Rascal

by Katie McCoy

  You’re driving me to distraction, was Emerson’s follow-up text. I can’t stop thinking about how hot you were last night. And the night before.

  I got hot myself, thinking of what he was talking about. Of how he had kissed me. Touched me. Made me come.

  I squeezed my knees together, knowing that if I kept fantasizing about Emerson, I’d get absolutely nothing done today. As it was, I was struggling to get through the work I needed to before the day ended. That had never been a problem before. I had always been able to put guys second to my work. Emerson was the first man I’d ever met that made me want to reconsider my priorities. Maybe because he didn’t seem to have a problem with them in the first place. If anything, he was proud of my accomplishments and my dedication to my work—not threatened by it. Maybe because he understood on a deeper level what it meant to create something that you could call your own. That finding your own success was vital.

  After lunch—and another series of flirty texts—I left my phone at my desk and headed to Arthur’s office to drop off the briefs I had been working on all morning.

  He was on the phone when I entered, but gestured for me to come in and to close the door. I sat, the briefs of my lap, waiting for him to finish. When he did, he smiled at me.

  “Are those the Anderson files?” he asked, and I nodded, handing them over.

  “I’ve included some notes from the meeting,” I told him. “Just for context.”

  He glanced down at them. “Excellent. I would have asked for them afterwards.” He looked at me. “That’s what we like about you, Alex. You’re always thinking a few steps ahead.” He put the brief down on his desk and laced his fingers together, leaning back in his chair. “It was a pleasure seeing Emerson the other night,” he said.

  “We had a good time,” I said. “It was nice to be able to introduce him to everyone.”

  At some point, I might have to come clean about the fact that I had barely known Emerson at the time of the party, but since things were going so well between us—and we actually seemed to be moving towards something more serious—I figured there wasn’t any harm in continuing the charade. Especially since it might not be a charade forever.

  The thought scared and excited me. Did Emerson and I have a future together? We hadn’t spoken about it at all—and it was possible that he was just interested in something casual and fun. But I got the sense that this was something more—not just for me, but for him, too.

  “Have you met his parents yet?” Arthur asked me.

  It was a fairly personal question, and I was confused until I remembered how everyone had reacted when Emerson had revealed his last name.

  “Not yet,” I told Arthur—wanting to be honest about that.

  “Mr. Hayes an important man,” Arthur continued. “A good person to know. And as I’m sure you’re aware, the kind of person that would be beneficial to this firm.”

  I was a little uncomfortable now. Was I supposed to be recruiting Emerson’s father? From what little I had figured out, they didn’t seem to have the best relationship. He hadn’t even shown up to Emerson’s big bar opening.

  “I’ll make sure to keep that in mind, sir,” I said, trying my best to be vague. The last thing I wanted to do was make promises I knew I couldn’t keep.

  “Thank you for this,” Arthur pointed at the brief, and it was clear that I was being dismissed.

  Out in the hallway, I ran into Lucinda.

  “Private meetings?” she asked, her lip curled upward.

  “Just delivering briefs,” I told her, not wanting to get into it with her.

  “You know that everyone is talking about the fact that you landed a Hayes.” Lucinda ignored my tone and followed me back to my desk.

  “I didn’t land anyone,” I responded. “I’m dating Emerson. Not his family.”

  Lucinda stared at me. “Are you really that simple?”

  I sat down at my desk. “What are you talking about?”

  “If I had the kind of connections that you do, I would use them,” she said, her long nails tapping on the cubicle divider. “That’s what you have to do in our business.”

  “I can get by on my own talent,” I told her.

  She laughed. “You’re naïve if you think that you’re going to get the position just because you’re good at it. Look around—we’re all good at what we do. We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t. You have to use everything you have to your advantage. You have to be ruthless.” She shrugged. “But hey, at least there’s less competition for me!”

  I was tired and drained by the time I got home that night. It was late, but Rascals was open. I paused on the corner, wondering if I should stop in to see Emerson. All of this was new to me, and I didn’t know the rules. Would dropping in make me look clingy or weird?

  I decided to head straight home. I had just changed out of my work clothes and into a pair of yoga pants and a well-worn shirt when there was a knock on the door. I looked through the peephole, and my heart did the same thing it had done all day when getting a message from Emerson. Because he was there. Outside my door with a smile and a bag.

  “Hi.” I opened the door, feeling a little bashful, but happy to see him.

  “Hey.” He gave me a long, lingering kiss.

  It left me breathless, and all my self-consciousness vanished.

  “Are you busy?” he asked, holding up the bag, which smelled amazing. “I brought food.”

  As if to respond, my stomach growled. We both laughed.

  “I guess that answers my question,” he said.

  I stepped aside to let him in, admiring the way his jeans cupped his butt as he sauntered into my apartment, putting the food down on my coffee table.

  “We got a new chef,” he told me, unpacking what looked like an amazing spread of bar food. Burgers, fries, wings . . .

  “How’s their grilled cheese?” I teased, coming to sit next to him on the couch.

  “Not as good as mine.” He poked my arm. “But I’d love to get your opinion on the menu. Good thing you’re hungry.”

