Page 79 of Dirty Little Secrets
“No.” I turn my back to the entertainment unit, hoping to lead her away from all my mistakes. “It was stolen a few years ago. Probably halfway across the country by now.” I nod down at the sectional, a glass chess set on the coffee table. “Do you play?”
Emery casts a cheeky smirk. “Are you a sore loser?”
“Why?” I ask as we sink down into the leather cushions. “Are you implying I’ll lose?”
She clicks her tongue, rotating the board so that I’m white. It should be the other way around. “I’m not implying anything. I am stating it as a certain fact—you will lose.” She cocks her head. “So, I ask again, are you a sore loser?”
I shake my head and release an amused laugh. “I’ve never lost a game, Miss Jones. My answer isn’t relevant.”
She rolls her eyes. “Who do you play with? Hmm? Josephine? Javier? Both of whom are under your employment?” My gaze playfully hardens. She grins. “They probablylet youwin, Damon. It’s the smart thing to do.”
I perk up a brow. “You’re under my employment as well,Miss Jones. I suppose my streak will continue.”
“It won’t,” she chirps. “I’m not feeling very smart tonight.” She nods down to the board. “Well? Go on and make your first move. May the best pawn win.”
I pick up a white pawn and move it forward two spaces. Emery smirks and makes her move. Interesting. As we play the game, I soon realize that Emery is not an easy opponent. She’s cunning and tactical. Deliberate and precise. Every time I think I’ve nailed down her strategy, she surprises me. She keeps me alert, attentive, and focused. She makes me want to try harder.
As the pieces move across the board, pawns dying, knights falling, queens rising, I forget about everything else. I forget about the past. My mistakes. My failures. I forget it all.
Until…until Emery has me backed into a corner. Then I see it. Failure. Defeat. Right there, looming on the horizon. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
Emery smirks, placing my king in checkmate. “Commendable effort, Mr. Cavanaugh.” She tilts her head, reigning in a laugh as I smack my king down. “Easy now. It’s just a game.”
I shoot her a half-hearted glare. “I don’t enjoy losing.”
Emery snorts. “You and the rest of the world. We can’t all be winners.”
“I’m not sure what’s worse, a sore loser or a boastful winner.” I cock my head. “Rematch?”
She grins, suppressing a yawn. “Maybe another time. I should go home and get some sleep. I have an appointment in the morning.”
I glance down at the fallen king on the board. I don’t want to end up like him. I refuse. “Stay with me,” I whisper, swallowing. “Stay with me, Emery.”
“I don’t think?—”
“Don’t think,” I breathe out. “Just for a second, don’t think.” I stand up, offering her my hand. “Let’s go to sleep, Emery.” My tone is soft and pleading. “It’s time to sleep.”
Her hesitation is palpable, evident in the way her breathing turns heavy and her brows scrunch up. But then I see it. I see an image within the chaos. A semblance of meaning. Of resolve. Her facial muscles relax, shoulders dropping. My heart races as she takes my hand, leading for the first time with her heart, not her head.
We float to my bedroom, and I can feel every nerve in my body pulsing with anticipation. Her hand in mine is comforting, but her fluctuating demeanor sends shivers down my spine.
As we crawl under the covers, I draw her close to me, and she rests her head on my chest. We lay there in charged silence, the weight of her unease heavy on my heart. I wrap my arms around her, hoping to bring her some solace, some peace but her restlessness never fully dissipates.
At some rare point during the late hours of the night, I drift off to sleep and dream of her. It’s always her. She’s a blank canvas, covered in textured fabric. Itry to paint her. Add color. Add dimensions. Add depth. But the paint doesn’t stick. It drips off. All of it. Every single stroke. I can’t paint her. She won’t allow it. Why? Why can’t I?—
Perspective.
I wake up in a jolt, panting. Fuck. Taking a steadying breath, I roll over to my side, expecting to hold Emery but find air instead. I jerk upright, staring at the empty space. She left. She?—
In the corner of my eye, I see a handwritten note on her pillow. I pick it up. It’s just one word. One word that has the power of a thousand epics. I smile down at the cursive letters. Maybe I’m not meant to paint her. She’s meant to paint me. I trace my finger over the message. There’s meaning. She’s given it to me.
Rematch
THE CLINICAL TRIAL
EMERY
Last night was a test.He tested me. He tested my boundaries. He tested my willingness to adjust and adapt to unfamiliar territory. I wasn’t planning on spending the night with him. I wasn’t prepared to fall asleep in his arms. I wasn’t ready tosleepwith him. Only sleep. But I did.
