by Kendall Ryan
Emery’s nose twitches at that phrase—our future—but she doesn’t probe me on it. “What did she say?”
“We talked about everything—things that we hadn’t brought up in years. She handed me a piece of paper from her doctor, showing that she’d been diagnosed as having a miscarriage all those years ago. She’d been telling the truth the whole time.”
“I’m sorry,” Emery says quietly.
“A baby between us wouldn’t have solved the huge rifts in our relationship. I see that now. And I realize that blaming her for how things turned out between us wasn’t fair. But it’s in the past, I guess, right?”
She nods, her expression softening.
“My point is, losing her, losing our baby . . . it fucked me up. It made me turn into a guy I didn’t even like. But I had to protect my heart. I couldn’t get involved in anything serious again. My mission in life became all about having fun and living in the moment with no regrets. Kids were no longer on my radar, and a serious relationship was the last thing I wanted.”
“I get it, Hayden,” she says. “But why do you call her Roxy, and not Naomi?”
I shrug. “To me, the person she is now . . . she’s Roxy. Naomi, that girl I fell in love with all those years ago, is gone. It was tragic what happened to her, but I know she’s moved on. She’s happy with her life. She isn’t one of those poor, helpless girls stuck in a degrading job. She actually loves stripping, loves what she does. And honestly, it’s a classy club.”
“You’ve been there to see her dance?” Emery’s voice rises in confusion.
“No. I went there once a long time ago for a bachelor party, so I’m familiar with the place. That’s all I meant. Watching Roxy dance would be too weird.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Emery rises to her feet. “Well, thanks for explaining all of that to me. I guess it does clear some things up. But I’ve got a lot of packing to do, so I should be going.”
“I’m not nearly done explaining anything to you.”
Confusion settles over her features, etching a line between her brows. “You’re not?”
“Please sit back down.”
Bending her knees, she lowers herself to the couch once again. And I take another deep breath, ready to peel back another layer and expose myself to her.
“That morning in Omaha, after the best sex of my life . . .” Her eyes widen. “You farted.”
“God, Hayden. I know, I’m sorry. I’m a disgusting creature. I get it.” She throws her hands up in the air. “For fuck’s sake—grow up.”
“No, just listen.” I clear my throat. “In my world, women didn’t pass gas, they didn’t belch, or shit, or do any of that other disgusting stuff men do.”
She rolls her eyes.
“But then you did that and I thought it was cute. Like, legitimately. I wasn’t grossed out; I wasn’t disgusted. I actually liked the fact that you were comfortable enough around me to let go and be yourself.”
She tosses a throw pillow at me, but there’s a smirk on her mouth. “I told you, that was an accident. It had nothing to do with being comfortable.”
“I know. But it made me realize just how deep my feelings for you ran. I was willing to throw all my rules out the window. I was a different person with you. That scared me. And you’re so driven with your career, and not looking for a man, that scared me too. I thought it’d be history repeating itself all over again.”
“And you ran.” Disappointment flashes in her eyes.
I don’t know why I thought explaining all of this would automatically entitle me to forgiveness. Of course it doesn’t work that way. Emery’s been hurt by the men in her past too many times.
“You have to understand,” I tell her. “I’ve been haunted for a long time, thinking I was cursed when it came to love. Feeling what I did for you has only dredged up all those old feelings of confusion and heartache and abandonment.”
“I wish you could have explained that to me before just completely shutting me out. That was really shitty of you.” She looks down at her hands as she says this, and I can’t help moving over to sit beside her on the couch.
“I’m sorry I left that morning. I’m sorry about everything. I should have told you about Naomi sooner.”
I take her hand in mine, and Emery gazes up at me. “Did you mean everything you said . . . about me being the best sex of your life, and about you being different with me?”
“Every word. I hope you believe that. Can you forgive me for running out?” I’m pleading with her, my voice solemn and serious.
