CHAPTER THIRTY
EMERSON
I study the picture taped to the bottom of my easel and compare it to the images on the canvas. I move forward to add more shading to the water and take some steps back to look more objectively from afar. The tip of the brush handle sits between my teeth as I squint, trying to concentrate on the piece in front of me.
I glance at the clock. Again . Ten fifteen.
Sam left for his auction “date” at seven. I’ve been trying not to think about him at dinner. But the image of the beautiful specimen from the other night with the paddle, bidding twenty-five thousand dollars for a few hours with the hockey forward, burns in my brain. She was wearing a black halter dress that clung to her slender body. The skirt was short, showcasing her long, shapely legs and sky-high heels. Her hair was silky and flowing down her back. Her neck was draped in diamonds. She was gorgeous, obviously rich, and she wanted Sam enough to drop a major amount of dough to secure a few hours of his time. I should be thrilled that he raised that amount of money for the cancer charity.
I should be.
But instead, all I can picture is how hot he looked in his suit when he left for a date with another woman. How much I wanted to take it off him before he left, enticing him to stay. He wore that spicy cologne that I love, the one that his bed sheets smell like. She’s smelling it right now. She’s probably laughing at something funny he said while experiencing firsthand how charming he can be. She’s reaching over, placing her hand on top of his. She’s watching him beneath hooded eyelids. His fingers are collapsing around hers. He’s paying the bill, and they’re walking to the exit together. He offers to take her home.
I pace over to the dark window and peer out, unable to see much beyond the glare of the art room lights.
Dinner should be over by now. I mean, how long does it take to eat an appetizer, an entrée, and dessert? Or maybe they saved dessert for later. Maybe they’re having it right now at a more private location. After all, that’s what the beautiful people do, right? They eat food and then go home together to have naked time and enjoy each other’s perfect bodies. They probably went back to her place because he couldn’t bring her here. I’m here. And we’re … undefined. We’ve slept together once. Well, twice, if you count the next morning. But that’s nothing to a guy like Sam, where sex is sport. Meaningless. And women are interchangeable.
I wrap my arms around my body when my mind flashes with images of her and him together, like an accident that I can’t look away from. Jealousy burns through my veins like venomous poison. Sam’s lips are on hers. He’s stripping her clothes before removing his own. He’s whispering in her ear all the dirty things he’s planning to do to her. And then he’s doing them. His hands are on her body, in her hair, holding her face. He’s touching her the way he was touching me just the other night. And she loves it because it’s so good. Every experienced stroke sends her soaring the same way it sent me over the edge in a way Eliott never could.
Sex with Sam was more than fireworks. It was an explosion. And it ripped me to shreds in the process.
My mind keeps running through scenarios, each one worse than the last. I’m spiraling, but I can’t seem to stop it. My phone rings and I answer it without glancing at the screen.
“Hello.”
“Emerson,” Eve growls. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
I sigh, wishing I had peeked at the caller id before answering. I don’t know if I can handle a conversation with my sister right now. “I’ve been busy, Eve. What’s up?”
“What’s up?” She laughs without an ounce of humor. “Why don’t you tell me? What are you doing, going to the Hawks games and hanging around the team all the sudden?” Eve always felt like the athletes were her territory. I guess some things never change.
“How do you know I am?” I move closer to the window and look absently at the city below.
“I’ve asked around, Em. Since you won’t tell me anything, I went to other sources. And I saw a picture of you at some fancy party surrounded by the team.”
I glance up at the ceiling and exhale loudly. “I’m working for them,” I finally admit.
“Working for the Hawks? Doing what exactly?”
“I’m helping Mads with some PR stuff,” I reply evasively while watching the headlights of cars disappearing down the street below.
“PR,” she repeats, the two letters laced with suspicion. “Since when are you doing PR work?”
“Since now,” I say defensively, not liking her tone.
“For the team, or for Sam.”
“Sam is part of the team, Eve. So, yes, for Sam.”
She pauses for a few beats. “I didn’t realize PR work included being carted out of a bar while slung over one of the player’s shoulders.” Jealousy seeps across the phone line.
“Why don’t you say whatever it is you’re really wanting to say, Eve,” I huff out.
She’s quiet again for a few seconds as I brace myself for her words, knowing inherently they will be unkind. “Sam isn’t your type, Emerson. He’s way out of your league.”
“And who’s type is he, Eve? Yours?”
