by Lisa Cach
"Sure. That would be nice," Emma said with little enthusiasm. When he'd said they should celebrate, she'd gotten a sudden image of them going out to dinner, maybe someplace elegant and celebratory like the ultraposh restaurant Canlis. "You wouldn't want to go out?" she asked tentatively.
"After peeling all that garlic? Dinner's already half-made! The fish won't keep, will it?"
She couldn't tell if he was genuinely concerned, or if it was a way to get out of going out in public with her. She had no right to expect him to take her out; that had never been part of their arrangement. She had to remember that they weren't in a real relationship. Which made it difficult to ask the favor she wanted to request now.
"The fish would keep, but you're right, dinner is half-made. I'll finish up if you want to run out for the champagne."
"Great!" He reached for his coat and then paused, watching her as she went into the kitchen and focused on chopping garlic, not looking his way. "This is okay with you, isn't it?"
She looked up at him and gave him a big smile. "Yes! Of course!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!" She smiled too brightly, the corners of her mouth aching.
He frowned. "I want this to be special for you. Would you rather I stayed and helped with dinner? Or finished it myself? Why don't I do that, and you can sit and have a glass of wine."
He obviously had no idea of what she was thinking, and she wasn't going to enlighten him. But perhaps this would be as good a time as any to make another request. "There is a favor I wanted to ask you," she began tentatively.
He put down his coat and came toward her. He put his hands on her upper arms. "What is it, Emma? You can ask me anything."
"Next Friday, there's a public event where all the finalists present their designs to the press and to the committee. It's semiformal-cocktails, hors d'oeuvres, that kind of thing. I'm allowed to bring a guest."
He raised his brows.
"Would you… I mean, can you…?"
"You want me to be your date?"
"Not date!" she said, although that was exactly what she had been hoping. If he wouldn't even take her out to dinner, though, he'd never appear with her at a big to-do like this. "Just as, I don't know, moral support. You must be comfortable with this type of event. You know how they go, whereas I have no clue, and I'm going to be a nervous wreck."
"So you want me to be your security blanket."
"Yes. If you wouldn't mind? And if, you know, you wouldn't mind being out in public with me."
"Why should going out in public be a problem for me?" he asked, emphasizing the last word.
What did he mean by that? "I know this is going beyond the bounds of our agreement," she said, "and I don't mean to impose. If anyone asks, you can just say you're my friend. That's true enough, isn't it?"
His expression was unreadable. "True enough. I'm surprised you wouldn't rather take one of your friends. There wouldn't be any hidden undertones with them."
Was he upset? He certainly wasn't delighted by her invitation. "I'll feel less like an outsider with you there," she said, smiling, trying to make it sound like a compliment. "With Daphne, I'd feel like we were teenagers at a dance, afraid to leave each other's side."
A muscle in his jaw worked. She waited, afraid to say anything more, and then he said, "All right. I'll go."
"Thank you."
He didn't seem excited by it, whereas she couldn't think of anyone she'd rather have at her side. He was so supportive of her, and seemed genuinely proud of her accomplishment. However nervous she got when it was time to present her design, she wouldn't be alone. It wouldn't matter if she did well or flubbed up, because either way, he would be there to put his arm around her shoulders when she was finished, to kiss her and tell her "Well done."
At least, that's what she'd thought. Judging from his reaction, it seemed he thought he'd been drafted for a distasteful tour of social duty.
He went to buy the champagne and she finished preparing the meal, but an hour later when they popped the cork and filled their glasses for a toast, Emma felt that the mood had been lost. She felt as if a small distance had opened between them, and she didn't know how to bring them back to where they had been.
They were nibbling at their dessert of seasonal berries in Moscato when she said, "Maybe I shouldn't have asked you to come with me."
He looked at her, his brows raised slightly in question, and waited for her to continue.
"I mean, that type of thing, that's not what we're about."
"No," he said after a long moment. "It's not."
"So I'm sorry I imposed on you like that. It's like the hockey thing-I sometimes forget the limits."
"You'd rather I didn't go, then?"
"I'd love for you to come. But only if you're comfortable."
"If it will help you, then I'd love to come."
Where had all this awkwardness come from? They were talking to each other like strangers, and a small sadness opened up inside Emma. She sensed that she was now on the cusp of a change in her Hfe, and she didn't know if her relationship with Russ would survive it. Their being together had only been to meet present needs, nothing more.
Now her needs were about to change.
They were both subdued the rest of the evening, although Emma tried to talk with enthusiasm about the upcoming event. Every word she said, though, seemed to drain their energy further. The sex was perfunctory, though physically satisfying. Russ left earlier than usual, claiming an early morning meeting, and then Emma was alone again in her apartment.
His apartment, she corrected herself as she tidied up the kitchen. Would she want to stay here if she no longer had Russ in her life? No, it would be too painful, not to mention awkward.
She looked at the room, with her make-do college furniture and cheaply done efforts at comfort and hominess. She'd made the best of what she had, and had begun to think of it as home, as her own space. With the phone call tonight, though, she felt the first hint of disengagement.
