Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EMMETT
Setting the final box down in the center of Billie’s double bed, I cast my eyes around her new place. It’s clear this building is an old warehouse or factory that has been converted into apartments, which are larger than the average you would find in Brooklyn.
Now that I’ve seen the place firsthand, I understand why Billie secured a low rental.
It needs a ton of work—kitchen cabinets barely hanging on to their hinges, walls that look like they haven’t seen paint in years, and hardwood flooring that has definitely seen better days.
I’m not even sure the refrigerator and couch will last beyond the six months lease she signed.
But as I close the door on her new bedroom and step straight into the kitchen and dining space that leads down into the living area, I realize that none of the rough edges in this apartment bother Billie because she’s simply happy to have her independence back.
Whether she’s noticed me watching her dance around the kitchen with Blake strapped to her chest or not doesn’t stop me from leaning against an exposed brick wall and taking in one of the best sights I’ve ever witnessed.
With Scott out of the question and Freya picking up extra hours, my volunteering to help Billie and Blake move didn’t carry the same guilt I usually feel when I think of excuses to spend more time with my best friend’s daughter.
Like offering to take her out for lunch and choosing the best steakhouse in town because I knew the owners took their time over service and that would mean an extra half hour in her presence.
Secretly watching Billie whenever I get the chance though? I’m pretty sure that’s not fundamental to a successful house move, even if it’s impossible to tear my eyes from her.
Amy Winehouse’s “Tears Dry on Their Own” plays through the blue retro radio on the kitchen counter, and as Billie spins around to adjust the volume, her eyes connect with mine, bringing their dance session to an abrupt halt.
She turns down the music, and I push off the wall, making my way over to both of them.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I tell her, the broad smile I’m wearing reflected in my voice.
Billie moves some hair away from her forehead, a rosy tinge staining her cheeks. I can’t be sure if she’s embarrassed or flushed from an afternoon of moving boxes, but I know that I like that look on her, especially the sheen of perspiration making her flawless complexion glow.
Coming to stand a few feet in front of her, I push away inappropriate thoughts and shove my hands into the pockets of my gray sweatpants, restricting any urge I might have to suddenly reach up and swipe my thumb above her brow.
Billie Quinn is off-limits.
“I didn’t know you were into Amy Winehouse.” I bite down on my bottom lip when she flushes a little pinker, color traveling down the column of her throat. “Didn’t she die before you were even out of diapers?”
Billie deadpans in a way only she can, causing me to burst out laughing.
“Not true. And even if I wasn’t out of diapers, that doesn’t stop me from listening to every song of hers.”
She strokes a dainty hand through the soft, dark hairs atop Blake’s head.
“Is this one your favorite?” I tip my chin at the radio, still playing the same song.
She shakes her head, eyes following my arms when I fold them across my chest. Moving is hard work, and I removed my sweatshirt earlier, leaving me in a Dri-FIT shirt that hugs my toned abs.
I probably should put my sweatshirt back on now that I’m starting to cool down, but I’m having too much fun watching Billie’s eyes.
Jesus, Emmett.
“‘Back to Black’ is my favorite, but this song feels more fitting to my life right now.”
Billie’s response pulls me from my thoughts, and our eyes snap to each other.
“Fitting how?”
When Billie spins on her heel and heads for her bedroom, I figure it’s time for Blake’s nap.
I don’t move from the spot I’m standing in, patiently waiting for her to return so we can continue our conversation. I want to know what’s got her so twisted up.
“What did you mean when you said fitting?” I repeat my question as she emerges from the bedroom with a baby monitor.
Billie sets it down on the kitchen counter and then comes to stand in front of me, at least a few inches closer than we were before.
Pulling a black hairband from around her wrist, she throws her long, wavy hair into an effortless bun, hands slapping against her thighs when she’s done.
I should probably keep my eyes fixed on her face, but I’ve learned over the past few weeks that they like to betray me, along with my moral compass.
So, I check out the way her tight black leggings cling to her perfectly shaped legs.
“It’s just a female power ballad, one that makes me feel less shitty about Tucker and his new girlfriend.”
I almost swallow my tongue, quickly bursting out a, “What?”
Billie nods like this news is neither surprising nor a big deal, but I know it is. I can see it in the lines as they crease around her big green eyes. I know because she needs to hide her feelings and hurt over it in the first place.
That feeling is familiar for me, too, as is the need to disguise it.
What I haven’t established—and it’s something I’m growing more desperate to discover each time we’re together—is, does her hurt stem from the way she feels about Tucker, or is the pain on Billie’s face more to do with rejection and loss?
For me, it initially began as the former.
Even while we were still together, I could feel myself losing Maria as the relationship and love we’d built slipped through my fingers.
Now, it’s more to do with circumstance and fear that I’ll never find that again, and if I do, it’s possible that Maria will get there before me.