“Yes! He’s exactly my type. And I’m his.”
I’m his . The possession in her words bothers me more than it should. My sister doesn’t know Sam, not really. She doesn’t know who he is now. Maybe once upon a time he would’ve been a match for her, but not anymore.
“If that’s true than you would’ve been the one leaving the bar slung over his shoulder. Not me.”
My statement is met with complete silence that stretches. I can hear Eve breathing on the other end of the line. I imagine her holding the phone against her ear, her mouth gaping. I’ve never challenged my sister before, not over a man. Until now.
“Well, little sister,” she sneers, pure venom leaking from her tongue, “it should’ve been me. It’s only a matter of time before Sam gets bored. You may land a man like him, but you’ll never keep him.”
Her words sting even though I know they come from a place of hurt. Eve’s pride was wounded when Sam turned her down that night. And her caustic attitude has more to do with her than me. But right now, she’s piling onto a mountain of doubt that keeps building inside my head. And I can’t seem to stop it.
“It’s nice to know you have such a high opinion of me, Eve. I’ve gotta go.”
I end the call before she can say another word, feeling traumatized once again. Sisters aren’t supposed to be like this. We should be building each other up, not tearing one another down. But deep down I know it’s always been this way. Eve is a leech, sucking the blood from me until I’m exhausted and searching for strength. And it never seems to change.
I love my sister. I will always love her. I just don’t like her very much. And I feel myself drifting a little further away from the only family I have left.
Her words keep swirling through my mind though, reminding me that Sam has always been a fuckboy. It’s silly to be bothered by it. But then he went and touched me. He showed me how good it could be and left me wanting more.
Now, I’m wondering if Eve is right. Is it over between us before it began? I’m hit by a sudden stab of nausea as the knots in my throat tighten. Sam is not known for longevity. He’s not known for seeing the same woman twice. His interest dwindles quickly. He’s had me now, so will I lose whatever luster he saw in me recently? Will that shine just as suddenly become dull?
Because I care. I care so much. I’ve never been in this position before. I’m not someone who takes sex lightly, a one-and-done kind of girl. I’m just the crazy girl who leaps before she looks.
I guess part of me is waiting for him to mess up and crush me in the process. It isn’t fair, but that’s where my mind is going. It’s a survival technique, I think. A way to brace myself for the possibility. But the problem is, I don’t think anything could fully prepare me for it. If it happens, it’s going to hurt either way.
There’s a rumble of thunder in the distance. I rinse my brush in a jar of water and pick up my phone again to check the weather radar, hoping it distracts me from the unease settled deep within my stomach. Apparently, there’s a severe storm warning blowing in from the west. I’ve lived in the middle of the country my whole life. Severe storms are so common that they don’t scare me anymore.
I start to toss my cell back down when the voice mails I received earlier catch my eye. I linger on them. I have two messages that were left today from art galleries interested in speaking with me. One is here in Chicago, and the other is in New York City. They both called out of the blue. I hadn’t recognized the numbers, so I hadn’t answered. I was shocked when I listened to them and curious about the sudden interest in my art. Maybe it had something to do with the silent auction? I don’t even know who bought my paintings, only that they sold for much more than I’d anticipated. And I won’t know the intent of the galleries until I return their calls. I plan to research both on the web and see if they’re legit first.
My head whips to the side when I hear the front door slam closed. But instead of feeling relief, my anxiety rises. I lift my brush again and pretend to study the canvas in front of me. I feel his presence before I ever see him.
Sam’s broad frame slips into the doorway. From the corner of my eye, I see that his tie is loosened around his neck. His jacket is slung over one shoulder, just like when he walked the runway during the charity event. And his sleeves are rolled up, showcasing strong, muscular forearms. He looks sexy as hell.
“That’s nice,” he comments, leaning casually against the doorframe as he studies my latest creation.
“Thanks.” I glance over, barely looking at him before pulling my attention back to the canvas.
Sam straightens and walks closer, draping his jacket over my desk chair. “The wind is really picking up. Looks like a storm is brewing.”
I can hear the whistle of the wind as it increases in ferocity outside of the windows. But I’m wondering if Sam is referring to the elements outside or the chaos stirring inside my head right now.
“Oh, yeah?” I say distractedly, pretending to be engrossed in the painting while acting indifferent about where he was tonight. I add a few strokes of paint, then start mixing a new shade of green on my palette.
