Page 92 of Things I Overshared
Benedict saves us all. “Well, fuck me, maybe we should hire her, Dad!”
“Indeed. Very impressive,” William mumbles as Evelyn chastises her son’s language at the table. The group relaxes, as if William gave us all permission to do so. Emerson traces his thumb along my skin for a split second before pulling his hand away. “So,” William continues, “two geniuses at the table, then.”
“Here we go,” Byron jokes.
“It’s not flattery, it’s a tested fact, son. Emerson’s IQ is one-sixty-one.” William points to Emerson with his knife before cutting into his lamb chop.
“Dad, can we not?” Ben groans.
“It’s normal for a father to want all his sons to work in his company, let alone a savant. I just wish he’d rise to his full potential, is all I’m saying.” William shrugs with a smile as he says it, and Evelyn clears her throat.
Emerson lets out a heavy sigh beside me. I grab his thigh beside mine without thinking, instantly noticing how huge and firm it is. I give him a squeeze and start to pull away, but he puts his hand over mine to hold it in place. There goes my heart again, skipping beats and flipping somersaults.
“Tell me, Samantha, which sigh was that, then?” William turns to me with a menacing smile.
I don’t hesitate. “Hard to be sure, but it sounded a lot like the one that meansWhilesomemay believe full potential means maintaining the status quo within a stable, growing market, instead I’ve single-handedly rebuilt the financials of a multibillion-dollar company in a collapsing industry, when competitors have folded to Amazon, Walmart, and Target year after year the last five years, and have saved said company from drifting into bankruptcy territory not once or twice butthree times.”
I hold William’s burning eyes for what feels like an eternity. It takes all my strength not to look away first, so much so that I almost don’t register Emerson’s fingers interlocking with mine and squeezing, hard.
“Shit, I do love these family dinners,” Joe finally cheers, mouth full, as the rest of the table exhales, coughs, or sucks down water like they’re stuck in the Sahara.
We still have the lamb I’ve barely touched, dessert, and after-dinner tea to get through, and at this point, I’m honestly not sure we’re all going to make it out unscathed.
Chapter 28
“And how much did you end up raising?” We’ve reached theWe Want You to Marry Chelseaportion of the evening, it seems, as William fires question after question her way, all about her charity galas and fundraising auctions. Evelyn nervously glances from Emerson to her husband to me, clearly wishing her husband possessed an ounce of subtlety. Chelsea’s mother and father, on the other hand, are delighted at the turn of the conversation.
I don’t really hear Chelsea’s reply. It shouldn’t bother me, of course, since I’m not actually Emerson’s girlfriend, not actually being insulted right now. But I’m bothered. Especially when I see the twitching in Emerson’s gorgeous, chiseled jaw. Homegirl dumped him, for whatever stupid incomprehensible reason, and his own father is all but throwing her a damn parade at what should beEmerson’swelcome-home dinner.
The freaking nerve.
The one redeeming surprise that makes it all worth it is Emerson’s massive, wonderful hands. One of them has been touching me nonstop since my staredown with William two courses ago. My neck, my back, my thigh, my palm—they’re all on fire.
After the dessert bowls have been collected and I can stomach no more of theWilliam Loves Chelsea Show, I whisper to Emerson, “How about some air?”
He nods and grabs my hand, leading me through a maze of hallways. One of the hallways is lined with what must be fifty framed photos of all three boys. I pull Emerson to a stop as I find his section of photos. In most of the images, starting when he couldn’t have been much older than four, he’s on horseback. Through the years, it’s one shot after another of him playing polo, racing, or something like racing, jumping jumps on horseback, and winning trophies. A lot of trophies.
“Have you two gone on a ride together?” Evelyn comes up behind us, admiring the same set of photos over my shoulder.
“No.” My eyebrows shoot up as my voice does, not masking my surprise well at all.
“Not a lot of horseback riding in Manhattan,” Emerson mutters.
“You must take her, Emerson,” she says, then turns from the photos to me. “You should see him up there, really.”
“I bet.” I snort, shocked by this whole new side of Emerson Clark I didn’t see coming. “Oh, wait, the Gages—they did say you played polo in school, right?”
Evelyn’s face falls. “Until his eleventh year, he did.” I look between the two of them, clearly missing something. Then Evelyn cocks her head at me, surprised.
“That was the year of the accident.” Emerson gives me a meaningful look, as if it’s something I knew but already forgot.
“Oh, right, I thought it was, uh, later than that,” I mumble.
Evelyn sighs and lays a hand on Emerson’s arm. “How are the headaches? Still almost every night?”
“Not every night, Mother. I’m fine.” His words are gruff as he gently removes her hand. He turns to me and breathes me in. “Come, Samantha, let me show you the garden.”
“Sure.” I give a polite smile while my brain misfires inside my skull. What the hell? Accident? And headaches? Wait, is that why he’s in his room each night? Just sitting in there in pain while I’m out having dinner or freaking clubbing? What if his head was pounding when he came to that club to save me?
