Between the Pages: A Novel

by Amanda Richardson

  “But you and Isaac are a thing, right?”

  I shrug. Why does she want to know so badly? Is she that insecure? “Not really.” I look at the guys, who are deeply immersed in chopping tomatoes and onions. I want Emerson to swoop in and save me from this brunette bitch, but I know I’ll have to fend for myself. “I mean . . . nothing serious,” I add, smiling slyly.

  Sylvanna giggles. It sounds like a hyena. “You naughty girl. He’s so much older than you though,” she says, emphasizing older. Just at that moment, Emerson looks over at me.

  “The heart wants what it wants, I guess,” I say a little too loudly. I don’t break eye contact as I take a swig of my beer. His mouth drops open.

  Sylvanna and I continue our dull conversation for a few more minutes as the men prepare the fettuccine and sauce. To be quite honest, she’s not that bad. The beer numbs the fact that Emerson has been inside her, and instead I try to view her as a regular human being. She’s really not that bad.

  Dinner is just as awkward. I’m seated next to Isaac to my right, and Emerson to my left at the head of the table. Halfway through my meal, I feel warm a warm hand on my bare knee. I assume it’s Isaac, but just at that moment, in the middle of flamboyantly describing his hike through the Andes to Sylvanna, both of his arms flail around. I suck in a loud breath of air when I look over at Emerson.

  He’s watching me with a fervent expression, gauging my reaction. His eyes scan my bare neck and then lower. I flush as he licks his lips. When his eyes come back to mine they’re hooded with desire. He was checking me out—eyes don’t lie. They drop again to my lips, and my mouth goes instantly dry. I feel a stabbing pain in my stomach, and shortly thereafter, I realize it’s nerves. His hand moves ever so slightly upward, and I jump. A second later, the warmth is gone, and he’s fixing the napkin in his lap.

  Is. He. Fucking. Kidding?

  “Do you guys want to go to Fellingham’s?” Emerson asks, ignoring my probing eyes.

  Isaac sits up straight next to me. “I thought your bachelor days were over,” he jokes, winking at Sylvanna. He turns to face me and whispers into my ear, “Emerson used to go to Fellingham’s for one reason and one reason only—pussy.” He laughs. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. Chicks. He went for the chicks. Don’t tell Sylvanna.”

  I take in Isaac’s words and look over at Emerson. A dark expression clouds his face as he watches Isaac and me.

  “I don’t know,” Sylvanna says, looking from Isaac to Emerson. “I have an early meeting tomorrow.”

  “Oh, come on,” Emerson urges. One second ago he looked furious as Isaac whispered into my ear. Now he’s sporting a jubilant grin. Psycho. Why do some grown men act more like boys than men around women? Do they ever grow up? “It’ll be fun.”

  I study him for a minute. He’s acting strange. Maddened. Riled. Bipolar. It thrills and scares me all at the same time. That’s the thing with him. I never know what’s coming next. He’s unpredictable in the best kind of way—without being manic about it, but still retaining mystery.

  “Sure,” I chime in, “let’s do it.”

  Sylvanna sighs. “Fine. But one drink, okay?” she asks Emerson.

  “One drink,” he says, winking at Isaac. And then his heady gaze wanders to me, and I forget to exhale. I forget to inhale, for that matter, because even though he’s only looking at me, I can feel his hand on my knee again. I can feel his eyes roving all over my body, and I wonder what it would feel like to have his hands all over my body.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Emerson

  I call an Uber as Sylvanna and Finley use the restroom in the house. It’s a good ten minutes to the bar, and we’ve been drinking heavily—two bottles of wine and nine beers down since Sylvanna and Isaac arrived. I tell myself it’s because we’re adults that like to drink, but I know deep down that Finley and I are the ones drinking ourselves into oblivion.

  What the hell is wrong with me tonight? It’s the dress. It has to be that fucking dress. Tight in all the right places; conservative enough to put my imagination into overdrive. And the whole hand thing? God. I’m such a tool. Yeah, she seemed to like it, but it was a dick move. Isaac was right next to her—Sylvanna next to me.