Sam steps behind me. I tense.
“Now, you know this shirt drives me out of my mind.” He’s close. His breath breezes across the back of my neck. He drags his fingertip from my ear all the way to my shoulder, where my old painting shirt has slipped down my upper arm. He passes over the thick silver chain that hangs between my breasts, hidden by the shirt he loves so much.
I close my eyes when his lips land on the nape of my neck next.
“How has your night been?” he murmurs huskily between kisses.
I tilt my head, exposing more skin, unable to stop myself. He lingers on my pulse point, which is bounding beneath my skin, giving away the effect he has on me every time he touches me.
“Fine,” I whisper.
“Just fine?” he asks, a hint of humor in his tone.
“Hmm,” I purr.
He tucks a wisp of hair behind my ear when it gets in his way. I have it pulled up, but my unruly locks never stay that way for long.
“I had a great night,” he admits without me asking, and my spine goes rigid all over again, like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.
My eyes open as I move away from him.
“That’s good.” I try to fake it but fail miserably. My words come out sounding prickly, just like I’m feeling.
“That woman was hilarious. She had me cracking up the entire time.”
Beautiful and funny. Awesome.
“Glad you had such a great time tonight.” I pretend to study my painting, but I’m an artist, not an actress. I’m sure my tense posture and failure to look in Sam’s direction are giving me away.
The room is silent. I refuse to look over at Sam even though I’m positive he’s studying me. I know he’ll spot the vulnerability in my glossy gaze if I do. I don’t want him to see the anger lying there. The irritation. The hurt .
My stomach tightens when my memory flashes to the night we spent together. The weight of his body pinning me to the bed. Our hands intertwined overhead. The feeling of him moving inside me and grinding on my clit. The build, the climax. The look in his eyes as he watched me lose all sense of control while begging him not to stop. But in the next instant, I’m picturing him out with the rich debutante who purchased him like a cheap hooker. The nausea rises, along with the conflict inside my head.
While the silence drags heavily throughout the room, the thunder booms in the distance as the storm grows closer. I steal a glance at Sam despite trying not to. He’s smirking, and like a reflex, my temper ignites.
“Is something wrong?” he asks smugly, like he knows I’m bothered by his date and it amuses him.
Sam looks so damn good, standing there in dress pants and a button-down shirt, distracting me from my anger. He’s only making things worse. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair again, and I wonder if her fingers were there earlier. And I’m pissed that I’m wondering. I’m so mad that I care. I knew better than to put myself in this position.
I grit my teeth. “What could possibly be wrong?”
He moves closer as I attempt to step away. But there’s nothing but a wall behind me. Sam crowds my space, and his cologne fills my nostrils, triggering me like an aphrodisiac.
“It just seems like something’s bothering you.”
I don’t answer. His chest presses against my breasts. My shirt slips further down my arm, the neckline dipping across my breast. The pad of his thumb starts tracing my collarbone. I’m holding my breath.
“Funny thing happened tonight,” he continues, unbothered by my silence. He has all the power right now. Maybe he always has. He runs his nose along the length of my neck, stopping to nip my earlobe. “Alexa, the woman who bid on me at the auction …”
I roll my eyes. Alexa. Of course she has a sexy name to go along with her sexy body.
“Her mom is apparently a huge Hawks fan. She has been her whole life.”
“How nice for her.” My words reek of sarcasm.
He ignores my tone as he teasingly bites the edge of my jaw and then soothes it with his tongue. “So, she …”
“Alexa,” I say bitterly, filling in the blank on who she is.
He smirks, and my frown deepens. “Right. Alexa bought me for a reason the other night.”
“And what was that reason, Sam? So she could take you back to her place and hang out with you, naked?”
He chuckles as if any of this is remotely funny and ducks to the side to force my eyes back to his when I look away. “Do you have something you want to ask me, Doe?” His tone is smooth and confident. The opposite of mine.
“Don’t call me that.”
His eyebrow arches. “So, we’re back to this?”
“I guess so.” I want to cross my arms over my chest, but I can’t. He’s standing too close.
“You didn’t mind me calling you that the other night.” He’s watching me, and I feel like he can see straight into my head, shredding all my defenses. “Ask me,” he pushes, his easygoing manner suddenly shifting.
“Ask you what?” My brow furrows.
“Ask me whatever it is that you’ve been stewing over all night here in this art room.”
