Chapter Nine
Braden
I managed to put off car shopping for two weeks, but that was as long as Emily would let me get away with before she was practically dragging me by the ear down to Aurora Ave Auto Row.
She shimmied her shoulders when she said luxury, her lips curling up as she turned her gaze on me.
My chest had a very unwelcome reaction to that attention.
I’d decided no matter how hard I tried, it was no use trying to restrain my attraction toward this woman.
She was just so fucking beautiful, so smart, so witty and goddamnit — funny.
She was so funny. Even when she wasn’t trying, she made me want to laugh when I’d spent most of my life feeling guilty for even considering it.
Today, she was dressed in cut-off jean shorts that hugged her toned thighs and gapped at the back part of her waistline, due to her magnificent ass filling out the denim so perfectly.
Her lean stomach was on display under her crop t-shirt, which had a picture of corn husks on it and read crop top.
I’d laughed to myself when I’d first seen her in it.
I was decidedly laughing less since I realized she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath it, and every time she lifted her arms I caught a glimpse of the sweet swells of her breasts.
Fucking hell, this woman was wrecking me and all my self-control.
“What do you think?” she asked, popping her sunglasses up long enough to squint up at me and make eye contact.
She’d changed her hair since I’d last seen her.
It was piled high in a half-up ponytail, two strands of bangs framing her face, the rest of it spilling down her back in big, glossy curls that bounced every time she moved.
Honey-blonde highlights threaded through the dark waves, catching the sun with every tilt of her head.
Her makeup was just as lethal — sharp brows, thick lashes that framed her dark eyes lined in smoky shadow, and lips coated in a glassy nude gloss that made it impossible not to stare.
“I think it’s twenty grand over my budget.”
“It’s a Beamer! It’s worth the extra cost.”
“No,” I said simply, and then I began walking the rest of the used cars.
We’d already been to one dealership that was a bust. I was hoping this one had more promise.
From their online catalog, it seemed they did — but you never knew how frequently those things were updated or how accurate they were.
Salesmen were too busy making sales to worry about updating listings.
Emily pouted before popping her sunglasses back into place and jogging to catch up to me. “Fine. Show me one you think is better.”
“This one isn’t bad,” I said, pausing at a Hyundai Tucson.
Emily wrinkled her nose. “This does not scream hot NFL player looking to shag.”
“Who said I’m looking to shag?”
She pursed her lips and slid her sunglasses down her nose to glare at me.
“And who even says shag? What are you, British?”
“Oh, I’ve got some British in me. Or should I say, I’ve had some British in me.”
She smirked with the tease, popping a bubble with the gum she was chewing, and though it was meant to be a joke, my stomach soured and my jaw tensed. I didn’t want to think about another man being inside her. I didn’t want to think about anyone else touching her, period.
Which makes no sense, you idiot, because she isn’t yours and never will be.
“Come on,” Emily said, slipping her arm through mine and tugging me down the line. “We can do better.”
We passed a few cars that neither of us stopped to investigate, the price tag being too high, or the style not matching what I was looking for.
As we walked, the sun beamed down on us pleasantly, a beautiful spring day in Seattle.
Summer would swing in soon, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t have plenty of cold days ahead.
That was what I loved most about Seattle.
Even in July, you could have mornings in the fifties, the sky a soft gray blanket overhead.
Some people complained about the chill or the clouds, but I’d always liked it.
It reminded me of Boston — of brisk mornings walking to school, of pulling a hoodie over my head and shoving my hands in the pocket, of a time when life had almost felt simple.
Or at least simpler. Seattle had that same kind of quiet comfort to it, like the world was inviting me to slow down, to curl up somewhere warm and stay there a while.
It was also the best weather for football.
“I like your tattoos, by the way,” I mused as we walked. I tapped the vine and flowers snaking over her forearm and down her wrist. “Do they all have a story?”
“A story? Sure,” she said. “I got that one in Las Vegas after I won four-hundred dollars on a slot machine. This one,” she said next, pointing to the butterfly over her navel.
“I got from a guy with a teardrop tattoo who was friends with my roommate at the time and just happened to have a tattoo gun with him. He was taking his apprenticeship. I told him he could practice on me.”
My brows shot up.
