Page 95 of Things I Overshared
“Headache?” I ask, hoping that’s the reason he’s already shutting down on me.
He gives me a polite smile and shakes his head. He turns and looks out the window, with his brow pinched hard. He’s angry or confused or frustrated. Or in pain and lying about it.
He doesn’t look at me for the entire drive home.
I decide to chat to Charlie, telling him all about how lovely the house was, the meal. I smile and laugh and don’t look at Emerson as much as I can help it. I blink back tears more than once.
I die once again, but this time, the death is anything but happy.
Chapter 29
After an entire lifetime of torture during the drive, we arrive at the hotel. Emerson holds out a hand to help me out of the car, and I don’t meet his eyes. On the hundred-mile trek from the car to our suite, his hand stays on the small of my back. I try not to read into it, I do, but it’s so warm and firm and I love it. I loved it all night.
As always, upon entering our suite, he tries to make a beeline for his door.
“What are you so afraid of?” I blurt. He stops and turns, and I unleash all my unsaid thoughts from the car. “You know, in Sadie’s books, so often the main character, she just has no idea what’s real and what’s acting—wah! Does he like me? Does he not? I’m so confusedand all that. Now, I kinda think that’s bullshit.” I walk toward him. “A woman knows, Emerson. When it’s real, she knows. I saw how you looked at me, I felt your hands on me. And you know what? It felt amazing. Unbelievable. Like fireworks and like home at the same time. You felt it too.
“I know how badly you wanted to kiss me in that hallway. I mean, you took a selfie at the gala! You, Icy Emerson himself, sat in that ballroom and took a selfie on my phone! And you freaking danced! You danced with me like we were the only people in the room!
“And tonight, you almost kissed me again, I know you did. So, you can lie to yourself all you want, but I’m not buying it.” I’ve reached him, and I’m shaking, but I straighten my back and look up at him, unafraid.No crap, Sam. No crap.“This is real, Emerson. I want you. Now look me in my eyes and try to tell me you don’t want me too.”
His jaw twitches as he looks down at me, his cold blue eyes on fire. I gulp. “I do,” he grunts.
I open my arms out wide in frustration. “Then what? What is it? Is it Chelsea, are you still—”
“No.”
“But you walked her out and came back all quiet. What did she say?”
His voice barely comes out through clenched teeth. “It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“So . . .” I take a step as I realize what’s happening. “You just don’twantto want me, but you do, and you’re disgusted by that.”
“What? No!” He takes a small step forward, putting us close again. Too close.
“So, I’m the boss’s daughter, off-limits, you think I’m too young?”
He just sighs, which really sets me off.
“Fine!” I throw my hands up. “Be a coward then.” I turn to storm to my room.
“I am not right for you, Samantha!” He’s almost loud he’s so exasperated. I stop and turn back, hoping he’ll say more.
“Why? I’m too much, too bright, too loud and cheery and sunshiny for you? You can’t put up with me for longer than—”
“No, damn it! Listen to me.” He stalks to me and grabs my arms, squeezing my exposed biceps for a second before loosening his grip to a featherlight touch. He traces his hands up to my neck, holding my face, and I start to tremble. He leans his forehead on mine, and I inhale his clean scent. “Trust me, please . . . I can’t be the man you need. The man youdeserve.”
“Well, can you just be Emerson?” My voice cracks as I say it, as much as I’m trying to hold myself together. He whispers what sounds like cursing under his breath and moves his nose down mine.
“I . . . can’t . . . give you everything,” he says, talking against my skin again, brushing his lips all around my mouth.
My toes curl in my sandals as I gasp for air.
“Just give me you,” I say, and something breaks in him. His lips are on mine, and his featherlight touch is gone. He licks along my lips to push open my mouth. Our tongues dance like we did at the gala. With him in charge, unwavering.
I moan into his mouth when one of his hands moves up into my hair, and he moans into mine as his other goes around my back. His kisses are forceful, long, demanding. He holds me even tighter and moves his mouth to my neck.
“You . . . smell . . .” he says in between open-mouth kisses with the tiniest bit of suction, “so good.”