“I haven’t been stewing about anything. I haven’t thought about you once.” Lies.
A few beats go by as we stare at each other in a standoff. He knows I’m lying.
Finally, I give in. “Were you with Alexa tonight?”
His face flushes with anger, and I expected it. What I wasn’t anticipating is the hint of hurt reflecting back at me at the same time.
“You mean, did I fuck her.” It’s a statement, not a question. “That’s what you’re asking, right?”
“Yes, Sam. Did you sleep with her?”
His eyes flicker between mine for a full minute while I’m holding my breath, waiting for his answer. If he admits to it, I know it’ll destroy me. I hate that I’ll be upset and taken off guard. But somewhere between our burgeoning friendship, the soft kisses, and the confessions in the dark, I started to fall hard for Sam. I’m just now realizing how hard and how far I’ve fallen.
“Because that’s the kind of guy I am, right? The good-time fuckboy, ready to screw anything in heels.”
I stand my ground and don’t answer. The insinuation sits heavily in the air between us. We both know that is who he used to be. He was that guy for years.
His mouth sits in a straight, unhappy line. I’ve wounded him. Good. Because he’s turned me into this insecure, needy female.
“Do you really think I would do that after the night we spent together?” he asks.
Yes. No. I don’t know.
My stubborn silence speaks loudly in the quiet room. I want him to prove me wrong. I want him to fight for me and care that I’m insecure about us. I want him to say all the things I need to hear, all the things neither of us has said yet.
“ Alexa bid on me for her seventy-year-old mother who happens to love the Hawks. I went to dinner with her,” he sneers. His gaze hardens. He presses me harder against the wall with his body, but he isn’t hurting me. “Don’t you get it by now?” His voice is raised, but more in passion than anger. “Haven’t you noticed that I haven’t looked at another woman since you came around, let alone touched one?”
He suddenly steps back, and I immediately miss the heat of his body. He paces around the room, gripping his hair in his fist before letting go. His eyes are fiery when they turn back to me.
“Haven’t you seen the changes in me? I barely drink anymore, and it’s not because you told me to tone it down. I was tired of making bad decisions. I didn’t want to be that guy any longer. And I didn’t want to see the look on your face again the night you picked me up from the club in Seattle.” He’s ticking things off his fingers. “I get a solid eight hours of sleep these days. Hell, I’m even eating better now.” He pauses to look me directly in the eye. “You’ve affected me, Em. You’ve made me want to be different. And I haven’t desired another woman since you stepped through the door of my apartment. Do you not get that?”
“But you hated me when I first came,” I argue, not ready to let it go.
“I did.” He nods. “But I was never indifferent. And you hated me too.”
“I hated who I thought you were,” I admit.
“And how do you feel about me now? Now that you know me.”
I look away. “I think it’s obvious how I feel.”
“I know you were jealous tonight of Alexa when you had no reason to be.”
“You would’ve been jealous, too, if the roles were reversed.”
“Damn right I would’ve been! It would make me crazy if you were out with some rich asshole.”
“Then, you can’t be mad at me for being upset!” I yell.
“I’m not mad that you’re upset. I’m mad that you won’t admit it. Or tell me how you feel about anything. Because I don’t know how you feel, especially about me. And I want you to tell me.”
He steps closer again. The top of his shirt is unbuttoned, and his throat bobs when he swallows hard. I can see the line of his muscular chest. I want to reach out and touch him, but I can’t. I’m shaking.
“Tell me, Emerson,” he demands.
Emerson. Not Doe or Em.
I take a breath in and out, and then another.
Impactful moments.
We all have them.
Those seconds that change everything. Those words that you can never take back.
I narrow my eyes in challenge and brace myself for him to run after this confession. “I think I’m in love with you.”
But he doesn’t run. He doesn’t move, other than those gray eyes with specks of blue. They search my face for honesty. The glint in his expression softens. “Well, it’s about damn time you admitted it.”
“All it does is make me feel weak and needy.”
He sighs. “Being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak and needy. It makes you real. It’s one of things I’ve always loved most about you—your softness. Your honesty. The way you always see the good in everyone.” His hands grip the sides of my face. “The way you see the good in me. Don’t stop doing that now, Doe. Please don’t stop. And if you were wondering … I’m in love with you too.”
His words hit me right in the center of my chest.
The world keeps moving, but nothing will ever be the same again.
Impactful moments.