Realistically, her chances of winning the contest were slim to none. But being a finalist meant her chances of getting a job had just gone up. And perhaps even more important, she'd found confidence in her own talents and had that confidence validated by others. The Emma who went to interviews now would be a far different creature from the one who'd gone in a month ago. She would be Super Emma, the Emma of her own dreams for herself.
Super Emma wouldn't need or want to be a man's paid mistress, however much she was coming to adore that man. Super Emma would pay her own rent.
A tingle at the end of her nose and a stinging in her eyes warned of the loss that was soon to come. She couldn't ever tell anyone the agreement she and Russ had had; they'd never understand. And she'd also have to keep secret how much she had enjoyed her role, until it became too small for her dreams.
She wiped a tear away with the back of her hand and finished cleaning up.
Chapter Sixteen
Are you sure I look okay?" Emma asked for the fifth time.
"I promise, you look great." Russ took his eyes off the traffic long enough to glance over at her, his gaze running over her face and neckline. "More than great."
"It's not too sexy, is it? I don't want to look unprofessional."
"Relax, Emma. You look beautiful."
Emma nibbled at the inside of her lip and looked out the car window, trying to ignore the roiling of her gut. Her dress was a dark green satin underslip covered by a transparent black cheongsam; her shoes had three-and-a-half-inch heels meant to make her feel powerful and tall, although all she could think now was that they didn't fit perfectly and might cause her to stumble and embarrass herself.
The presentation of the finalists' plans for the train station was to take place at a convention center on the waterfront. It wasn't far from her apartment, but Russ had insisted that they drive so that she could arrive fresh. She wished they had walked so that her nervous energy had someplace to go, even though a hike down steep str
eets in high heels on a windy evening would have left her sweaty and disheveled.
"Oh God, I'm going to be sick," she moaned.
Russ hit the brakes. "Truly?"
She shook her head. "Keep going. I'll save it for the ladies' room."
"Are you really this nervous?"
"Yes! Don't you have any words of advice for me? Imagining people in their underwear, being myself, blah blah blah?"
"Would that help?"
"No. And I shouldn't have worn satin. My sweat is going to show. Big dark green patches of sweat."
He chuckled. "You're going to be fine."
"I don't know how to talk in front of people. I nearly passed out each time I had to present something in school."
"Do you like your design?"
Emma reviewed the plan in her head, trying to see it objectively but feeling instead a reburgeoning of the excitement that had consumed her when the concept first came to her. "It's the best thing I've ever done." Doubt stuck its finger into her joy: "But my best is light-years behind what the others will have done."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But so what? You're a finalist. You've already proven yourself. It doesn't matter what other people did: all that matters is that you communicate to the audience your own belief in your design, and your excitement about it. Explain it to them so they can see it through your own eyes. That's all you have to do, and the only thing worth worrying about."
Emma gnawed a hangnail. "That'll work?"
"If it doesn't, who cares? You've proven yourself, Emma. You don't need to try to impress anyone; you've done that already."
"Have I impressed you?"
He took his eyes off the road long enough to meet hers. "You know you have. I envy your talent. Looking at your design makes me wish I had that type of creative talent. For anything."
The compliment rested uncomfortably on Emma. "But you're creative. You built a whole company, for heaven's sake!"
He shook his head and turned into the parking garage for the conference center. "It's a different type of creativity. Regardless, you almost make me wish I was back at the beginning, trying to get it started. I know you're full of uncertainty, Emma, but that's part of the excitement. Don't fear uncertainty: see it at as the world of possibilities that it truly is. You have everything in front of you-enjoy the journey."
Emma stared at him, her concern for herself forgotten. "Jeez, Russ, you make it sound like you're too old to do something new yourself. You're only thirty-six! If you want to start a new company or try something different, why don't you? You've got enough money to take time off and do what you want, don't you?"
Russ parked the car, then sat silent, staring forward.
"Couldn't you do that?" Emma asked.
"Do you know, I've never seriously thought about it."
"Well, think about it!"
He reached over and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze. "Not tonight. Tonight is your night. Let's go show them who you are."
Emma grinned. "Hoo rah! Super Emma has entered the building!"
He raised a brow.
She laughed. "C'mon, coach. Game time."
Russ watched with pride and a strange sense of distance as Emma schmoozed with city officials, railroad reps, and architects. She'd given her presentation with only a few quavers of the voice, finding her footing once she started explaining her concept for the train station. Hers was not the flashiest, most expensive display, but in Russ's eyes it looked to be one of the best. There was a pleasing cohesive-ness to her design, each detail, angle, and curve feeling as if it was an inevitable choice that was meant to be. It was satisfying. It was right. It was probably more innovative than the city would go for, but genius shone through her design.
Emma met his eyes across the crowd of people. He smiled and gave her thumbs-up, encouraging her to keep schmoozing. She smiled back, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed.
She was beautiful, full of confidence and joy, at long last stepping into the life she'd been seeking.