“And this one,” she said, tapping the larger piece on her thigh — a lioness with roses and thorns surrounding it.
“I got this from an artist who took six months to book in Austin. Her books would fill up the second she posted them, and I finally managed to get an appointment. It was the last tattoo I got before I moved. So yeah, lots of stories. Do they have meaning, though?” She shrugged.
“Not really. I just get what I feel like, whatever moves me at the moment.”
“Every piece is so unique,” I said, taking the excuse to survey her body and the ink stretching over it. “It feels thought out.”
“Isn’t that the fun part? Sometimes spontaneity and chaos can mask itself as a grand master plan.”
“You never freak out about committing to something for your whole life like that?”
“Nah. It’s not that serious. Just art — and I love to be a canvas.” She smiled up at me. “What about you? Any ink hiding under this ridiculously soft shirt? Nice outfit, by the way. Love the shoes.”
I smirked, looking down at the outfit in question — a fitted charcoal tee, tapered joggers, and a pair of clean white sneakers, finished with one of the many caps I rotated through like clockwork.
I knew I wanted to be comfortable, but I also had always taken pride in how I looked.
My therapist said it was a way for me to control something in an otherwise uncontrollable situation.
Whatever the reason, I had a closet full of hats and shoes and clothing from my favorite designers — Vuori, John Elliot, and Aimé Leon Dore, to name a few.
Most of them were thrifted, but every now and then I splurged on myself. It was the one thing I did for me.
“I have one,” I said, pushing the sleeve of my shirt up to show the bull on my triceps.
Emily smiled, tracing the black lines. “Taurus?”
“Not me,” I said.
Emily’s phone buzzed loud from her pocket, interrupting before I could finish. She fished out her cell while I stopped to inspect a Toyota. It already had over a hundred-thousand miles on it, so I passed, moving on to the next.
When I glanced back at Emily, she was staring at her phone like it was about to blow up.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
She jumped a little like she’d forgotten I was there before she forced a smile and tucked her phone away again. “Yeah. Just a text from my parents.”
I arched a brow. “Wow. Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not,” she said simply, shrugging. “Oh! What about this one? Now this will get you laid,” she said, pulling the lever to let the tailgate down on the back of a Chevy Colorado. “Right here probably, if we’re getting into details. Want to test it out? Quick — jump up here and pin me to the bed.”
She patted the spot next to her with a wicked grin, and fuck if I didn’t want to throw all caution to the wind and do exactly what she said.
I wanted to do it just to see the surprise on her face, just to hear her breath hitch when I called her on her bluff and showed her exactly what I’d do if we weren’t contractually obligated to stay away from each other.
Instead, I ignored the comment, knowing acknowledging it would lead to trouble.
“Again, too expensive,” I said, sliding my hands into my pockets as I stopped in front of her. “Why aren’t you happy to hear from your parents?”
“Why won’t you let yourself buy a car even five grand over your ridiculously low budget because of your family?”
“I asked you first.”
Emily sighed, letting her head fall back before she popped off the bed of the truck and shut the tailgate. “I’m twenty-nine years old living with a roommate and dancing for a football team. Do you think any parents would be proud of that?”
“Lots, actually.”
“Well, not mine.” She crossed her arms over her chest as we started walking again, and it was the first time I’d ever seen her wear defensive body language. I realized that even though she was making light of the whole thing, this was something that actually got to her.
It made me want to wrap her up in my arms, just to give her a moment of being held, a brief sanctuary of peace.
I shook off the thought before it could plant roots.
“My father comes from a very affluent family in London.”
“Where’s your accent?”
She flipped me off, but I succeeded in getting her to smile a bit. “He’s also a very successful hedge fund advisor. And my mom is a lawyer.”
“Sounds terrifying.”
“Oh, they’re lovely,” she said quickly, waving a hand like she needed to correct the record before I got the wrong idea. “They’re actually great parents. Supportive. Loving. Financially… extremely enabling.”
“That last part sounded loaded.”
Emily kicked a small rock across the pavement as we walked past a row of sedans, her voice drifting into a casual, half-distracted tone.
“I mean, imagine growing up with two people who have their lives that together. Dad’s advising billionaires on where to park their money, Mom’s dismantling corporations in court for fun. And then there’s me.”
She spread her arms.