I take a step toward Billie, the fragrance from her nutmeg shampoo surrounding me as I enter her space.
I’m closer to her than I should be, than I need to be, and I wonder if she’ll retreat and take a step back.
She doesn’t, and I inch forward until I can see the flutter of her pulse point.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s his words or actions that make you cry, Billie. The mere presence of your tears tells me that he isn’t man enough and he definitely isn’t the one for you.”
Billie’s chest stops mid-rise, and I hold my own breath, waiting for her to respond.
“You think Tucker is a dickhead?”
The sound of her voice washes relief through me. My last statement was designed to offer her reassurance, but it came off as way more than that. Suggestive almost.
I smirk, fingers twitching in my pockets, desperate to brush the few remaining strands of hair from her face.
Anything that obstructs my view of Billie’s eyes annoys the shit out of me.
“Does that question even warrant an answer?” I say with a smile.
Billie’s tongue peeks out, sliding a wet trail across her bottom lip. “I guess not, no.”
We stand, eyes fixed on each other for the longest moment before she breaks the connection, gazing around her new apartment.
“It’s going to take me forever to unpack everything.
Mom promised she’d stop by tomorrow after her shift to help out, but I hate being surrounded by boxes.
It feels like I’ve been living like this for an eternity—all my things inaccessible and stored away.
” She releases a heavy sigh, breath fanning against my face. “After a while, it gets to you.”
I should probably—definitely—leave and let her spend her first night in peace. I have an early morning skate and a gym session I need to get through, including a rehab workout for my knee.
“What if I pulled out my phone and ordered a pizza, and then we got to work on making this place feel more like a home for you and Blake?”
Her full lips slowly curve into a smile, and the guilt I was feeling a second after I suggested sticking around to help out ebbs, replaced with satisfaction that I turned Billie’s mood into a happier one.
“What kind of pizza are we talking about?”
The way she asks a trivial question in such a serious tone has me chuckling as I finally pull my hands from my pockets, phone secured in my left palm.
“Because if you choose anything with anchovies, then I’d rather live out of boxes and suitcases for the rest of time.”
I pause on searching for local pizza joints that deliver. “What about with pineapple?”
She rises to her tiptoes, peering over my phone to check what I’m adding to the cart. “If I said that pineapple was my favorite topping, would our friendship be over?”
When our eyes meet, we’re even closer, lips inches apart, breaths mixing.
She tastes so good.
Back away, Emmett.
I’ve known Billie for over a decade, and during any of those years, if I’d been asked if we were friends, my answer would’ve been an unequivocal yes.
Today, that word feels inadequate. Maybe even inaccurate.
“Not many people like pineapple on their pizza.” She continues talking. “Clara, my friend back in Austin, thinks it’s the grossest thing she’s ever tasted.”
I scroll to a large pineapple pizza with everything, hitting Add to Cart just below the image.
“It’s a good thing I’m not Clara then, isn’t it?” I barely recognize my own voice. It’s gravelly and intense when all we’re doing is ordering takeout.
She heaves a faux sigh of relief, rocking back on her heels and swiping a hand across her forehead.
“Okay, phew. For a minute there, I thought that I was another friend lighter.”
I drop my phone into my pocket, one hand coming under Billie’s chin.
I want her attention.
I don’t want this moment to end.
My eyes bore deep into hers, holding Billie a prisoner to my unspoken thoughts.
“I want you to know something.”
“What’s that?” Her response is a whisper, tongue peeking out an inch.
“That there aren’t any contingencies on us and our friendship.
Whether it’s pizza, hospital appointments, or staying late to help unpack some boxes, I’m always going to be here for you.
When you get let down by people, it’s easy to fall into the cynical trap of mistrust, and I don’t want that to happen to you.
You’re too much of a good human, and I won’t let you retract into a shell.
Moving here was a brave fucking thing to do, and I’m actually in awe.
So, even if it takes us until two a.m. to get you all set up and moved in, then that’s how long I’ll stay. ”
I drop the hand from under her chin, shoving it back into my pocket.
Fuck, fuck. Fuck.
“Emmett …” Billie begins speaking, but trails off, unsure of what to say next.
My throat runs dry.
I went too far, my hands powered solely by protective instinct and insane levels of attraction toward this girl.
A girl who is also the daughter of my best friend.
A girl who is fourteen years younger than me.
The last girl I should be thinking about getting naked and laying on the empty kitchen counter to our right.
Her lips part, more words ready to tumble from them.
Frustratingly, it isn’t her thoughts that fill my ears next.
“That’s the intercom.” Billie’s eyes fix on her front door, and I turn over my shoulder, pissed at whoever is standing on the other side.
I need to know what she was going to say.
I look back at Billie. “Either you have a visitor or that’s the fastest fucking pizza delivery in history.”