom friends? I couldn’t turn and run. Harlan 2.0 would stay. Harlan 2.0 would engage.
“I’ll say. The soups you bring into the shelter are everyone’s favorite. It’s hard for us volunteers to not steal a spoonful for ourselves.”
The shelter. Emma took soup to the shelter, and that must have been where my mom volunteered these days.
“You’re too kind,” Emma said.
Mom patted my arm. “What’s it like cooking for this guy? Is he still as picky as ever?”
Emma coughed out a laugh. “He can be. I’ve had to throw him out of my kitchen a few times. But this year he asked me to give him private lessons.”
“Good for you, Harley! You know he started cooking young because I told him to make his own dinner if he didn’t like what I served. I hope he’s grown from needing that cheese sauce on his broccoli.” Mom leaned in toward Emma like she was telling a secret.
Emma pressed her tongue into her cheek and flashed her eyes up to me. “Cheese sauce on the broccoli. Good to know.”
“Em.” A little line was forming at the take-out table, and Miguel was calling for help.
“I better get back to it, but it was good to see you!” Emma said, rushing to help Miguel hand out the bags.
Mom and I stepped out of the hangar onto the tarmac. “She doesn’t have a meal for you?” Mom asked.
“I usually just pack my own or eat before I show up,” I said. Our team photographer was snapping pictures of Mom and me walking to the plane when fast footsteps sounded behind me. “Royce!”
I’d heard that before, right before my life irrevocably changed.
I turned to find Emma charging at me with a take-out bag around her wrist. I doubled back, leaving Mom to probably embarrass me to the team photographer.
Emma slowed a few paces away from me and held the bag in front of her, both hands on the handles. It was a girlish kind of look, and it didn’t help that a little blush stained her cheeks.
“Chef?” I asked.
She looked around us before lowering her voice. “I got your note. About the car. Thank you. You really didn’t have to.”
I lifted a shoulder and looked somewhere behind her. Would people notice that we were talking extra at work? Would they notice she wasn’t biting my head off? “It was easy. You should get his oil changed, though.”
She sighed.
“Or, I can—”
She held out her hands, the take-out bag swaying on her wrist. “No. No. You’ve done enough. And as far as the other stuff . . .”
The other stuff? Oh, like when I had her pussy all over my face, learning that she tasted like peaches and champagne? Or maybe when she showed me her mouth full of my load? Or did she mean when she cuddled up to me in her bed?
But she didn’t elaborate. And I couldn’t stand the awkwardness of it. “Yeah. No big deal.”
“I made you something. Well, you and your mom. There’s two boxes in there.”
She held out the brown paper bag, and our fingers brushed when I took it from her. I fought the urge to hook our fingers together.
What exactly had happened in that hot tub?
It wasn’t like I planned to go over there and make her call me Daddy and count my piercings.
I just thought I’d say hey when I dropped off her knives, and then she was in that barely-there bikini and I didn’t realize I knew exactly how she smelled until I was in her house, surrounded by her scent.
Then I was basically a bloodhound, not satisfied until I had found the source of the scent and effectively rolled in it.
And now I wanted to hook fingers with her, just have a little touch before I went on the road?
“Thanks. And I can’t believe you know my mom.”
Emma’s eyes widened until she shielded them against the sun. “Believe me, I’m just as shocked as you are.”
I bobbed my head and chewed on the corner of my lips. “I guess, have a good few days without me?”
She smiled and I wanted to wrap her up in my arms right then and there. To kiss her. To take her with me everywhere and have her sit in my lap. “Yeah. Have a good trip.”
I wrinkled my nose and reached up to ruffle my fingers in my hair. “It’s weird, all this being nice.”
“Fine, then,” she said. “Go fuck yourself.”
That made me smile even wider. “Alright. Go fuck yourself.” Making sure no one was behind her who could see me, I winked. She rolled her eyes, flipping her middle finger over her shoulder as she walked away.
“Bye.”
Good. Now no one could be suspicious.
I felt like I had fucking wings on my shoes getting on the plane. After getting Mom and I settled in our seats, I counted how many seconds I could wait to rip open whatever Chef had packed for me. If I was too eager, everyone would know something was up. But the bag smelled really fucking good.
“Ooh, you got something this time?” Owen asked, looking back at me from his usual seat, one aisle up on the right. “Did you do my wrap?”
“I actually don’t know. Let’s see.” I put my hands down in the bag and pulled out the first brown waxy box. My heart started thrashing against my rib cage as I saw that it had a note on top, black Sharpie on a piece of kitchen tape.
PRISON SLOP
I chuckled as I read it, fighting a bigger lovestruck giggle. And an even bigger emotion took hold when I opened the box.
A steak with perfect grill marks. Macaroni and cheese. Green beans that looked way better than what we had at Amarillo. But the real kicker was a roll and a container of handmade herbed butter.
Butter with brown flecks in it.