Page 108 of Things I Overshared
Who knew the secret to happiness was an orgasm every morning? Actually, probably everyone knows that. I’m still shocked to see he’s made coffee and some sort of breakfast while I shower, every single day. So freaking dreamy.
It’s over breakfast that we chat.
Well, I chat.
I make a note to tell Sadie that in her books, after the broody man falls in love, she makes him suddenly very wordy. I’ve been misled. Emerson still says as little as possible. But he works at it, for me. And it’s one of my favorite things.
In fact, it’s the breakfasts that make us feel serious, and real. It’s over coffee that he asks me deeper questions, shares more of himself. The emotional intimacy is almost better than the physical intimacy that precedes it. After enjoying both, we set out for our day, which usually involves meetings, but today involves getting our tourist on.
This morning was particularly fun because I insisted on wearingthoseleggings, the only ones I packed for Paris, and a long tank top that covered most of my butt. Emerson was not having it, seriously insisting I never wear them in public again. I stood my ground that I was not going to walk a million miles in a dress. We compromised with a light hoodie to tie around my waist, covering what I thought was already plenty covered. I’ve laughed and joked, but Emerson has not been amused. Now as we’re about to head out, he glowers at me like a man possessed and possessive, crazy with jealousy. I love it.
“You’re acting an awful lot like you don’t want anyone else to see what’s yours, Frosty.” I tie the zip sweatshirt around me.
“I don’t.”
“So . . . am I? Yours?” My voice cracks as I say it, but I have to know where we stand. We only have a few days left.
“Yes,” he answers softly.
“So you’re mine too, then.”
“Wholly.” He doesn’t hesitate.
I can’t help my giant smile. But as always, I can’t stop when I’m ahead. Nervously, I look at my feet and keep going.
“And what about after our trip? When we get back home?”
“What about it?”
“Will we still be together? At the office?”
“I cannot wait to have you in my office,” he says lowly as he slips his hands around me under the hoodie.
“Ugh, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, Angel.” He tips my chin up to look at him. “I’m not letting you go. We’ll tell HR when we get back to New York, all right?” I nod up at him, holding in another giddy squeal. He grins at me because he knows I’m holding myself back. He kisses me hard and squeezes my butt for a second. “Let’s go.”
_________
“You don’t mind?” he asks me, looking like a painting under the afternoon sun in the garden area at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower.
“I don’t want you going up there and turning green on me. But it’s going to be at least an hour. Maybe I should just skip going to the top.”
“No. Either you go, or we go.”
“What will you do while I’m up there?”
“Weep from loneliness,” he deadpans.
“Ugh!”
“It’s Paris, Angel. I’ll find something to do. Text me when you’re done.”
“Okay.” I smile up at him, and he kisses me, not just a soft goodbye peck either, but a deep kiss that feels like a staked claim. Then he’s gone, walking off into the crowds. My private tour guide clears her throat with a grin. I enjoy the trip up to the very top, where even I get a little woozy, but my hand feels a little cold and naked without Emerson’s fingers wrapped around it. I use the trip down to bombard my sisters.
Me: [Selfie with Emerson]
[Selfie with Emerson]
