Page 82 of Take Hold of Me

Emilie

We drive backto my house in silence, the sky going from dusk to darkness. I stifle my sobs. How could a father say such awful words to his son? My heart breaks for Wills all over again. The man I love is hurting so badly, and he refuses to acknowledge his feelings. How can our relationship grow if he refuses to work on his problems? I need to get through to him. But how?

Finally, my exit is next. Once we are off the freeway, Wills turns into my neighborhood. We need to talk. He puts the blinker on at the traffic light. “Wills, I would like it if you would spend the night.”

He turns his head to mine, his cheek hollow like he is biting it from the inside. I have noticed he does that when he is anxious or worried. Tonight, I hope to ease his pain.

“I don’t,” he clears his throat. “I’m not good company right now.”

“Which is exactly why you need to stay.” I refuse to let him wallow in the words his father said.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He took off his blazer, loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt, such that his silver chain glints off one of the passing streetlights. He honors his sister by wearing her dog tags every day, and his tattoo across his heart. If only his father understood what an amazing man his son is. But, I cannot care about his father—it is Wills who needs my comfort.

“Please.”

“Okay.” The word comes out as a strangled bunch of syllables.

He pulls into my driveway, my Spanish bungalow well-lit by the landscape architects I hired. His family’s home seemed welcoming from the outside, but inside it was all about the awful man who sired Wills. I am out of my depth in trying to help him, but I will try my best.

After he puts the Jeep into park, he shuts the engine but does not make another move. My heart hurts for how much pain he is in. This is much worse than when Starr shot him in the shoulder. There is no blood, yet the injury goes much deeper.

I get out of the vehicle and walk over to his side. Opening the driver’s side door, I do what he has done for me so many times—unbuckle his seat belt. “Let us go inside.”

Dull blue eyes meet mine. “Okay.”

More tears escape my eyes. This time it is I who runs my palms over my own cheeks to wipe the moisture away. Since he refuses to cry, I am doing it for him.

He shakes his head and catapults out of the Jeep. Wrapping his arm around my shoulders, he escorts me up the stone path to the front door. After digging in my Kate Spade tote, I find my keys and unlock the door.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Thanks.”

I make him a vodka martini and pour a glass of wine for myself. I think we have both earned it after the “party.” I bring the glasses into the salon, where Wills sits on the sofa staring at the blank television screen.

“Listen, Ems, I’m so sorry you had to witness that.” He takes a large swallow, then lifts his glass to me. “I warned you, though.”

I curl up next to him. “Oui, you did. I am so sorry that you had to grow up in such an environment. I do not know how to help you. What can I do?”

He half smiles. “Don’t worry about me. I’m only a gym owner.”

I rear back. “Seriously? You cannot believe that? I know—first hand—how important the service you offer is. Like being a bodyguard, owning a gym is a very dignified profession. You have the power to change peoples’ lives.” I take a sip of my wine, then grimace—not at the wine but at myself. “Not like being a model. All I do is show up and put on whatever clothes they give me and smile.”

He blinks. “Ems. No. You do so much more. You’re not only selling clothes,” he bobs his head, “Or lingerie or bathing suits. You bring beauty into this very depressing world and give millions of people something to aspire to.”

I take another sip. “Honestly, I prefer touching people directly. Like what you do. And what I do on Instagram.”

“You can do both.”

I file this thought away. Now I need to focus on him. “Wills, the military is an honorable profession. Patriotic. But helping people become healthier and happier is just as honorable. Please do not forget that.”

He knocks back the rest of his martini. “FPU would disagree.”

I wave my hand. “He does not matter.” I suck in my breath. “I mean—”

Wills smiles. “I know what you mean. And I appreciate what you’re doing.” He kisses my forehead, placing his hand on the back of my head so that I am against his right pec. Directly above the scar from the crazy stalker’s bullet.

I inhale his scent and my thoughts scatter to the only way I know how to make him feel better. Disengaging from his warm body, I grab the remote and turn on some music. It picks up the last tune on my playlist, a song in French about passion. I slide a sideways look at Wills, knowing he does not understand the lyrics.

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