The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher

by L. D. Crichton

  I clear my throat and she blinks. “It’s so pretty,” she says.

  “Yes. It is.” I hold my hand out once again, this time to help her get up on the truck bed even though I don’t think she actually needs my assistance. I follow her, but not before stopping a beat to admire her ass, because it’s damn near perfect.

  She crawls to the pillows, leaning her back up against the cab. The warm smile has morphed into a full-on grin.

  “Do you do this often?”

  “With myself, yes. With other people, no, not really.” I grab the thermal cooler bag, which is filled with hot food, and a second bag with cold items and begin to unpack them. By the time I’m finished we have a spread. French onion soup, baguettes with Gruyère cheese, a perfect aged merlot, and chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert.

  Emma’s eyes are wide. “Did you make all this?”

  “I didn’t bake the bread,” I tell her. “But the rest, yes.” I motion to the lake, “I call it Midwest-meets-French cuisine in an eclectic fusion of environment and tantalizing company.”

  “Wait.” She holds up her hand. “I thought you said this was casual.”

  “We’re in the back of a truck in blue jeans. Casual doesn’t mean crappy food.”

  She dips her spoon in the soup and brings it to her mouth. A string of cheese goes from the bowl to her lips. That’s the best part about the soup: the cheese and bread on the top. “I feel like I’m in Paris,” she says.

  “Trust me, this view is better. But I kind of figured you could add a tentative pushpin to France on your wall.”

  She stops eating. “What?”

  “You know, those crazy maps on your wall. I think since you’re eating a rather French meal, it’s fair to say you’ve experienced a taste of Paris. I mean, this isn’t as good as the food there, but it’s pretty close.” Christ. To pat myself on the back any more than this, my arms would have to be rubber.

  “You’ve been to Paris?”

  “Yeah. When I was sixteen.”

  “Wow.”

  “It was a school trip,” I say. “One of those educational tours.”

  She keeps eating her soup. “So aside from the ability to make incredible French food, what did you learn there?”

  I shrug. “How to feel up Stacy Winston without getting caught.” I figure I may as well be candid with her.

  She almost spits out her soup. “Tristan Banks, you’re terrible.”

  I grin. “Stacy thought I was pretty good, actually.” I start eating my own soup and I can’t help but be impressed with how it turned out. “What about you? Have you ever been anywhere, Peaches?”

  “We’re back on the Peaches thing now, are we?”

  “Would you prefer I called you something else? Sweetheart, darlin’?” I stare at her legs stretched out before her. “Stilts, maybe?”

  She laughs. “Peaches is okay. It’s kind of growing on me.”

  “So,” I press, “ever been anywhere?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Mexico with my dad once, but I got sick when we were there, so I’m not sure if it counts. I spent almost the whole trip in our hotel room sick with a fever.”

  “Well, no wonder you’ve wallpapered your bedroom with maps, then. I’d be itching to go see the world too, if I were you.”

  “It would be cool to see the world,” she says, “but also a little terrifying.”

  “Not big on adventure, just the idea of it?”

  I down my soup to catch up, because Emma’s almost done. Hot as fuck—a chick who can eat. Nothing worse than a salad-ordering, calorie-counting maniac.

  She rips a piece of the baguette when I realize I took out the merlot but didn’t pour any.

  “Wine?”

  She nods. “Yes, please. I like the idea of an adventure somewhere strange and exotic, but let’s face it. The world is a scary place.”

  “The world is a beautiful place, Emma.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s a beautiful place filled with ugly people,” she says. “And that makes it scary.”

  “Give humanity a chance, huh?”

  She turns her head and looks at me. Her eyes are sad, burdened by something. “Maybe one day I will. Just not today.”

  After we’ve polished off our meal, I think it’s time to get up and go. I don’t want to. Emma is sprawled out beside me, slouched low, her head resting on the pillow like she’s going to go to sleep. She’s rubbing her belly in circles.

  “I think I have a food baby,” she says.