  I was. I was starving. Even though we were supposed to get time off for lunch, I usually ate at my desk and ended up working at the same time, so I never got the chance to really eat a meal—and I definitely didn’t get the chance to enjoy it.

  This meal I was going to enjoy. Not just because it smelled amazing, but because the effort that Emerson had taken to bring it to me meant the world to me. He was so thoughtful and considerate. None of the guys I had dated had ever been half as kind.

  We ate with gusto—the food was even better than it looked.

  “Yum,” I said, digging in. “Your chef is amazing.”

  “Yeah, I think it was a good choice,” he told me. “I mean, she’s no Phoebe Sullivan, but I can wait.”

  “You’re still hoping she’ll leave that other place for you guys?” I wanted to know, licking my fingers as I finished a salty, spicy chicken wing.

  Emerson’s eyes were fixated on my mouth as I did this, and I couldn’t help but torture him a little bit, taking my time with my last two fingers, drawing them slowly out of my mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, blinking. “What did you say?”

  I laughed. “You’re easily distracted.”

  “Just around you,” he told me, leaning in to kiss me. “Mmm, delicious.”

  I blushed.

  “And no, I don’t really think that we can tempt a chef from a big restaurant to a bar like this. But a guy can dream, can’t he?” he asked with a wink.

  “At least this one is fantastic,” I reminded him, taking another chicken wing. “People are going to be lining up around the block to eat at Rascals.”

  “They already are,” Emerson said, the pride evident on his face. “Only a few days in and it’s looking like we’re going to be a hit.”

  I threw my arms around him. “That’s wonderful,” I told him. “Congrats.”

  “Thanks.” He hugged me tightly. “It feels good. Making somethin
g of myself, you know? Maybe one day the Hayes name will mean more than just my father and his father before him.”

  My mind went back to what Arthur and Lucinda had said that afternoon. About Emerson’s father and connections and how important both were. For a brief moment, I thought about asking Emerson about it, but that thought was quickly dismissed. We were having a good time, there wasn’t any point in ruining it.

  “We should celebrate your success,” I told him.

  He grinned. “You name the time and place. I’ll be there.”

  A different kind of celebrating popped into my head. A private, sexy kind of celebration. One that we could do right here. Right now.

  “How about I just celebrate you,” I said, putting aside the plates and taking Emerson’s beer out of his hand.

  His eyebrows went up, but he said nothing as I took a long swig of his beer. Then, I got off the couch and knelt on the floor in front of him, making room for myself between his legs. His eyebrows went even higher as I put my hands on his knees and slid them upward.

  He was already hard. I could feel him through his jeans as I unbuckled his belt, and then unbuttoned his pants.

  “Holy shit,” he murmured, his head falling back as I dragged his zipper down.

  His hands were on the couch next to him, but I saw them curl into fists as I took him into my hand. And then into my mouth.

  I was going to celebrate him. I was going to celebrate him but good.

  16

  Alex

  The next evening, I didn’t even question my instinct to go to Rascals. Even though we still hadn’t really talked about “us,” after the night Emerson and I had shared, and the way I had rocked his world—his words, not mine—it was pretty clear that he wanted me there, too.

  When I headed into the bar after work, I found several familiar faces at the bar. Not just Emerson, but Hayley as well. They were talking to an older woman who was clearly related to both of them. Hayley shared her heart-shaped face, but Emerson had gotten his eyes from her. They were a dark brown, intelligent and clever, taking everything in. She didn’t miss my arrival, nor the way that Emerson straightened when he saw me, or the smile that spread across Hayley’s face.

  “Alex!” Emerson’s sister greeted me with a hug. “I haven’t seen you since the night of the opening. How are you?”

  “I’m great, it’s good to see you.”

  “This is our mother, Portia,” Hayley introduced us. “And this is Emerson’s . . . friend, Alex.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Portia shook my hand, glancing between me and Emerson.

  “Likewise,” I said, noting at how beautiful and elegant she was—from her perfectly styled hair to her impeccable manicure.

  Even though I was wearing my best suit and silk blouse, I felt almost shabby standing next to her.

  “I’m here to try to convince my son to join us for dinner tonight,” Portia told me, sharing a look with Hayley. “Maybe you could help us with that? Or, if you’re not busy, we’d love to have you as well.”

  “Mom—” Emerson tried to interject, but both his mother and sister ignored him.

  “You have to come,” Hayley pleaded with me. “I’ve barely gotten to spend any time with you at all.”

  I could see Emerson roll his eyes behind his sister’s back, but he still wore a tense expression on his face, as if all of this was par for the course. I didn’t know how to respond. After what Arthur had said yesterday, it would be foolish of me to turn down an invitation from the Hayes family. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in learning more about Emerson’s life.

  “I’d love to join,” I finally said. “If Emerson doesn’t mind.”

  Hayley practically jumped for joy. “He doesn’t,” she said, sticking her tongue out at her older brother.

  He sighed. “I guess we can go,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “Wonderful,” Portia said, rising from her seat. “We’ll see you in an hour then.”