She nods. “Yeah. I always knew you were a dipshit, but I also believe there’s hope for you yet.” There are tears shimmering in her eyes as she says this, as if she doesn’t quite know if she can let herself believe it yet. “I’ve missed you, our friendship,” she says.
“I’ve missed more than that,” I admit.
“Me too,” she adds softly. “But I know you don’t do relationships.” Her voice is sad.
“I’m trainable. Entirely.” I rub careful circles over the back of her hand.
“We’ll see about that.”
A tiny flicker of that spark I fell for is back, and I breathe just a little easier. Then Emery jumps to her feet again, looking panicked. “Shit. What time is it? I’m going to be late for work.”
A quick glance at the wall clock shows it’s almost eight, and my gut cramps at the thought of her leaving. “Call in sick. Spend the day with me.” I’m pretty sure I’ve never once muttered that phrase in my life, and once it’s out of my mouth, it’s further proof that this woman does strange things to me.
She’s silent for several moments, leaving me terrified that she’ll reject me. She takes a deep breath and I think she’s going to blow me off, tell me that she can’t. But then she straightens her shoulders and looks me in the eye. “If I do that, you’re going to spend every second of today groveling . . . and I need to study.”
I nod, suddenly eager to please. “Absolutely. You can study, and I’ll even go out and pick up lunch later.”
A small smile adorns her lips, and she digs her phone out of her purse and begins typing a message—which I assume is an e-mail to tell her boss she won’t be in today.
“The lunch will be of my choosing. Correct?” she asks, glancing up at me as she taps out the rest of her message and then shoves her phone back in her purse.
“Of course. Anything you want. But first . . .”
“What?” she asks.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
Unable to resist, I cross the room in two long strides and pull her into my arms, her chest bumping against mine. She releases a surprised gasp. Then my lips crash down on hers and she opens for me, letting my tongue invade her mouth in a passionate kiss. With our mouths fused together in hungry kisses, my hands wander down to squeeze her ass. Emery groans into my mouth, and I know she wants this every bit as much as I do. Even if we don’t quite know where we stand, even if our future is still murky, even if she hasn’t completely forgiven me yet. She and I both know how perfectly we fit together.
“Let me take you to bed.”
She breaks from the kiss, her eyes on mine reflecting so much emotion—past heartbreak and confusion, but underneath it all, lust.
“I’m not going anywhere. I swear this time. I just want to make you feel good.” It’s the only way I know how to fix this. I don’t want to get off—I want intimacy and physical closeness with her.
She nods and lets me guide her into my bedroom.
As I take my time slowly stripping her from her dressy work clothes, one thing strikes me. It’s Dottie’s wisdom from weeks ago—that nice girls don’t wear the kind of panties she’d found under my bed. I think Dottie would be pleased to know that Emery’s wearing white cotton, no-nonsense granny panties. And she’s still the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. If Dottie’s right about this, and she usually is, then Emery is a keeper. And viewing her as wife material doesn’t make me want to run. It makes me wan
t to keep her all to myself. For always.
We fall into bed, my lips at her throat, her hands on my cock, my fingers inside her panties . . . and while our movements are hungry, nothing about this is rushed. We take our time exploring each other’s bodies, stroking, kissing, murmuring encouraging things about how good it all feels.
As I slowly enter her, her breathing hitches and her eyes never leave mine. “We fit together perfectly,” I say, kissing her parted lips.
“So perfect,” she cries, tilting her pelvis up to take me deeper.
Soon I can’t hold back, and I’m pounding into her body again and again while she makes little mewling cries of pleasure. And while I still wonder what’s next for us, I push those thoughts away and lose myself in the pleasure of her body, taking all she’s offering and giving all I have in return.
After we make love twice more, I go into the kitchen to make us a snack while Emery naps. If she’s serious about getting some studying done today—and I know she is—she’ll need some brain fuel. I start a pot of coffee and fry up a couple of eggs. When I peek back into the bedroom, I love the way she looks in my bed. Dark hair spread out over my pillow, her rounded hips draped with the sheet.
