Page 77 of Things I Overshared
“Not what he wants.”
“His staring suggests otherwise.” She studies me for a few seconds. “So, those Ass Leggings were for Emerson. And clearly this has been building. And you kept this from all of us. For weeks . . . this is serious for you.”
I blink back tears and take a breath. That is answer enough for her.
“Listen to me. You want him, you go get him, because he may not want to admit it, but he definitely wants you too.” I shake my head, but she goes on. “Samantha, look at you. You’re floating around here, shining like an actual star, are you kidding me? You want Emerson Clark, you go take him.”
“He said he can’t be with me. We’re just friends.”
She turns my shoulders square to her. “That’s crap. Everyone in this room can see it. And you don’t take any crap.” She raises her eyebrows. “Say it.”
“No crap.”
She glares at me even harder.
I take a breath and put my shoulders back. “No crap!”
“That’s right.” I turn from her with a nod and make my way to the side of the stage. The band is about to come back from a water break, and I have a crazy idea.
“Hey, can you play a slow Beatles song?”
The lead singer of the big band–style ensemble looks at me like I have four heads. “‘In My Life,’ yeah?” I shrug, and he waves me off. “Don’t worry, gorgeous, we’ll play it.”
“Can you play it next, right now, please?” He nods and turns back to his musicians.
Plan in place, I hurry over to Emerson, approaching from behind where he sits at our table. It’s funny—he’s sitting straight and proper, but I can tell he’s also slumping the slightest bit. He hates these things so much. But at least here he’s able to sit and watch . . . until now. This could be a terrible idea.Lord help me.
I reach his side as the music starts and put out my hand.
“May I have this dance, Mr. Clark?” He looks up at me, surprised and . . . open. Not angry, not cold. “C’mon, Emerson, it’s the Beatles.”
A small grin spreads across his face as he takes my hand and stands. I lead him to the dance floor, but he doesn’t drag behind as much as I was expecting. When we get there, I turn to him, forgetting how one dances for a second, because there he is, in a tux.
I haven’t looked at him all night, and it’s a good thing. He’s sexy perfection on legs. He’s a frigid wintery dream. He’s masculinity and elegance wrapped in black and white. And he’s putting his arm around me. Oh, good, one of us remembers what we’re doing.
“Is this song okay? I asked the band to play it for us.”
“Did you?”
“Well, I technically I said, a slow Beatles song.”
“Hmm.” He studies me. I want to pull in closer to him. Well, in all honesty, I want to climb him like a spider monkey. But I refrain, instead maintaining position: our hands locked, his other hand on my hip, mine on his shoulder, a respectable gap between us.
“This isn’t so bad, right?” I say lightly. “I know you hate dancing, but you seem to know what you’re doing.”
His brow pinches, but the rest of his face seems calm, amused, even. “I hate dancing?”
“Yeah. Well, I mean, last year at the gala, with Skye, you were like a robot.” I chuckle, remembering the whole ordeal. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “What? You don’t hate dancing?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Clark.”
“Care to take a wager?” His voice is buttery as I squint up at him. “If I impress you with my dancing, I get to take over your horrid playlist.”
“First of all, my playlist is amazing. Second, impress me? What’s to keep me from just cheating and saying I’m unimpressed no matter—”
I can’t finish the sentence because he throws me out from him and twirls me back in. For a second, he’s wrapped around me from behind and I feel his breath at my ear.
