13. Ryan
13
Ryan
A week has passed since our weekend away, and it’s been nonstop since.
The first thing I had to deal with when I got back was my brother, who attacked me the minute I walked through the door.
“You had to go and do it, didn’t you?” he spat as I dropped my case in the hallway.
I was in too much of a good mood to want to deal with him.
“Have you noticed a pattern? This is the second time you’ve accosted me at the entrance of the house. I’ll bet your psychiatrist has some deep and meaningful insight into that, right?”
I don’t know if he’s still seeing a shrink, but he was after Mom and Dad died.
Thomas just glared at me. “You don’t care about anyone else but yourself, do you know that? You’ve always been a selfish idiot,” he ranted. “Anyone else gets themselves into trouble, they deal with it alone. You get into trouble, you drag innocent bystanders into your mess because you’re too pathetic to deal with it yourself.”
I’m not made of steel, so his words hurt, but as always, I hide it. Particularly with Thomas.
We fall into another blazing fight, ending with both of us storming off. And yes, I can storm off a little better now because, thanks to my treatments, I’m feeling less and less pain.
A few days later, Emma and I travel into the city for radio interviews. Phil wanted to ease her in slowly. These interrogations into her life are going to be hard enough. He didn’t want to throw her in at the deep end. She also needs to get used to the questions without people being able to analyze her reactions. Radio is perfect for that.
But today will test her. It’s our first live television interview, which, frankly, terrifies me to death. There’s no editing a live show, right?
We’ve come out of makeup, and with the unforgiving glare of the studio lights and six cameras capturing us from every angle, I’m nervous. I glance at Emma, who’s sitting snugly beside me on this sort of loveseat that I know they bought in specially. This is a sports channel. They don’t do loveseats.
The studio audience cheers when the host, Sheila Graham, strides on stage. Sheila’s interviewed me before. At least she’s not as intrusive as other hosts. As the audience claps, she lowers herself into a seat beside us and beams a huge smile.
“This is so exciting,” she gushes. “Alright, let’s get to the heart of it. I have to ask the question on everyone’s lips, Emma. Was it love at first sight?”
Oh, Lord. Well. This is new.
My heart is in my throat as I wait for Emma’s reply. It’s a question she hasn’t been asked before, so I have no idea what she’s going to say.
“Oh, no,” Emma says, her face as straight as a board. “I can’t stand him.” She jerks her head at me. “I’m only with him for his money.”
I nearly choke in panic, but then, the whole audience bursts into laughter, swiftly joined by Sheila, who clearly thinks her answer is hilarious.
Emma still isn’t smiling, and nodding to the audience, she says, “Right, ladies?”
A loud cheer goes up from the females in the audience, and as I look out at the crowd, I see a mix of surprise and delight as they take in Emma’s cheeky response.
Sheila leans forward. “Oh, I love it—a relationship built on mutual annoyance and a splash of materialism!” she quips. “And you, Ryan, what did you think when you first saw Emma?”
Fighting my astonishment, I manage a lopsided grin. “Honestly, Sheila? I thought she might be trouble,” I say, listening to the crowd lightly chuckle. “As it turns out, I was right.”
The audience continues hooting and clapping, making the studio feel alive with energy. When they settle again, Sheila takes the opening to pivot to more questions, which Emma handles with no issue at all.
I get to say a few words, but clearly, the audience loves Emma, and Sheila knows it. I’ve been doing these gigs long enough to know how the game is played.
As the interview continues, I can’t help but feel a sense of awe at how Emma is managing to pull the audience in, as though she’s done this her entire life. I find myself as mesmerized with her as they are, which is only brought to my attention when Sheila mentions it.
“You’re just sitting there looking at her with adoration, Ryan. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before.”
She catches me off guard, and I stumble, trying to think of something to say.
“Oh, you’re embarrassing him, Sheila,” Emma quickly quips, saving me and not saving me in that one sentence.
“Who wouldn’t adore her, Sheila?” I say when I eventually remember how my tongue works. “I mean, look at her.”
The crowd swoons, and Emma gives me a broad smile, but I don’t miss the bloom of red rushing to her cheeks. The thing is, I didn’t say it to get even. I realize, as the words come out of my mouth, that there’s a ring of truth to them.
Sheila wraps the interview up, wishing us all the best and making us promise that we’ll keep her updated about the wedding plans.
Only in the dressing room does my heart finally settle, and running a hand through my hair, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Emma’s boldness might well be magnetic, but it was also exhausting.
Heading home later, we’re a few miles out of Maple Springs when I turn to her in the back of the Lincoln. “You want to come up to the house for a coffee?”
She nods. “Sure. My schedule’s clear, so I have some time.”
“Cool,” I reply. “You did really well today, you know.”
“So you’ve told me. Like five times.” She smirks.