  My heart may not lie with Sylvanna, but I still owe it to her to be faithful as long as we’re dating, however casual. Which—as of today—we still are. But I’m hoping to change that soon. I was going to end things last night. But then Finley wanted to test me by inviting her over, and I couldn’t resist. Had I known Isaac would become part of the equation, I might’ve called the whole dinner off. Now it’s turned into some kind of sick game between Finley and me.

  The little knowing smiles she continues to throw my way.

  The way she arches her back and sticks her chest out.

  The way she twirls her hair.

  The way she licks her lips.

  The way her eyes dilated when she realized it was my hand on her knee.

  How much longer can we do this before we can’t resist the temptation?

  When the Uber pulls up to the curb, I check my watch. It’s a little past nine. Isaac follows my nervous movements.

  “You okay?” he asks, smoking a cigarette. It’s his only habit I absolutely loathe. Well, not the only one. His pursuit of Finley tops the list right now.

  “Yeah.” I maneuver away from him so I don’t smell like acrid smoke all night. “You know I hate that,” I say under my breath.

  “Brah. Why are you so on edge tonight? You’ve been off all night.”

  I shake my head and look down. “I don’t know.” I look at him, and he scowls at me.

  “Yeah, you do.”

  I open my mouth to answer him, but before I can say anything, the girls come tumbling out of the front door. And by tumbling, I mean literally tumbling on Sylvanna’s part.

  “Fuck,” she shrieks as she goes down. Finley gasps and reaches her hand out to pull her up. My heart tightens. Only Finley would help the woman I’ve been fucking—without thinking. They both giggle as they walk over.

  “Hey,” Finley says to Isaac. I don’t approve of her lusty intonation. Sylvanna links her arm with mine, and we all pile into the small car. Somehow, everyone decides Finley should go in the middle since she’s the smallest. Isaac offers to take the passenger seat, and when the doors are closed, I realize I’m pressed closely to Finley. Her warm skin is alluring—I want to move my hands up her knee-length dress.

  Jesus, what’s wrong with me?

  “You okay?” she whispers into my ear. She doesn’t have to move far. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to her. I can hear her every breath. I can see the tiny freckles on her nose. I can see the way her royal-blue eyes have flecks of gold in them—and the way her lips slightly part when I look at them.

  Needless to say, the ten-minute car ride is uncomfortable. I have to keep my hands clasped in my lap to hide my erection. Just the scent of her enthralls me. I feel every movement she makes. I hear every sound she makes. When we hit a speed bump, the jolt sends her sideways and onto me. Everyone laughs except for us. Her hands rest on my arm before she pushes herself back up.

  Once we get to Fellingham’s—the local sports bar—I eagerly climb out as soon as we stop. I hold the door open for Finley and then Sylvanna. I try to hide my disdain when Isaac wraps his arm around Finley’s shoulder. This whole thing is so fucked up.

  Two months ago, when I decided to hire Finley, I knew it was probably a bad idea, for an entirely different reason. I needed her—this autobiography could only be written by her. I thought our biggest issue would be my fucked up past. Now, I have feelings for the one person I shouldn’t. Add that into the mix, and I’m pretty sure this whole thing will go down as the worst possible idea in the history of ideas. I never meant to fall for her. This was supposed to be temporary. Now, I’m realizing it’s very, very permanent. And it scares me shitless.

  We all grab a table in the back. It’s relatively empty for a Tuesday, which is
nice. I like this bar. It’s dark, and they have a lot of beer on tap. We don’t have to talk over the booming sound of other voices. The more I drink, the less I care about Finley and Isaac. After two beers, I have to stop myself and order some fries. Then our conversation becomes kind of fun. I’ll admit it—Isaac can make any situation better. He’s a great guy. There’s a reason he’s my best friend.

  Still, that doesn’t mean I think he’s good enough for Finley. I’m not sure anybody’s good enough—not even me.

  Especially not me.

  A little past midnight, they ring the last call bell. I stand to use the restroom. I’m feeling a little more sober, a little more like myself. After I take care of business, I wash my hands and walk out into the dark hallway. I stop mid-step when I see Finley leaning against the wall, watching me.