  I laugh because that’s something a dude might say, but after talking to her, working with her, and getting to know her for the last two weeks, I’m not all that surprised. She’s way funnier than I gave her credit for and when she’s not walking on eggshells, she’s the kind of girl who could easily consume my thoughts. I want to know her more. I want to spend hour after hour after hour here in this spot, listening to her talk about her memories of her summers in Stonefall, about high school. She doesn’t utter a single word about college, and I have no idea if that’s because we have to go or because she doesn’t want to share these things. I don’t push her.

  “We should go,” I say. “Mat’s fight starts in an hour and we have to pick up Marley.”

  At the mention of her best friend, Emma groans. “Marley. Ugh, I forgot! I should not have eaten so much.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Hey, don’t sweat it, kid. Marley’s a calorie counter?” It’s a guess, but it’s the best I’ve got.

  Emma laughs. “Not at all, but she made me promise to wear this dress and I kind of did promise—with my fingers crossed, but I still promised. I mean, who wears dresses to boxing matches?”

  I say nothing. She looks fine to me. Marley is awesome but undoubtedly a little bit shallow. Appearances mean a lot to her.

  Emma stands and wobbles a little. She drank about three-quarters of the wine herself because I’m driving. I stand quickly and take her hand in mine. “Relax. Let me help you.”

  She turns her body toward mine and in the dark I can feel how fast she’s breathing. “Tristan?”

  I wonder if I should kiss her. I want to. “Yeah?”

  “This is the best date, or, I mean, two people eating or whatever, that I’ve ever been on.”

  I laugh. “Me too.”

  I help her off the back of the truck, and she wanders to her side and retrieves a messenger bag from the cab. She shakes it at me and walks toward the trees. “The dress. Do you care if I get changed? I can’t bear the idea of disappointing Marley by insulting her fashion suggestion.”

  “Can I watch?”

  She laughs, but it’s not a she-thinks-I’m-funny kind of giggle. It’s filled with uncertainty. I watch that perfect ass sashay into the woods.

  Emma

  It wouldn’t be a far stretch to say I probably shouldn’t drink. I am the child of a bona fide alcoholic. Surely it’s a very bad idea. Wine. The gateway drink. I think Tristan had one glass to my three . . . or was it four? I’m not sure.

  I stumble into the trees, far enough away that I feel confident the shadows will hide me but close enough that they can’t haunt me. I can still see Tristan and his truck. He’s making quick work of packing up the phenomenal meal. Not a single piece of me wants to leave this spot. He’s alarmingly easy to talk to, and I found myself biting my tongue on more than one occasion to keep my secrets safe. A little more of that booze and they may have all come spilling out. Note to self: no more booze around Tristan.

  I pull my Converses and socks off, standing on them to make sure my bare feet don’t touch the ground. With some careful manipulation, I manage to get out of the jeans and into the wedge heels before I yank the shirt over my head. I pull the dress out of the bag, and sure enough, the amount of fabric used to make the dress is almost exactly the same as the amount of fabric used t
o make my T-shirt. This is bloody ridiculous. Marley had better never say I don’t do anything for her.

  I step into the dress and pull it up and over my shoulders, reaching behind me for the zipper. I manage to get it about an inch below my shoulder blades when the task becomes impossible.

  Dresses like this are not made for the likes of single people. I curse Marley, scoop up my old clothes and shoes, and shove them in the bag before making my way to where Tristan stands beside his truck.

  I stop before I get to the clearing and watch him. He’s checking something on his phone, his eyes cast down. The features on his face are focused, like when he’s working on a car. His biceps are defined even in such a relaxed state and the shirt he’s wearing is pulled taut across his chest. Now that I feel like I know him a little more, a part of me wants to know what it’s like to rest against it. To have his arms around me. But this is what got me in trouble in the first place, isn’t it? Trusting someone implicitly.