As I watch her while she sleeps, I can’t help the tender thoughts floating through my brain about how close I came to losing her . . . and how lucky I am that I didn’t.
Now I just have to do my best not to fuck this up.
Chapter Twenty
Emery
Surrounded by teetering stacks of class notes and thick textbooks splayed open on their spines, I sit cross-legged on the living room floor. I started studying on the dining table, then moved to the bed when I ran out of territory to spread out in. Then I shoved the coffee table outside on the balcony, tossed down a couch cushion, and turned the entire floor into my desk.
Now I’m curled up at the center of a paper-and-pillow nest. My back is killing me, my eyes feel gritty, my tongue tastes sour from too much coffee, and . . . my ass is vibrating?
I thought I left my phone on its charger, but when I dig in my shorts pocket, there it is. And I have a text from Hayden.
Hayden: You still up? Wanna make a taco run?
I pat my hollow stomach, trying to remember the last time I ate. Probably my dinner break at work. And it’s midnight now, which means . . . how many hours ago? My brain has no room left for basic math anymore. I’ve crammed it too full of legal definitions and case histories.
My groggy attempt at thought is interrupted by a second text.
Hayden: Or would you rather I taste your taco? ;)
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I snort in half amusement, half exasperation and text him back.
Emery: Seriously? Are you twelve years old?
Hayden: I hope not, or you might get arrested.
Emery: No taco eating allowed . . . the food kind or the other kind. I have to memorize all this shit and get at least four hours sleep.
I tried going to work on two hours yesterday. It didn’t end well.
Speaking of stuff I don’t have time for, I should stop texting Hayden. I stand up and barely catch myself before I stumble. Whoa . . . head rush. I must have gotten up too fast. I blink the blurriness out of my vision and stretch my stiff muscles. Then I pick my way through the minefield of paper and put my phone back on my nightstand where it belongs.
Just as I get settled again, someone knocks at the door. I groan and drag myself across the condo to look through the peephole. It’s Hayden, holding a brown paper box labeled Taco Farm: One Dozen Fresh under his arm.
Wow, that was quick. I glance at the clock. Wait, no . . . it’s been half an hour. I’ve just lost all ability to keep track of time. Terrific.
I open the door and sigh. “I said no tacos. That includes coming over, not just going out.”
“You have to eat sometime. I won’t hang around too long, I promise.” He looks over my shoulder into the condo. “Holy shit, what happened here? Did a library explode?”
“No, just my brain.”
He makes a sympathetic noise. “So are you going to let me in or what?”
I give up and stand aside. Maybe some food will help me find my second wind . . . and even though things are still a little uncertain between us, I miss Hayden. I haven’t had much time to spend with him over the past few days. Not after that day I skipped work and we had mind-blowing sex all afternoon.
As he gets out plates and arranges our midnight snack on the dining table, he asks, “Anything I can help with?”
“Not unless you’re secretly an expert in dignitary tort law. But thanks for the offer . . . and the food.” My stomach is already perking up at the smell of spicy tempeh and grilled vegetables.
“I have no idea what the fuck that is. Something about serious cakes?” He returns my tired smile. “And you’re welcome.”
We sit down to inhale our second dinner. Before I know it, I’ve polished off all six of the delicious little bastards. I lie back in my chair, feeling fat and happy. My blood sugar is singing my praises. This little break definitely helped. But Hayden looks more pensive than satisfied, and he’s left two of his steak tacos uneaten.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I say.
He blinks. “Huh? Why do you ask?”
I point at his half-full plate. “I know you. When you don’t finish your dead cow, it’s gotta be serious.”
“Okay, fine. I did want to ask you something.” He chews his lip for a second. “Are you still going to move out?”
