Page 63 of That Friendzone Feeling
18
WALKER
Fewthings beat the satisfying fizz when you pop the cap off a bottle of beer.ButIbarely even hear it.It’seleven thirty,Emily’sstill not home from work, and she hasn’t replied to any of my texts.
Myheart’s running one gear higher than normal, my stomach’s had a constant tremble in it for hours, and my head is abuzz with worry that she’s not okay.
Christ,Ithink we all know by now that accidents can happen out of nowhere.
IwishIcould stop myself, but there’s no way to control the snapshots of her trapped in the mangled wreckage of a car, or lying in the road after being hit while crossing the street, or being dragged into an alley by a knife-wielding mugger that flash across my mind.
Ican only hope she’s just avoiding me.That’snot great, but it’s better than the alternatives.And,Ican sympathize,I’vepretty much felt like moving into the brewery up inBathgateand never coming back after last week’s unbearable zipper incident.
Howthe hellIfound the willpower not to reach inside her dress onceI’dundone it, slip my hands around her waist to her soft warm belly and pull her ass against the straining ache in my crotch that was fit to burst,Iwill never know.
Well,Ido know.
She’smade it very clear she doesn’t even want to talk about what happened onHornbyIsland, much less build on it.
IfIkeep pushing it,Imight lose her completely, and that’s somethingIcan’t risk.WhatwouldIbe withoutEmily?Certainlynot the owner of a company that’s on the brink of being worth a billion dollars—ifChaseCooperrescues us, that is.
Ifshe doesn’t want to be anything more than my best friend and business partner, thenIhave to learn to accept that, to take more cold showers, and to think of my grandmother in her curlers wheneverEmily’saround in one of her figure-skimming dresses and knee-high boots.
Christ, those boots kill me.Idream of slowly unzipping them and sliding them off as she sits back and holds her leg up in the air for me.
IguessI’mmore into zippers thanIever realized.
Ipace toward the window and take a swig of my third beer of the night.Thesparkling chill down my throat does nothing to cool the worry that’s been rising in my gut for the last couple of hours.
Irest my elbows on the sill and gaze at the dark street below.Somethingstirs in the shadows from the streetlight on the other side of the road.Asmy eyes adjust to the low light, the shape of a raccoon comes into focus—a raccoonsitting on its hind legs, munching on something that looks like a burrito clutched in its front paws.
Ipull my phone from my pocket and check it again, just in caseEmreplied and for some reason it neither pinged nor vibrated.
Stillnothing.Iput it on the sill next to my beer, soI’llsee instantly if she texts.
Anotherraccoon approaches the burrito muncher.Itstops about five feet away, then sits and watches.Itsbackside has barely been on the sidewalk for a few seconds when it scuttles to the side so it’s directly facing the one with the delicious meal and sits and stares again.
Iglance back at my dark phone.NowthatEmilyknows whyIget so anxious when she’s late,I’dhave thought she’d be more likely to reply.
Themunching raccoon continues to eat, not giving a damn someone else wants his dinner.Thesecond one shuffles to the side again, moving in an arc around the muncher, like he’s too intimidated to approach.
There’sabsolutely no reason forEmilyto not be back by now.Particularlyas she’s flying toLAtomorrow morning for the opening night ofChaseDreamboatCooper’smovie.
Whata smooth move that was.Nodoubt his invitation toEmilyhas less to do with an opportunity to publicize the resort and more to do with him trying to impress her and get into her pants while she’s in a different environment, surrounded by all the exciting trappings ofHollywood.
Myracing brain is halted by the sound of a key in the door.
ThankGod.
Myshoulders unclench—Ihadn’t realized howscrunched up around my ears they’d been—and the knot in my stomach loosens.
Mybody might be relaxing, but asIturn away from the raccoon burrito standoff and head toward the opening door, my pulse takes the baton and picks up the pace.
“Hey,”Icall in the most nonchalant mannerIcan muster.Imean, it’s not likeI’vepaced around so much for the last two hours thatI’msurprised there aren’t grooves in the floor.
“Hey,”Emilysays with a wide smile.
“Youlook happy.”Ilean against the wall in an easygoing, devil-may-care way, as thoughIhaven’t imagined her in about seventeen different forms of tragic accident. “Whathave you been up to this evening?”