  “Hi,” I say, unsure. I look beyond her. Our table is hidden from sight. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since Sylvanna got to the house. Her eyes search mine, sweeping over me with emotion. I feel instantly gutted. She must have stopped drinking too, because I don’t see drunkenness in her eyes. She is alert. Focused. What am I doing to her?

  “Isaac isn’t who I want,” she says slowly, looking down and then back up at me through her lashes. “To answer your earlier question.”

  I sigh and run my hand through my hair. “I know.”

  What am I doing? I know I should walk away, or tell her this is a bad idea. It was always a bad idea. It will always be a bad idea. There isn’t a situation where acknowledging our feelings is anything but disturbed. In so many ways.

  She watches me wordlessly. I can see the internal struggle she’s fighting. I know, because I’m fighting it too. But fuck it. Even if it’s just for a minute, I’m done fighting.

  Just one touch. One kiss. I walk up to her with my arms at my side. I reach out for her hand, and she gives it. I interlace my fingers with hers. I do the same with her other hand, and I inch slightly closer to her. She looks up at me, and it’s not even a sexual look. It’s different from all her other looks.

  Acceptance of our situation: that’s what her pleading, sorrowful eyes are saying.

  I unlock my fingers and pull her in for a tight hug, crushing her to me. She wraps her tiny arms around me, grabbing a fistful of my shirt with both hands as if she’s afraid to let go. The motion wrecks me. I hear her sigh against my chest. I close my eyes and rest my chin on top of her head.

  It could be like this.

  As soon as I think it, I know it’s not true. Once she knows the truth, we’ll never get a chance to do this again.

  “I shouldn’t care who you date, Finley,” I say, pulling her as close as possible. “I have no right to care.” I pull away and look at her, but I place my hands on her shoulders. She just looks at me regretfully, her concerned expression tearing me up inside.

  “How did this happen?” she asks, her voice hoarse.

  I shrug. “Accidentally.”

  I reach out and brush her sun-kissed hair off her shoulder. It’s so soft. My hand travels down to her cheek, and I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. She inhales sharply and closes her eyes. I feel a stabbing pain in my abdomen—I’m not sure if it’s from her reaction or mine. I lower my hand and run my thumb over her lips and down her jaw. Her mouth falls open, and I feel her push her body against mine unconsciously.

  “Emerson,” she whispers, opening her eyes. “I don’t think I should write for you anymore.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Finley

  I did it. I just blurted it out in the middle of the most intense moment we’ve ever had, and now he’s looking at me like I stabbed him in the ribs with a hidden knife.

  Betrayal.

  But what does he expect? We’re seconds away from kissing. I think we both know that if we’re alone in that immense, dark house, the inevitable will happen.

  So what? my subconscious asks, making me rethink everything. So what? So fucking what? I reach out and place my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down to my lips.

  He lets me.

  As soon as our lips connect, my body collapses against his fully. He supports me by wrapping one arm around my waist, and the other drops to his side. I feel my insides tighten, constricting blood flow to my brain. All I want are his lips. And when his tongue parts them, I moan. His herbal cologne makes me moan. He makes me moan. Sensory overload. I grab a fistful of his hair and pull his body impossibly close with my other hand. He’s warm and hard, and I love everything about it.

  His tongue continues to swirl in my mouth, and with every flick, I push myself harder against him. He lowers his hand and cups my ass, and then I cry out as he grinds into me once.

  Jesus.

  “Finley,” he rasps. “We need to stop. Otherwise, I’m going to fuck you against this wall.”

  Fuck.

  I’m not sure what to say. Does he expect me to stop because he said that? Doesn’t he understand how much I want this?

  “So?” I ask, my voice pleading.

  He drops his hands and takes a step back. My heart cracks as he runs his hand through his hair and looks away.

  “So?” he answers, glaring at me. “Do you think you deserve a quick fuck against the wall of a bathroom in a dive bar? Is that really what you want? From me?” His voice breaks on the last word.

  I whimper. “I want you,” I plead, reaching out for him. Every part of my body is screaming for him.

