Emma
Just take the easy out.
How could he think I’d want that after the kiss we shared—a kiss that captured my heart and settled into my soul?
How did things between us end up so upside down?
Perhaps it was my stunned silence as he walked out of my apartment, and his lack of meaningful contact in the days since.
Stop this, silly girl. Focus. You have this farce of a date to focus on, remember?
How could I possibly forget?Tonight was nothing more than a stupid, pointless thing I should have canceled the moment after Miller kissed me. This date with Rhett was a mistake.
Nah. Things were fine. Keep being a scared little chicken-shit, refusing to make the first contact with Miller after that failed dinner. Sure, he texted once or twice, but that hardly counted as conversation, and I answered with as few words as possible—both of us tiptoeing around the elephant in the room.
Since that night last weekend, my heart concluded that what I felt for Miller was not something I could push down or brush off. An internal war raged as I sighed, almost glad Rhett hadn’t bothered to arrive on time.
I should have known something like this would happen when Rhett’s first question was about an open bar, and not the meeting time or attire. Not that I had any objections to copious amounts of alcohol to make the evening more manageable, but my waistline and sanity could not take many more nights drifting between pathetic conversations, bad appetizers, and lackluster pickup lines.
As God is my witness, I’ll never use online dating again!
I scoffed, rolling my eyes and turning away from the entranceway. Cocktail hour was optional, and looking back at our conversation, I never specifically confirmed that Rhett would attend it with me. He still had time to get here—or not.
I clutched the stem of my champagne glass, watching the bubbles rise as my irritation followed the same path as the bubbles—up. My phone remained silent, and as I came to the realization that I’d probably been stood up, a part of me was thankful I wouldn’t have to fake my way through an awful evening with someone I didn’t want beside me.
That realization hit me as I stared at the almost empty glass, filling me with an overwhelming sense of wrongness, almost like I was purposely doing something sinister to ruin a relationship with Miller before it had begun.
The wrongness stayed as I rubbed my chest, feeling my heart beat under my palm. The beat was reassuring. As long as I could feel the steady thump of the organ, it reminded me there was a man out there who kissed me like I was the most precious and important thing in his life.
And here I was, waiting for someone who wasn’t him.
It was sickening—I was sickening.
Desperation oozed out of my pores as I stared at the now-empty flute, wishing it was something stronger.
“I hope this isn’t becoming a habit, Miss James,” a tittering voice said. I shook my head, loose curls bouncing around my face as I brought my empty glass to my lips before realizing there wasn’t more than a drop or two left and assessed Mr. Thomas. My eyes narrowed, and my lips pursed, but those remained the only outward signs of my aggravation.
Don’t take his bait. Remember your manners. Or the p words, perhaps.
Patience.
Perseverance.
Punishment?
I grinned, letting one side of my mouth rise as I lowered the glass and placed a hand on my hip.
“We indulge John with his little idiosyncrasies, you know? But what good is that if the headmaster’s subjects don’t follow through with his requests?”
Dean Thomas tittered again, crunching the ice in his drink, as I leaned in closer before raising my brows. His cologne was cloying, smelling of bergamot and leather. On another, it might have been mildly appealing, but the scent burned the inside of my nose, and I held my breath before stepping back and responding. “Subjects?”
“Oh. Come, now.”
Pretentious idiot.
“Don’t mistake my word choice as a lack of respect, dear. You’ve been the talk of the board. ‘Making waves’ is the term Jacob Mulciber used at the last meeting.”
“Waves?”
I was being vague—practically opaque—but after the long overdue confrontation with my father, a small part of my confidence was restored, and it felt good to see someone else squirm. A petty part, sure, but that was just semantics, and watching a vein in Dean’s forehead throb as he struggled to tip the balance of power back toward him was satisfying.
“Yes, young lady, waves. I know how important this job is. Wouldn’t want to disappoint us, would you?”
Us? Did he have a mouse in his pocket?
