Page 16 of Higher Ground
“I can see that. Should we get some plates?”
Emory sucked in her breath, holding the tension tight in her shoulders. The reminder of exactly who Byron was to her was a good thing, even if it stung a little. Clayton scrambled to the floor and over to the cupboard Byron had flicked open.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he mused. His deep, rumbling tone pitched upward, and although he didn’t turn to face her, Emory knew. She justknewthat he was having a go. A blush rose over her chest, and the breath she had been holding in started stabbing at her lungs.
She could do this. She could fake nonchalance and serve Byron up a slice of his own cake. She could. She would. If only she could breathe.
“You …” She stumbled at her attempt, but sucked in some air, straightened her shoulders, and tried again. “You must be, too.”
As soon as the words darted past her lips, she wanted to pull them back in. Emory flung her hands over her face, hiding behind her embarrassment, even though Byronstillhadn’t turned to look at her.
Byron froze over the pan. Clearing his throat, he turned the knob off and stepped back. He dropped his hands to his knees, shaking his head a little. Emory did nothing, she didn’t darebreathein his direction. Was he going to tell her off? Was he going to ignore the whole thing and pretend their little jabs—and last night—never happened? Was he going to stalk over and demand more from her? She had no idea what was happening or how to act or even how shewantedthe whole scenario to play out. God, she was useless.
An age passed. Clayton clanged plates together as he chose his favourites, bacon sizzled in the cooling pan, toast popped out of the toaster. Emory did nothing, said nothing. She couldn’t have found the courage even if she’d tried. She’d wasted all the oomph she had in her on that one, shaky line. Her shoulders ached as she continued to force her body to stand tall, but her heart hammered against her chest.Do something,she willed Byron.Say something. Anything would have been better than this horrid, unknowing silence.
When Byron finally pushed his hands off his knees to stand, he moved slowly, turning on the spot and bringing his arms up to cross them over his chest. The golden amber of his eyes met Emory’s, and all the bravado she had maintained crumbled. She felt every inch of his burning gaze as he took in her daggy grey dressing gown and her bright red cheeks.
“I slept like a baby,” he said with a wink.
And if she had thought she was a puddle before, she definitely was then.
Choking on her saliva, Emory dropped her head and rushed to take the plates Clayton was pulling out of the cupboard. She dropped them on the bench without a word and scurried away to hide behind the kitchen table. It was futile, she realised, as she collapsed into a chair. Futile to hide from Byron this morning, futile to even attempt at pretending that last night never happened.
Byron had definitely heard her, and he knew she had heard him too.
Never again, she told herself, even though she knew she was lying. Because at the end of the day, Byron was still the one man in all of Gardner Creek who made her heart race in ways it shouldn’t. He was still the man she was going to continue picturing every time her loneliness got the best of her. He was always going to be the one man she knew she could neveractually have, and that made the fantasysomuch better. So, okay, again was a given. But not for the next few weeks, at least. Not until the flood cleared and she could escape this farmhouse and this town, and she was far away from the man she was imagining.
Cowering in her chair, Emory faked enthusiasm as Clayton showed her the latest of his stick figure drawings. They were all head and long legs, and the only thing that differentiated the pictures of her from the pictures he drew of himself was the little line of scruffy hair that dangled where her ear should have been. The first pictures had made her heart swell, the second made her feel all warm and cosy, but the third and fourth and hundredth were getting a little repetitive. But she grinned and clapped and ‘awed’ all the same, praising her son for all his hard work.
She pulled him onto her lap. Hiding behind her son was, possibly, the most pathetic thing she had ever done. But she couldn’t help it. Not when Byron kept looking at her as he plated up their breakfast and carried all three plates to the table.
Emory shifted Clayton onto the chair next to her, mumbling a thanks as Byron placed their plates down and took his place opposite them.
They ate breakfast in near silence, broken only by Clayton’s epic cheering and the beating of Emory’s heart. She was sure Byron could hear it from his place across the table. If, by some miracle, he couldn’t, she was certain he noticed the subtle way her hands shook as she cut into her perfectly runny yolked egg. And she was certain the burn in her cheeks was still glowing bright red.
Byron leaned back in his chair after finishing his meal, stretching his arms behind his head. Emory caught one glimpse of the way his triceps and biceps—and all the ‘ceps, really—stretched out the arms of his plain tee and swallowed the toast in her mouth whole. It caught behind her tonsils, and she gulpedat her coffee to force it down. The hot liquid proceeded to burn her throat, but that was easier to manage than the burning in her chest.
He stared intently at her, and if only it were night, she could have wished on a shooting star for him to stop. Instead, she wished on the surprisingly clear sky she could see through the window. She needed to compose herself somehow. She needed to get out of the house.
Chapter 8
Byron
“Idon’t want you leaving today,” Byron said as he stood from the table.
He could read the thoughts racing through Emory’s brain all through breakfast. She wanted out. And he didn’t completely blame her.
She pushed out of her chair, slamming her hands on the table, but instead of the gusto of rejection at his statement that he had been expecting, she remained silent. Her mouth had fallen open, and the tie from her gown had come loose. It parted down her front, revealing the thin satin nightie she wore underneath. Silky green fabric clung tight to her curves, the spaghetti straps disappearing into delicate lace that hung low on her chest.
Low.
So low.
Byron squeezed his eyes shut and turned away before his erection pressed too firmly at the zipper of his jeans. Fuck.
There was silence from the table, but Byron couldn’t turn back. Not yet. He needed to get a grip. He listened for the ruffleof fabric as Emory pulled her gown back around herself, but it never came. Instead, he heard the distinct scraping of a chair and Clayton’s scrambling as he ran off. No doubt heading for the living room to squeeze in every last minute of screen time he could get. They’d have to turn the TV off eventually, Byron figured, but a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt the kid.
But still, no rustle of soft cloth, no movement from Emory that Byron could hear. He stood, dirty plates in his hand, waiting for her to do something, say something.