  “But I need you, Finley.” His eyes search mine. “I need you to stay. I need you to write for me. Please don’t leave. I don’t want to give you another reason to leave.”

  “Can’t we have both?” I ask quietly.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  The finality in his words cracks my heart wider. The blood pools in and flows back out again, and in two heartbeats, I feel shattered.

  “Okay.” I walk past him, embarrassment seeping into every part of my body. I don’t say goodbye to Isaac. I don’t say goodbye to Sylvanna. Instead, I walk straight out into the night. I walk quickly, hoping I can get far enough away from the bar. When I look back a few minutes later, nobody is chasing after me like I’d hoped. No cars are pulling up. No scruffy faces. No brown, messy hair. No honey-colored eyes.

  I pull my phone out and call a cab. Now more than ever, I wish I had a damn data plan. Two minutes later, a yellow taxi pulls up, and I head to the house alone. When I get upstairs, I contemplate packing and leaving tonight. I even pull the small rolling suitcase down from the closet. But Emerson’s words keep replaying in my head.

  But I need you, Finley.

  Need is a strong word. It’s stronger then want or crave. It evokes necessity, like food, water, and air. I am Emerson’s air. And now, he is mine.

  Even if we can’t act on our feelings, we need to continue writing this book. I put the suitcase back. I walk to my dresser and slip my clothes off, throwing on a silky negligee to sleep in. I brush my teeth and wash my face. I fill up a glass with some water, gulping it down so I’m not deathly hung over tomorrow.

  When I hear the front door close, I flip my light out and climb into bed. I hear Emerson walk up the stairs. My heart races. I can hear him pause in front of my door. And then, the handle turns.

  I keep my eyes shut, my body turned away from him. I hear him walk quietly to my bed. He reaches a hand out and brushes my hair away from my face. I make my breathing even—I want him to think I’m asleep. He walks away, and I hear him click on my nightlight. He turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

  A single tear falls down my cheek and onto my pillow.

  Happy birthday to me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Finley

  “Finley.” I groan and turn over, away from the thing making the noise. It repeats itself. “Finley.” My eyelids flutter open, and Emerson is standing over my bed with a cup of coffee. Unsteadily, I push myself up onto my elbows and tilt my head. The motion makes my head pound.

 
“What?” I whine, looking around the room. It’s not even light out yet.

  “We have to leave in twenty minutes.”

  I push myself all the way up and glare at him. “Am I dreaming? What are you talking about?”

  He chuckles. “Drink this,” he says, handing the warm mug to me. I reach out and take it, sipping it slowly and looking up at him through my eyelashes.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, once I’ve had a couple of sips of the delicious, perfectly made coffee.

  “I promised you a birthday present, didn’t I?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, but—”

  Reliving the tension from last night is painful. Did I really say I couldn’t write for him anymore? And did we really kiss?

  “Finley,” he says sternly. “We drank too much. Let’s let it go today and just be friends. I have somewhere I want to take you.”

  I swallow. His words are tender, and they weave their way around my heart and bones.

  His use of the word friends is amusing. Usually that word might turn me off, but today, it’s lovely. Friends. It certainly takes the pressure off. Also, I like being friends with Emerson. I like having him in my life in general, in whatever capacity.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling more awake now my coffee is almost gone. I throw back the rest, and Emerson takes my mug.

  “Be ready in twenty. Dress for the beach.” He stands, eyeing my barely there negligee. Oh boy. “I hope you’re hungry. I’m making pancakes.” He turns and leaves, taking my heart with him.

  When did my heart start to become a part of this equation? I can’t deny the way my stomach knots when I’m around him, and the way my chest feels empty when he leaves. At this point, I can’t imagine my life without him. How did that happen so quickly? More importantly, how am I going to say goodbye in three months? It’s funny how just three months ago, he was nothing to me except a writer I admired. Now, he makes my heart hurt when he leaves.

  I climb out of bed and text Hannah. I need her input, and pray she’s not asleep. Though by the looks of the sky, she most likely is. That girl was not designed to wake up early.