I swirled the remaining drops of liquid in my glass and watched the legs drip down toward the bottom. My eyes stayed firmly on the champagne, breathing in the sweet aroma as it rose from the center.
“The last thing I want to do is disappoint the board, Mr. Thomas.”
I didn’t sneer, but my words were crisp and biting, letting the annoyance of this condition bleed through.
“I’m sure Headmaster Hopkirk always has the school’s best intentions in mind,” I said with a smile. “Although, I would hate to think who I have on my arm is more important than what I can bring to this fine institution. I’m sure you agree.”
Mr. Thomas’ nostrils flared, looking like something particularly offensive had wafted under his nose, and that small, petty part of me peeked around my shoulder, wiggling her butt in triumph.
“Of course, I agree, Miss James. There’s the headmaster now. Why don’t I escort you over to say hi?” He grasped my upper arm between his thick fingers, digging them in and trying to steer me toward the left. I allowed him to move my arm, but not my body. My feet stayed firmly planted on the smooth tile as I pinched my brows, refusing to let him escort me anywhere.
“No. I don’t think I will. My drink is empty, and I need to powder my nose. Please excuse me, Mr. Thomas. I’m sure we’ll speak again soon.”
I jerked my arm away from him, turning quickly and setting my glass on an empty high-top table before hustling to the bathroom and closing the door behind me. I thumbed the lock and leaned against the door, dropping my head to my chest and groaning. My arm stung where that asshole grabbed me, and I ran my fingers over the skin, hissing when I realized how much it had hurt.
This wasn’t worth it.
I whimpered, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough for the coppery taste of blood to fill my mouth. Clenching my fists by my side, I pushed off the door and stalked to the sink, glancing at my reflection in the mirror.
Swollen lips and too-dark eye shadow marred my face. My cheeks were flushed from how quickly I left Mr. Thomas’ side, and a small streak of mascara had run underneath my left eye. I swiped away the offending makeup, staring at my reflection—at how unlike me I looked.
I was bright colors and turquoise earrings. Dark streaks of color in my hair and nails painted electric blue—three-inch heels and tights covered with jagged rips.
I was a joke.
Tearing my gaze away from the mirror, I turned the faucet on and washed my hands, making the water hot enough to burn. The tingle grounded me, and I held my breath, pushing the air out of my lungs until my vision swam and I felt more like myself.
My phone vibrated from my clutch, and after drying my hands and removing the lingering traces of mascara, I sat in a semi-comfortable plush chair separate from the toilets to check the notification.
It wasn’t from Rhett—just the little Reddit alien letting me know one of my favorite fanfiction authors had uploaded a new chapter. I smiled, bookmarking the tab and knowing I could get lost in a smutty fic about a raven-haired potions master and his swotty know-it-all later tonight. Thumbing to my messages, my finger hovered over Miller’s name.
He should be the one here with me.
I’d be proud to have him on my arm and by my side, laying my hand on his chest as he stretched his hand to the headmaster in greeting.
He—Surely, not.
It’s an awful idea.
If there ever was an inappropriate time to have an honest conversation, this was it.
Still, I clicked on our message thread, crossed one leg over the other, and sighed, tapping a finger to my lips before letting my thumbs glide over the letters.
Me:Hey, you. I need help.
Me:The school has a fundraising event tonight at the West Beach Conference Center, and I’m in a pickle.
Me:Feel like being my Prince Charming?
I typed out an additional message but let my thumb hover over the send button before backspacing and shaking my head. Miller would hate a stuffy event like this.
I’d been occupying the bathroom for far longer than even a person with digestive distress would, and, after rubbing a spot in between my eyebrows, I quickly relayed a few key details to Miller, telling him the attire was formal, and I would be forever in his debt if he could come and save me from these pretentious assholes.
The lock snicked as I opened the door, glad the hallway was empty and not filled with impatient women tapping their heels and staring at their Rolexes.
Thirty minutes.I’d give it thirty minutes before I made my excuses and left.