Now it’s my turn to blink at him. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to me. I only wanted to move out in the first place because I thought that Hayden had returned to his old asshole ways. When I found out why he left me in Omaha and why Roxy was in his condo so late, I realized that Hayden has always been my friend. He just panicked and acted like an idiot. Not like I’ve never done that before.
With that issue out of the way, though, I’m left with my original problem: how to handle my own feelings for him. On that day when Hayden bared all his scars to me, so open and brave, I let my pussy call the shots. Once again, I fell into his bed without knowing or caring what it meant in the long run. But I have to make our relationship crystal clear—to both of us—before we end up tripping and falling on top of each other again. Does he still think of me as a friend with benefits? And would I be happy in that arrangement?
I shake my head. “No, I’m staying here,” I reply. “I already went to the building manager and told him to forget about my termination request. But I do want to know . . . where we stand.”
He takes a deep, slow breath through his nose. “You mean, are we dating?”
“Yes. And are we exclusive?” I study his face for any trace of expression, any hint about what’s going through his mind right now.
After a minute, Hayden nods thoughtfully. “I can do that,” he says in the same tone he agreed to trying yoga, when we first met in June. Barely two months ago—and yet it feels like we’ve known each other for years.
I raise my eyebrows in an urgent stare. “Are you sure? Don’t say yes just to avoid hurting my feelings. I need to know what you really want, not just what you think I want to hear.”
He reaches over the table to take my hands in his. My heart flutters at what I glimpse in his sea-blue eyes. The honesty, the vulnerability, the pure need . . . the love.
“What I want is you,” he replies, before pulling me into a hot, tender kiss.
Chapter Twenty-One
Emery
Leaning into the mirror, I dab on my last swipes of eye shadow, careful not to let any powder fall onto my red satin cocktail dress. I love that I can dress for a five-star restaurant without freezing to death; my first autumn in Los Angeles feels like a Michigan summer. I guess that’s a fair trade for the hellish weather I endured when I first arrived.
Just as I finish my makeup, there’s a knock at the door. I put down my brush and hurry out of the bathroom to answer.
It’s Hayden, right
on time and looking absolutely mouthwatering in a tailored gray suit. He gives me a slow, burning glance from head to toe that tells me he likes what he sees. “On second thought, we don’t have to go out tonight. Want to just stay home?”
“You mean stay in bed,” I retort, matching his crooked grin.
“What? I didn’t say that.” He puts on a faux innocent look, but he can’t stop the corners of his mouth from twitching. “You have a dirty mind, Miss Winters.”
I swat his arm gently. “You forgetting something? I’ve passed the bar and been sworn in. Now I’m Miss Emery Winters, Esquire. And nothing can stop me from going out to celebrate.”
“All right, all right . . . your wish is my command. I’ll wait.” He leans in to kiss me on the neck, knowing to avoid my fresh makeup without being told. It’s barely a brush of lips, so soft, almost chaste, but it still gives me a little shiver. His husky murmur catches me off guard. “But I’ll be counting the seconds until I can peel you out of that dress.”
Patience suddenly doesn’t seem like much of a virtue. But I know from experience that anticipation makes things so much sweeter. “Don’t get too excited, horn-dog,” I say, trying to sound stern instead of turned on. “We wouldn’t want to get thrown out of the restaurant.”
“If I’m a dog, then isn’t it my master’s fault if I don’t behave?” Hayden offers his elbow before I can come up with a snappy retort. “Come on, let’s go. Our reservation is in forty-five minutes, and rush hour isn’t over yet.”
“Are you serious?” I glance at the clock. “It’s after eight.”
“It’s also Friday night in downtown LA.” He escorts me downstairs like I’m a princess and opens the door of his BMW for me.
We make good time and arrive ten minutes early. The restaurant is gorgeous with dark wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, white-draped tables with lilies almost as bright as the candles they’re arranged under. After the hostess seats us at a small table for two, I twist around to admire the view until I notice Hayden smiling at me.