Chapter 23
Emma
C oming to the store hungry was a stupid idea. I know it, my temper knows it, and my stomach, which is currently cussing me out in growls, knows it.
I pop another seedless grape into my mouth and glare at the wide-shouldered man in a tacky tropical shirt and khaki shorts, clothes not warm enough for February. His judgy eyes narrow at the next grape I pluck from the bag. He looks like he’s contemplating a civilian’s arrest.
“Can I help you?”
He shakes his semi-bald head, which is littered with dimples, presses his shopping basket to his side, and flaps off in worn brown flip-flops. When I’m not hangry, I’m not a confrontational person, but I contemplate bouncing a grape off the back of his head.
“It’s not about dick,” I mumble to myself, pushing my shopping cart with more force than necessary.
Beverly Hills Rent-a-Cop is a dick, but he’s not the one on my mind.
Peen withdrawal a week before my period is deadly timing. Add in my need to eat, and I’ll rip open every chip bag and hump the cashier for good measure.
The grocery store I’m at is a half-hour drive from my house. I don’t come to Beverly Hills unless it’s necessary, but this location is the only one in the vicinity with my favorite champagne.
My Milan trip ended yesterday. I shook off the jet lag by sleeping in, but not the frustration that’s been following me around since Miles left Italy a day before me. I’d never spent more than two days with a lover but found myself losing track of time. Before I knew it, four nights has passed in a maze of clothes and blankets. We spent most days reciting the rhythms of our bodies, discovering new harmonies for symphonies of pleasure on the surfaces we christened. We avoided any signs of intimacy. We never slept in the same room or went on a date.
When it was time to let go, we did.
We ended on my terms, taking whatever pleasure we could during the days we spent together. It was perfect— too perfect—but ending it was the right call. Miles and I resealed the attraction we unboxed, and we’ll never touch it again.
Miles attended to my every need without instruction. He took, but he also gave freely. The way he directed my body had me taking naps for the first time since I can remember, which I’m sure made the jet lag easier.
I can’t shake him, his touch, or his scent. My name danced across his tongue in a rich baritone every time he moaned. Italy was incredible, but for my sanity, and to prevent pussy depression, I need to move on from Miles.
I’ll call Zayn tonight. After I eat.
I lift onto the toes of my black heels to reach for a bottle of champagne and grab air. What the? I pat around for any hidden bottles but come up short.
“Not today, Satan,” I mumble. I’m practically hanging off the shelf to do a pull-up I can’t hold. Is it ridiculous? Yes, but I don’t care.
A woman wants what a woman wants, and my champagne is nonnegotiable.
An employee confirms that the store is in fact sold out. One bottle remained, but someone grabbed it minutes before I came in. Just my damn luck.
I pay for my groceries, storm to my car, and take my ass back home. Champagne-less, hungry, and very horny.
My mind shifts away from my empty stomach, back to Italy and Miles eating me within an inch of my life.
You taste so fucking good, kitten.
Cream for me, kitten.
Let that shit drip, kitten.
The phantom touch of his words still tempts my thighs apart. Did he make it to California?
What would you do if he did?
I breathe a sigh of relief at the incoming call notification on my navigation screen. But then my eyes shift from the Pacific Coast Highway to the name in white letters. I’m too hungry for what will no doubt be an unnecessary debate about my life and the ways I’ve let it waste away. It’s my business, not a topic for discussion. I push “accept” and straighten in my leather seat.
“Hello, Mother.” A Sunday conversation is rare. Any conversation is, but Juliette Douglass will wear you down until she gets what she wants at whatever cost. What that cost is in this case remains to be seen.
“Emma.” The two syllables lack a mother’s warmth for her child, the namesake of the grandmother she claims to have loved. “Did you return from your trip?” Disinterest travels from the East Coast, where my mother is no doubt primping herself for a social activity.
“I got in from Milan last night,” I confirm. She wouldn’t care if I was in Italy or on Sesame Street . My mother never asks about my work or its related travels because she doesn’t care.
“I hope you remembered about this Friday.”
“What’s this Friday?” I frown at the screen. She has a habit of committing me to events I never know about in advance, assuming I’ll drop everything or that my father’s staff managed to reach me. Friday night rings no bells. They can make arrangements with the Four Seasons. No one stays in my house, not that my family ever asked to.
Disappointment laces my mother’s sigh, one she drags out for longer than necessary. “We’re flying to Los Angeles to attend a fundraising event with a regional business council. It’s a wonderful opportunity for your father. You will be there, yes?”
“It’s the first time I’ve heard of it, but I can stop by,” I say, pushing to the button for the garage door. My Mercedes pulls to the center of the two-car space, where I cut off the engine.
The garage door closes as I tap in the code and walk up the small set of stairs to access the main level of my waterfront property. My mother is still scolding me, but what else is new?
I step on wide plank floors and drop my keys into the small dish on an accent table in the mudroom area. It’s small and leads to the kitchen I never use across from the living and dining space. The star of my home is the three-million-dollar view of the Pacific Ocean from the floor-to-ceiling pocket doors. My mother will never acknowledge my work, but blood, sweat, and heels afforded me what I have. I’m damn proud, even if it will never be good enough.
I’m across from my living room fireplace with a glass of wine by the time my mother finishes her speech on the importance of the Douglass family legacy and doing my part. I nod along and pepper in some “mm-hmms” while ordering sushi from one of my favorite spots nearby.
“Will Miles be your plus-one? You two are still together?”
My mother’s question catches me off guard, pulling my focus away from the lobster roll on the takeout menu and toward the memory of Miles holding me under the spray of the showerhead. The silent glances we shared. Tender. Inquisitive. Reassuring.
I’ve contemplated every what-if scenario since the retreat, finding our way back to each other in New York, and him following me to Milan.
What if Miles comes to California?
What if we develop feelings that reach beyond sex?
What if I don’t want him to leave?
My eyes drift to the waves outside the window that recede before crashing into hard rock. A steady pressure building until it demands release.
Miles and I could establish terms and conditions to keep our emotions at bay. Neither one of us would leave unscathed once it came to an end.
“This conversation is taking too long. Your father and I have a play to attend,” my mother huffs. “No need to hide him, Emma. Your father confirmed Miles starts with Carrillo tomorrow. He’s far from an ideal match but will have to do…for now.”
My mother ends the call with annoyance as her only parting gift. It remains unclear what wedged us apart and put this much tension between us, but I stopped trying to solve that mystery decades ago.
I allow myself to float back to Italy, and an idea forms.