Twenty-six minutes later, and no one had bothered me from my sad little corner at a high-top table next to the bar. Perhaps it was the aggressive way I stirred the cherry in my cocktail or the permanent scowl I had in place of a smile. Maybe Mr. Thomas had spread the word that I was a self-righteous bitch who shouldn’t be bothered unless a man was on my arm.
I scoffed, shaking my head before removing the cherry from my drink and popping it into my mouth. The sweet burst of flavor did little to improve my bitter mood, and I groaned, carefully gliding off the stool to leave.
The short, red cocktail dress fell just below my knees, with a sweetheart neckline and tapered waist with buttery-soft material that would have caused me to slide off the chair and onto the floor if I’d had more than my normal two drinks.
A giggle bubbled past my lips as I smoothed the material down past my waist, thinking how Headmaster Hopkirk would act if I had fallen, stomping over to me in his pretentious wing-tip shoes and perfectly tied white cravat.
He’d cross his arms, impatiently tapping one foot while not bothering to help me stand from where I’d slipped onto the floor. Two more foot-taps and one rude comment later, and I’d ungracefully rise to apologize for my clumsiness. He’d answer with some snide remark about needing to add another condition to my employment aspirations. Perhaps this one would include a length requirement on my skirt and a nightly enforced curfew.
I shook my head and tucked an escaped curl behind my ear. If I couldn’t imagine the man responsible for offering me a full-time job with even a smidgen of respect and human decency, how could I ever be satisfied with this as a career?
I couldn’t.
There. It was that simple. There would always be a condition—a requirement, a nudge from my father to steer me a certain way. I’d rather scuba dive to remove algae from huge aquariums or spend my days lining skyscrapers with airbags—so if Hans Gruber fell out of a forty-story window, he wouldn’t die—than deal with this long term.
“Emma? Emma?” a deep, panicked voice called, making itself known above the tittering chatter of guests and teachers. I turned, following the baritone sounds and spotting Miller standing directly inside the large doors that led to where the fundraiser was.
He came?
My heart fluttered—actually skipped a beat like that simpering princess locked in a tower awaiting rescue. Thoughts of our kiss flooded my mind, of him rushing closer, scooping me up like I weighed less than a feather, and pressing his lips to my forehead in greeting.
This.
This was what my subconscious had been screaming for. It wasn’t until I was faced with Miller weaving his way through the guests, searching for me, that it hit me like blunt force trauma to my solar plexus. No one met through those stupid apps, or even the guy who lived in my building, could compare with the feeling I had racing through my veins as I studied him.
I smiled, my hand partway above my head to get his attention before I froze, watching as he removed his hat and swiped his arm over his forehead.
His hat?
My feet felt like two cement blocks as I tilted my face and stared, noticing that he was still in his work polo and jeans. Dirty jeans. Dirty jeans and work boots.
What?
A bolt of anger shot through my body, almost crippling me as I grabbed a nearby table to steady my quaking knees. How could he?
I shook my head, pressing a hand to my stomach and turning in the opposite direction from where Miller was searching. Perhaps I could slip out a side door and text him from my car, letting him know his services were no longer needed.
Shame washed over me, and I dropped my head to my chest as the anger turned to regret. Regret that this man was obsessively searching for me, and my first thought was to sneak out the back because he wasn’t dressed correctly.
“There you are. Are you okay? What happened? Your message was so vague that I didn’t know if I should be worried or not.”
Miller pulled me close, grabbing my upper arms before trailing his fingers over the bare skin. His eyes roamed over my face like he was searching for some unknown injury.
“Emma. Did someone hurt you? Talk to me.”
I tilted my head in confusion, biting my lip and staring at his wild eyes and wondering how he drew such a conclusion from my message. “Hey, you. I’m fine, of course, but this evening has dragged on for long enough. I apologize for making you come all this way for nothing. Walk me out?”
His hand was clammy as I grabbed it, tucking it in the crook of my arm and tugging him toward the exit. This night needed to end.
“What the hell are you talking about? Walk you out? You texted you needed help—that you were in a pickle. What’s going on?”