  I move, tired of the self-imposed torture of watching him. The bushes rustle a little and his head snaps up. “Whoa,” he says appreciatively. “You look incredible.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Would you mind helping me with the back?” I spin around to show him the part of the zipper no normal woman would be able to reach without considerable yoga first.

  “Of course,” Tristan says. Before I can say thank you, his breath is on my neck, sending shivers directly down my exposed spine. He grabs the bottom of the zipper with one hand and the clasp of it with the other. The heat from his skin scorches mine as I feel my chest compressed into the fabric. He’s done, but he pauses, his hand lingering on the small of my back.

  “You really are beautiful, Emma Fletcher,” he says softly. “I know it’s not exactly Friday or anything, but your shoulder blades are amazing.”

  I giggle and spin to face him. “My what?”

  “Your shoulder blades. I told you every Friday I’d share some smoking-hot thing about you, but I’m not sure I can limit myself to just one day a week. Number one would have to be your shoulder blades. The curves, the lines—they’re stunning.”

  I laugh again. “You’re very strange sometimes.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve been called worse. We should go.”

  What I do next could hardly be called walking. The dress literally compresses every part of my body, so it’s more like a waddle to my side of the truck. I get in, thinking I’d like to kill Marley for choosing this dress.

  Marley is standing on the front steps of her house. She’s dressed in a red miniskirt and a black halter top, her boobs showcased for all to see. Her face looks like porcelain, creamy perfect skin and cherry-red lips. Mateo will be lucky if he can look at anything else, because even my eyes are drawn to her like magnets.

  She climbs into the cab of the truck, ushering me awkwardly over. Even though it should be physically impossible, I now have one leg on either side of Tristan’s gearshift, which places his hand between my legs. I pretty much want to die and do my best to keep my knees pointed down. Marley is talking, telling us she spent the afternoon searching online for videos of Mateo and learned he wore predominantly black and red, thus affecting her choice of attire. She’s completely oblivious to the fact that Tristan is essentially giving me a hand job.

  Okay, so maybe it’s not that bad, but when he switches gears, his elbow comes within a few centimeters of my core. By the time we arrive at the arena, I’ve not said a word, but I’m sure my skin is as red as Marley’s skirt.

  Tristan ushers us through a massive crowd, and I find it surprising that we aren’t out of place in our dresses. Some men are in jeans like Tristan, but others are in suits, with trophy wives by their sides.

  We get to the left side of the ring and there are seats at the front with a reserved sign on them. Tristan sweeps out his arm, indicating that we should go first. Marley scoots in on the end, I sit beside her, and Tristan sits beside me. There are a lot of people on edge, and we watch a few lesser matches. Tristan watches intently while Marley’s display of support is almost boisterous. She’s up on her feet, waving her hands in the air and yelling profanities at the person she thinks should lose. There’s a short break, during which Marley leaves to get beer.

  “This is pretty violent,” I say to Tristan.

  A rush of air leaves his lungs. “These guys were pretty tame. Wait till you see Mateo.”

  Upon Marley’s return, a man in a tux enters the ring and a microphone drops down into the center. He sounds like a cartoon character as he projects his voice. “Fight fans, iiiit’s showtime!”

  The crowd screams.

  “In this corner,” he announces, throwing his hands to the right, “weighing in at two hundred and twenty pounds . . . here to stake his claim, Frasier Alcott!” Some heavy metal song blasts through the speakers as Alcott walks toward the ring. He’s in one of those silk robes like the ones I’ve seen in old movies, and as he approaches people reach out to try and grab him. He gets to his side of the ring, climbs in through the ropes, and waits.

  The man in the tux speaks again. “And in this corner,” he motions to the side of the ring we are on, “weighing in at two hundred and sixteen pounds, fighting to keep his title of undisputed heavyweight champion—Mateo Cruz!”

  The crowd, including Marley, goes absolutely batshit crazy as Eminem’s “Till I Collapse” begins to blast through the room. Mateo’s head is covered in a hood, and his eyes are downcast. He’s in the zone and marches with an air of unmistakable confidence toward the ring. When he approaches our side, he loses the hood and winks at Marley, pointing a boxing glove at her. “This is for you, mi cariño.”