“And now, I’m telling you again.” I grin back.
“It was harder than it looked,” she says, turning and gazing out of the window as we enter the town.
“Well, you made it look easy, and the crowd loved you.”
It didn’t occur to me that Emma had never been inside the mansion, but I’m quickly reminded of that when she stands in the entrance hall with her mouth gaping open.
“Wow,” she breathes.
I go to make a quip, but then I change my mind. Living here my whole life, I take the beauty of the mansion for granted. I know I do. But as I look at her now, her eyes wide with wonder, her mouth slightly agape, I allow myself to see it through new eyes. Eyes of appreciation.
Given her awestruck face, I end up giving her a tour, steering clear of Thomas’s wing and hoping he doesn’t venture out for any reason. I show her portraits, relay history, and describe the paintings hanging on the wall.
“ The Siege of Asola , by Tintoretto,” I say, pointing to a painting we pass.
“Italian,” she says. “Italy looks so beautiful.”
“Do you speak the language?” I ask curiously.
She smiles and shakes her head.
“ Non ne hai bisogno. La tua straordinaria bellezza parla per te. ”
She gasps and her eyes widen in delight “What did you just say?”
“That with the cost of my education, my father would’ve killed me if I didn’t at least pick something up,” I lie.
That’s not what I said at all, but she’s not ready to hear the truth. In fact, I’m not sure I am, either.
We’re standing on the upstairs landing, looking out over the estate with a view of the frozen lake, when I suddenly say, “Hey, you want to go ice-skating?”
Emma smirks at me like I’m joking.
“I’m being serious.”
“There’s no way your boots would fit me,” she says.
“Not the ones I wear now, but the ones I had as a kid would. I still have them.”
“What about your knee?”
“My physiotherapist tells me that exercise is good for strengthening my strained ligament.” I smirk.
She laughs then, and so, we end up on the ice.
She’s never been ice-skating before, so I keep a tight hold of her hand as she steps onto the ice with wobbling legs and terror in her eyes.
“That’s it. You’ve got it,” I encourage, even though she’s moving at a snail’s pace.
“How on Earth do you fly around the ice at that speed?” she gasps. “It’s like walking on polished marble.”
“Practice.” I grin. “Hours and hours and hours of practice.”
She’s holding on to me like her life depends on it, but as the minutes pass, Emma starts to gain enough confidence to stand up a little straighter.
“Nice,” I say, trying to be as encouraging as I can.
“Oh, come on. There are kids that can do better than this,” she says, deriding herself.
“Sure there are, but then, kids are fearless. That’s why they start your training when you’re young.”
Half an hour later, her grip has lessened, and she’s actually lifting her feet up to glide instead of shuffling along. Her cheeks are rosy red, a light stream of condensation trickles from her mouth, and her brows are still furrowed together as she concentrates, but she’s making progress.
“You know,” I say softly as we circle the lake, “I really appreciate everything you’re doing. All of this—the craziness, the attention.”
Emma’s gaze softens, and her grip on me loosens just a little. “Hey, I signed up for this, remember?” she says, a hint of that familiar humor flickering in her voice. “And, surprisingly, it’s been… fun. Sometimes awkward”—she grins—“but mostly fun.”
After a little while, we move to the middle of the lake, and I bring us to a stop. I’m sure Emma could do with a break, given that skating is taking up a lot of her concentration. For a minute, we gaze over the expanse of the estate, but while Emma’s taking in the view, my heart is doing something completely different.
If I had to describe it, I would say it was a mixture of warmth and gratitude, but beneath that, deeper down, there is something unfamiliar. It scares me a little bit, and I’m not even sure I want to examine it too closely.
“It really is beautiful here,” Emma says whimsically.
“It is. I don’t appreciate it half as much as I should,” I reply.
I gaze down at her, and there’s that feeling again.
“Emma,” I say.
She looks up at me expectantly.
“I really am sorry for dragging you into this circus.”
She’s gazing up at me, her eyes softening, and for a moment, I forget about everything else: the cameras, the contracts, the expectations. All I can think about is her, standing beside me on this frozen lake, a trace of a smile tugging at her lips.
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to—”
But in that second, her legs wobble, her skates slip from under her, and panic washes over her face.
Automatically, I grab her, and balancing myself firmly on the ice, I pull her into my body. Her flailing arms have flung themselves around me, and we’re now only inches apart.
“Don’t let me go,” she whispers.
“Never,” I reply.
The air between us feels charged, as if one wrong move might break the moment. I want to say something, to put words to the strange feeling that seems to have taken root somewhere deep in my chest, but I don’t know where to start. More than that, I’m afraid.
When I know she’s stable, I help her to stand upright, and then I say, “Your nose is beginning to look like Rudolph’s. How about that coffee I promised you?”