He stopped, then pivoted, so we were toe to toe. I kept my eyes on a dirt stain above his left pectoral, trying to control my wayward emotions that were somewhere between madness and exhaustion.
“Did you not read the messages? What happened was I needed a date, as the one I had stood me up. But that’s a lost cause. Come on. I want to go home.” I patted his chest and tucked my clutch more securely under my arm.
“You had a date? The one you mentioned last week when our dinner was interrupted, right?”
“Yeah, that one. Not that it made a damn bit of difference since he didn’t show up.”
“I see.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, turning toward the exit and tugging on his arm again in the hopes he’d get the message and get me out of there.
“Nothing, Emma. It means nothing,” he hissed, clenching his teeth as he stared down at me with a deep crease between his brows. I longed to rub my thumb against the mark until it disappeared, but my annoyance with him prevailed, and I sighed, pulling my arm from his.
“Right. Nothing, Miller. Continue to make assumptions and decisions for me, would you? There’s nothing I like better than a man who assumes he knows best.”
“Don’t patronize me, woman, and my apologies for wanting to save myself from pain. Now. I’m here. You’re here. Why don’t we stay?”
He took my hand, squeezing it between his larger one and motioning with his head to the bar. I followed his gaze, swallowing back a groan as I noticed his presence had caused more than a few eyes to turn our way.
“We can get a drink and mingle.”
“Um. No,” I said, shaking my head and stepping farther away before pulling my hand from his and crossing my arms. A hot bath and my fluffy comforter were the only things I wanted tonight. Exhaustion coursed through my body, making my thoughts sluggish and my limbs heavy. My happiness at seeing Miller was overshadowed by his attire and my realization that even though I wanted him here, I didn’t need him here.
“I’m grateful, but honestly, did you not read my messages when I said this was a formal event? You do see the cocktail dress and three-inch heels, right? You’re in jeans, and I want to go home. Indulge me, would you?”
“Wait, a second. Are you seriously giving me a hard time because I was more concerned with your welfare than my fucking clothes? Didn’t take you for someone so shallow.”
“That’s not fair,” I whispered, bringing my fingers to his arm and pinching him hard. “How dare you call me shallow when you’re the one who couldn’t bother to read a damn message.”
“Whatever. While I’m here, let’s at least make the most of the evening, yeah?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, threading his fingers through mine and tugging me in the opposite direction.
“Again. No,” I said, struggling out of his grip and continuing to the exit. I made it out of the conference room door, glad for the silence. The chatter of the room was oppressive, like a black cloud weighing me down. With every step closer to the car, I felt the tension leave. “Thanks for showing up, but there is no way I can act like you haven’t been a complete asshole. I want to go home. Alone. Now.”
“So, you’re embarrassed to have me by your side? You’d rather be on a date with some fancy, pretty boy than a man who actually gives a shit about you?” His tone was hurtful and harsh, cutting through my distress and turning it back to anger.
“Embarrassed? You know what? Yeah, I am.” I stopped in the entryway, crossing my arms and giving him a once over. The knees of his jeans were covered in dirt, while his hat and boots had mud splatters.
“What of it, Hansen? Did you bother to read my messages? Where I asked if you had any formal attire and were free to stop by? Or did you just race over here half-assed, thinking it was okay to show up with mud all over yourself?” I hissed, thumping his chest and then sidestepping him before he could respond.
“Why don’t you tell me how I’m feeling again? Or perhaps tell me how I should act? Grateful, right? Should I be grateful you’re here, saving me? I just want to go home. So be helpful or get out of my way.”
No matter how upset he was, even suggesting that I was shallow and embarrassed was uncalled for. My chest ached, knowing my first reaction was to judge him by how he looked, but that ache gave way to something darker as I watched him glare at me—almost like he was purposely picking a fight.