A stabbing sense of loss hit him, making him clench his jaw against the sudden, unexpected pain.
It was time to let her go.
Chapter Seventeen
Emma pulled off her high heels and tossed them onto the futon. "I was brilliant!" She twirled in the middle of the apartment. "Wasn't I? You can't deny it! Three business cards, I got! Lookee, three!" She stopped spinning and waved her three fingers at Russ. "They all want to talk to me about a job!"
"You were amazing," Russ said.
Emma heard something in his voice and a frown pulled between her brows. "You okay?"
He sighed, and Emma felt a twinge of apprehension as he sat on the futon, moving her shoes to the floor and patting the space beside him in invitation. "We need to talk."
Emmas heart dropped into her stomach. They were not the words that anyone in a relationship wanted to hear. "About what?" she asked, wary, not moving any closer to the futon, as if staying away from it could prevent him from saying what he was about to.
He patted the space next to him again. "It's not bad. Come, sit down."
After looking him over with a suspicious eye, Emma sat down gingerly on the edge of the futon. "What is it?"
He took her hand between his own, and for a moment Emma's heart fluttered. Was he going to propose?
He sighed again, and rubbed the back of her hand. Emma's fluttering thoughts landed back on the ground. Proposals didn't start with heavy sighs.
She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed. "What is it, Russ?" she asked more softly.
"Emma, these past weeks have been some of the most surprising and memorable of my life. They've been an utter delight, and I don't just mean the sexual aspect."
"But?" she filled in.
"But your life is moving on now. You're soon going to have the job you've been seeking for so long, and when that time comes, I think you should focus on it entirely. I think we'll need to end our arrangement."
A dark coldness spread in her chest. She'd thought the same thing, but hearing it from his own lips made it real, and that reality hurt.
"You said that you didn't have anything bad to say," she said. "You lied."
He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her against him, leaning back until they were snuggled together on the futon. His hand stroked her back. "Oh, Emma. Change is never easy, nor in this case is it bad. You're achieving your dreams, you're stepping into the life you've planned for years. How can that be bad?"
She felt tears tighten her throat. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, "Because I've fallen in love with you." But if he felt as she did, then he would have to say the words first. "Do you know, when I first blathered to you about thinking it would be great to be a man's mistress, I didn't really mean it. I didn't think it was something I would ever have the nerve to do."
His hand on her back stopped its stroking. "Then why did you agree?"
She laughed softly, the sound thick with unshed tears. "Because I was horny and you're cute and I kind of liked you, even though I didn't think you were at all my type. I was shocked when you asked me, you know. I really hadn't figured you for that type of guy."
A laugh rumbled in his chest, and he squeezed her. "What a pair. It's a miracle this ever happened. That day that we agreed to this arrangement, I wasn't even asking you to be my mistress. I'd meant to ask you to be my cook. The conversation was almost over before I realized you'd misunderstood me."
Emma pushed away from him so she could see his face. "You're kidding."
He shook his head.
Emma felt nothing but surprise, and then a trickle of embarrassment started, turning quickly to a flood of humiliation. She covered her face with her hands. "Oh God! Oh God, oh God." A thought struck her, and she dropped her hands, glaring at him. "Why did you agree to it, once you figured out what I'd been thinking?"
"I didn't want to embarrass you. I was going to pretend I'd changed my mind and call it off."
"But you didn't. Why not?
"
"Because you'd already agreed, and I couldn't resist the temptation. I found you… intensely attractive, and I liked you, even while thinking you were completely not my type."
"So when you asked for something big on Fridays to carry you through the weekend-"
"I meant a casserole."
Emma slowly closed her eyes. She had sold herself to him for money, when that had never been his intention. And in so doing, she had sold away her chance to have a normal relationship with him.
She hadn't cared about that at the time. But now, looking into the future, she saw what a vast distance lay between where she was now and where she might have been if she hadn't jumped to conclusions, and if Russ had been clearer in his word choice. He might have seen her as a potential partner for life, if she hadn't insisted he see her as paid sexual entertainment.
"Emma?"
She opened her eyes and tried to smile. "I want to be mad at you, but I know I have myself to blame."
"I shouldn't have told you."
She shook her head. "It's a lesson I won't forget."
"Emma, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone through with it. I never would have, if I'd suspected you would feel this way! But you seemed so eager."
Emma looked down at her hands. She had been eager, and up until this moment she hadn't regretted it. If she'd been his cook instead of his mistress, she likely wouldn't have gotten to know him as well as she had. She might not have fallen for him, and it was doubtful he would have made a move on her. They would never have slept together and she would never have discovered as much about herself as she had. Without Russ, she wouldn't have broken free of her own limits and come up with the train station plan.
She met his eyes. "I don't regret it. I know we have to stop when I get a job; I know it's time to move on. But I don't regret what we've done together. Somehow, I think it's exactly what I needed."
"No regrets?"
She shook her head. "Not if we can end on good terms." She meant to say "end as friends," but he might choose to be no more to her than an acquaintance.