  He drops the robe, revealing what I already know is underneath, and Marley’s eyes look like they’re going to bulge from her head. He gracefully gets into the ring and raises his hands in a show of cocky bravado. The crowd supports him, chanting his name. The microphone retreats, the tuxedo man leaves, and Mateo and Frasier head to the middle of the ring, hitting their gloves together. I don’t get it. A peace offering before they prepare to beat on each other? A bell rings and it begins.

  ELEVEN

  Tristan

  Mateo has some serious fighting skills. I haven’t disputed this fact since the moment he almost knocked me out during one of our play fights in fifth grade. I’ve challenged it, sure, more or less for a reason to spar with him, but if it really came down to it, he could hand my ass to me on a silver platter and I know it.

  He is as graceful as he is lethal and he moves with ease around the ring. He was raised watching the greats like Tyson and Ali, and he emulates a combination of their styles. It’s hard as hell to stay focused on the fight, though, with Emma dressed like that next to me. The way her dress is hiked up her thighs and wraps itself around her curves is dangerous. When she’d sauntered out of the trees earlier, baring her back to me, I almost forgot to breathe. Seeing any part of her naked skin was a total turn-on.

  Red flags are waving in my mind. In fact it’s like a goddamned parade of warning. Stay away. She’s our employee, she’s way too hot for the likes of me, and she’s obviously emotionally unavailable. That should be enough to keep me away, but so far it hasn’t worked.

  Frasier brings his hand up and gets Mat square in the chin with an uppercut. Through the corner of my eye, I see Emma wince as if she is the one on the receiving end of the blow. Mateo’s feet remain frozen to the floor and he swings back, connecting with Frasier’s left side. It’s a kidney shot. I lean over so I can speak in Emma’s ear.

  “Mateo is going for the body. He’s trying to draw the fight out longer.”

  Emma’s normally rose-colored face is stark white. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because people paid good money to be here. A lot of people have money riding on the fight too. Mat is trying to make sure they get a good show before he ends it.”

  Frasier surprises everyon
e with a quick tap, tap, punch to Mateo’s face and Emma once again changes color like a chameleon, only this time, it’s to shades of green. Marley is practically climbing on the steel barricade that is erected for crazy fan-girls. “Go, Mateo,” she yells, “get him!”

  I give Emma’s shoulder a gentle nudge. “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Fine.”

  I don’t believe her.

  The face punch must have pissed Mateo off because for a second he gets that crazy-ass look in his eyes, but he seems to find his inner chi because he delivers a right hook followed by a jab in quick succession. I think he’s split Frasier’s eye open with the right hook and as soon as blood starts seeping from the wound, I know Mateo nailed it.

  “Oh God,” Emma mutters, wrapping a hand around her belly.

  Round one continues on with much of the same and by the end of round two, Mateo is also bleeding. When he comes to the corner to sit down, like his opponent, the skin beside his eye is split open and bloody.

  Emma covers her mouth with her hand and spins around so she can’t see him.

  “You all right?” I ask again.

  This time at least she’s honest. “Blood,” she says. “It makes me queasy.”

  Her skin is ashen now and she sways a little on her feet.

  “Em, don’t you think—?” Marley is asking.

  Emma doesn’t answer.

  “Em?” Marley waits for an answer to a question neither of us heard.

  I reach out and grab Emma’s elbow because she still looks a little unsteady. “Give her a minute, Marley.”

  When she realizes I responded instead of Emma, Marley turns. “Oh my God, Emma. Are you okay?”

  Emma’s eyes are wide and she looks at me for help.

  “Blood,” I offer. “She doesn’t like the sight of blood.”

  “Do you want to leave?” Marley asks.

  Again, Emma looks at me for an answer. “She maybe just needs some fresh air.” Marley has been really into the fight and Mateo, so I add, “I’ll take her.”