  She practically glided out of the bar, Hayley following behind, wiggling her fingers at us before she disappeared.

  Emerson ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I can call them and cancel, if you don’t want to go. They can be a bit pushy.”

  “I don’t mind,” I told him honestly. “Your mom seems nice.”

  “She is,” he said.

  “Do I need to wear anything special?” I asked, looking down at my suit.

  “I think you look great,” he told me. “But my parents tend to be a little more . . . formal.”

  I understood what he was saying. “Give me ten minutes.” I leaned over the bar and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  He turned his head and caught my lips with his. He kissed me for a while, until I forgot exactly what I was supposed to be doing.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to cancel?” he asked when we broke apart. “Because I’d much rather order takeout and do more of that, alone.”

  I wanted that too. But I was also curious, and in that instance, it was my curiosity that won out.

  “Ten minutes,” I promised, and hurried upstairs.

  We were soon on the road, me in my trusty black wrap dress and Emerson wearing a jacket over his dark jeans and button up shirt. I had styled myself much like I would for a work function, fake diamond earrings in my ears, simple black pumps and a matching purse.

  I was nervous, and only got more nervous the closer we got to River West, where his parents lived. It was the most expensive neighborhood in Chicago, and it showed. Each house we passed was more beautiful than the next, and I was beginning to feel way out of my league by the time we pulled up to a house where several cars were already parked.

  “Dammit,” Emerson groaned as we pulled up in front of the house, where a valet was waiting for us.

  A valet. At a private residence.

  “I thought this was a family dinner,” I said with a gulp.

  “My mom clearly forgot to mention they’re having one of their dinner parties,” Emerson sighed as we got out of the car. “I’m guessing it’s just the family—and a few dozen of Dad’s closest friends and business acquaintances.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “Don’t worry,” he told me. “It’s just like your work party, only more boring.”

  I stifled a laugh, though I really wanted to throw up. I was completely out of my league with people like this—it was bad enough when I thought it was just going to be the Hayes family, but a party? The whole thing was nerve-wracking.

  Thankfully, Emerson didn’t let go of my hand as we walked into the gorgeous old building. I was grateful for the support—both emotional and physical—because if I felt out of my league before, this was like showing up to the community pool and finding Michael Phelps swimming laps.

  Emerson’s parents’ home was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was like a magazine spread, walls covered in extraordinary pieces of art, the furniture ornate, and everything perfectly lit by the enormous chandeliers that extended from the ceilings. There were Persian rugs on the floor, Fabergé eggs on tables, and delicate crystal centerpieces filled with flowers on every other available surface. But more than all the expensive furniture was the attention to detail. The way things matched and contrasted – how someone had poured effort into making this a beautiful, welcoming space. This was a home, the kind I’d grown up dreaming about: somewhere safe and sturdy, not like the cheap apartments I’d shuffled between where someone was always banging on the walls to keep the noise down and the hot water ran out before nine a.m. Here, there were plush carpets and an amazing sense of calm, even with the buzz of activity from the party.

  I couldn’t stop staring.

  The Hayeses had also hired a full wait staff, who were currently weaving through the guests, offering hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Everyone was dressed in black, which made me feel a little less self-conscious, but only a little. Because I was pretty sure I was the only one whose jewelry didn’t have real diamonds in it. I un
tucked my hair from behind my ears carefully, hoping that no one would be able to tell that I was wearing fake jewels.

  There was no sign of Hayley or Emerson’s mother anywhere, but everyone seemed to know Emerson, greeting him warmly as we wove through the crowd. He made introductions, but quickly extracted both of us from the conversation before anything more than small talk could occur. It was clear that most of the people in attendance worked with Emerson’s father. The room seemed to be filled with investment bankers and their society wives. I felt even more self-conscious about my own status—and my fake earrings—as it became clear that I was among the one percent of the one percent.

  Netflix and chill was looking better by the minute.

  But if there was one consolation, it was that Emerson seemed to be as out of place here as I felt. He seemed restless and tense, and he wouldn’t stay still, pulling us through the crowd, giving me the world’s fastest tour of the main rooms of the house.

  “This place is amazing,” I told him, not sure what else to say.

  He gave a wry grin. “I guess. Mom gets a bug and redesigns every couple of years, just so she can be featured in some magazine all over again.”

  He pulled me over to the other side of the room where Hayley was standing with a glass of champagne and a spinach puff.

  “Dinner? Really?” he asked his sister, who at least had the good sense to look guilty.

  “I thought it would be better for you to be here while there’s a crowd,” she told him. “You and Dad don’t do well at small events, remember?”

  “Where is he?” Emerson asked.

  “Probably in the study smoking a cigar,” she said. “You know he hates these parties just as much as you do.”

  “Yet he throws them on a regular basis,” Emerson countered.

  Hayley shrugged, and Emerson sighed, clearly annoyed. He turned to me.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” he told me. “We don’t have to stay long.”

  “I don’t mind,” I lied.

  Part of me really was curious to explore the house. To see the place where Emerson had grown up. Maybe get a better idea of who he was.