Chapter thirty-three #2
“This is the same Emma who’s working with them,” Hunter says, gesturing at the three lawyers.
“The one that is hellbent on becoming a lawyer. The one that came to our little rendezvous on New Year’s Eve and stabbed a man in the neck with a knitting needle. You expect her to want a normal life? Would you prefer she marries a door-to-door salesman or a gardener?”
I bristle at the thought of her marrying anyone except me, and a familiar pain hits my chest.
My desire for something new is twisted with my loyalty to my late wife.
“Maybe a ski instructor,” Harrison chimes in. “She has a date with one tomorrow night.”
“A ski instructor would be good,” Russell says. “I mean, think of the traveling she could do. He’ll be fit, so he will be able to keep up with her. And the kids, well…between her brains and his athleticism, I mean they would be damn near perfect.”
“Shut the fuck up, all of you!” I bark. The bastards all laugh, loudly.
“His name is Arlo,” Harrison continues, a wicked smile on his lips.
“What kind of fucking name is Arlo? And how do you know all this?”
“She was telling one of the receptionists when she phoned in earlier today. He asked her out for a drink after a few weeks of flirting. Something about her being bent over milk bottles.”
“He did what to her over milk bottles?” I question, pushing myself up to stand.
“I assume only flirted, but some people have strange kinks in the bedroom. I mean, this is their first official date, but I think he’s been trying for a while with what was said.”
He pauses. “I did hear the word ‘hotel’ mentioned.”
Harrison’s eyes dance as I turn away from him to leave.
“Where are you going?” he shouts to my back.
“To get that bloody woman and bring her home.”
“Do you not need to know where she is?”
I rotate back to face him. All the men in the room are sitting in their chairs, badly hiding amused smiles. I place my hands on my hips and narrow my eyes.
“Well…” I prompt.
“Say please.”
I lift a hand and rub it over my face in frustration. “Please tell me where she is.”
“Aviemore.”
“Scotland? You sent her to Scotland? Could you not have picked somewhere further away?” I say sarcastically.
“Better get a move on, Damon. But with five hundred miles between you and her, you have plenty of time to think about how to win her back.”
***
Emma
The small hotel bar is located in the basement of the property in the center of town.
Arlo hasn’t arrived yet, so I sit at the counter and sip my vodka and orange.
I had considered wine, but decided I needed something stronger.
My nerves peaked as I walked through the door—the thought of dating terrifies me.
He arrives ten minutes later, still dressed in his snowsuit.
After shrugging out of it at the bottom of the stairs leading from the entrance, he dumps it in a pile on the floor.
His snow boots lie beside it, and he doesn’t bother putting them back on, merely walks across the bar wearing his socks with a big toe poking through the material on each.
“Evening, Emma,” he says, and leans in to peck my cheek. He places a hand on my elbow. “Sorry, I’m late. Ski lift incident.”
“No problem. What would you like to drink?”
“A beer, please,” a deep voice says from behind me. One I recognize instantly. “And a conversation.” Arlo looks from me to over my head at Damon. I keep my eyes facing forward, unsure how to handle the situation but fucking furious he chose now to appear. “Emma, can we talk?” Damon repeats.
“Do you know this guy?” Arlo asks, bringing his focus back to me.
“Of course she fucking does.” Damon’s tone is sharp, almost acidic. To most he would sound like an asshole, which he is, but I also know he’s nervous. “How else would I know her name?”
“Plenty of stalkers on social media, mate.” Arlo jumps up on the stool beside me and waves over the bartender. “Beer, please. And one for this guy here, looks as if he needs it.”
The scene plays out around me as I stare at the opposite wall. Damon continues to hover behind me as Arlo passes him his drink. Their fingers clash and the glass wobbles, brown liquid spills over the side and onto the shoulder of my white top.
“Fuck’s sake, this is a new outfit,” I hiss, and jump up then spin to face Damon.
“Aw, you bought a new outfit for our date,” Arlo says, and I glance back to him, then return my eyes to the uninvited asshole.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him. We stare at each other—he’s so bloody tall and broad, I’d forgotten how big he feels to stand next to.
“I came to speak to you.”
“Why? You said plenty the last time we spoke. I got the message loud and clear.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” he replies. His eyes are wide. The way he looks at me makes my heart beat a little harder. “I came to apologize, Spitfire. I didn’t mean it, things were…”
“Don’t you dare call me that,” I interrupt venomously. I’m furious at him for using his pet name for me, especially one that meant so much. “You have no right to use any endearing swoony shit on me.”
“Okay, Emma. Please let me apologize.”
“No, go away. I had plans this evening, and you’re not part of them. I don’t want to see you here again.”
“Emma…”
“I said leave.” I turn away, then sit back on my stool.
Arlo lifts his drink, and we clink glasses.
Damon stands for a few moments, places his glass on the bar, then leaves, as I watch him climb the stairs, my heart aches briefly, but I can’t risk being ripped to pieces again.
One more heartbreak is something I couldn’t survive.