“Is that what you want? For me to be out of your way?” he called, not bothering to lower his voice. The heat of the summer night made my skin tight and achy, but it was his words that left me chilled. His temper had always been short—his mouth known for spouting off nonsense he’d regret later. I had no desire to let him finish his train of thought. It would only lead to us saying things we couldn’t take back.
“Seriously, Emma? The least you can do is talk to me after the way you treated me.”
“The way I—”
I stared at the ground, then turned to face him, not caring that we were in the middle of the road heading toward the parking garage. If he wanted an argument—he’d damn well get one. His fists were clenched by his side while a bead of sweat dripped down his temple. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to reach out and brush that droplet away, thanking him for being here. I could tell he came straight from a job, forgoing the shower and clean clothes for my benefit, but then reality snapped back into place as he scowled, arching a brow.
He crossed his arms, and it took me a moment to realize he was waiting for me to finish my thought. “Well?”
“Well. What, Miller? What do you want me to say? There are millions of words in the English language, but I couldn’t begin to string enough together to express how much I want to hit you with a chair right now.”
“Don’t hold back. Tell me more. Tell me how embarrassed you are to be seen with me.”
“Cut it out! There’s no need to repeat yourself. I ignored you just fine the first time.” I stomped my foot and shook my head, turning and heading to my car, not caring if he followed. “Just leave me alone.”
“Emma?” he called, rushing forward to place himself between me and the parking garage. I picked up the pace, hurrying across the street so at least my chance of getting hit by a passing vehicle dropped from probable to not likely.
“Are you trying to pick a fight? Or are you just too thick to realize that some things don’t revolve around you?”
“You are the one who texted me in a panic, remember?” he said, pulling his hat off and squeezing the rim between his large hands. The material squeaked, and I watched his knuckles turn white, remembering how cherished I felt when he used those same fingers to caress my arms and ask if I was okay. The feeling of annoyance mixed with gratitude—like oil and water bubbling in my stomach as I watched him.
“Yes. I did. And you’re the one not respecting my wishes when I said I wanted to leave. Am I disappointed you showed up in freaking dirty jeans and a ball cap? Yes. Am I irritated you couldn’t be bothered to check your phone to read my additional messages before you showed up? Yes. Am I grateful that your first thought was my welfare? Of course,” I said, stepping close enough to rest my palms on his chest.
His heart thudded rapidly against my hand, and I pressed harder, needing to feel the solid strength of him. “But stupidly picking a fight with me and insinuating that I’m nothing more than a stuck-up bitch who puts more stock in appearances than personality is not something I’ll tolerate. Now, go away.”
“I wasn’t insinuating anything, Emma,” he growled, pushing away from my touch.
Fine.If he wanted to be a sanctimonious asshole, far be it for me to stand in his way. “Great. Super. Real mature. Way to make me glad I texted, even though you couldn’t be bothered to do anything that was remotely beneficial.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh? Would you rather argue about something else? Perhaps that Die Hard is a Christmas movie, or if you should wish someone good night or good morning if they fall asleep after midnight?”
“No. I was only trying to—”
I interrupted him with a low snarl, not bothering to hide my irritation. His lips parted like he was ready to continue his train of thought, but I squinted as I let my gaze roam over his features. His dark eyes were wide and panicked, the irises shrunk down to a barely visible ring.
We’d argued and made up and held one another through good and bad, but the times his eyes had bored into mine like they did now were few and far between. It was overwhelming—like every crevice of my soul was under scrutiny as I searched his face.
My traitorous brain labored under the illusion that he was only acting like a douche because I bruised his ego, but regardless of his motives, I refused to be his punching bag for his insecurities.
“You’ve said plenty, Miller. No need to repeat. I’m a stuck-up bitch, embarrassed by you and your dirty fingernails. Go take a shower and leave me alone. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”
I turned and walked away, not looking back until I was safely in my car with my heels thrown on the passenger seat and the doors locked. I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white as I closed my eyes and counted out loud to ten. The words did little to calm the anxiousness flowing through my veins, but I refused to dwell on this a second longer than necessary.
Yeah. Good luck with that, James.
Good fucking luck.