Admit You Want Me
Taylor Holloway
Contents
Prologue
1. Emma
2. Ward
3. Ward
4. Emma
5. Emma
6. Emma
7. Emma
8. Ward
9. Ward
10. Ward
11. Ward
12. Emma
13. Emma
14. Emma
15. Emma
16. Ward
17. Ward
18. Ward
19. Ward
20. Emma
21. Emma
22. Ward
23. Emma
24. Emma
25. Ward
26. Ward
27. Emma
28. Emma
29. Emma
30. Ward
31. Ward
32. Ward
33. Ward
34. Emma
35. Emma
36. Ward
37. Emma
38. Ward
39. Ward
40. Emma
41. Ward
42. Emma
Epilogue
Epilogue
Also by Taylor Holloway
Prologue
Emma
“Come on, Emma!” Kate cried, banging on my bedroom door for the fifth or sixth time. “You can’t hide in there forever. I’m sure you look fine. People are going to be here soon.”
I glanced at the clock. She was right. It was almost go time. I slid into my green, marabou trimmed boudoir slippers and straightened my sheer tights. I had a bad feeling that I looked more than a little bit like a stripper.
“Just a second,” I yelled. “I’m almost ready.”
I frowned at my reflection in the mirror, poked at my fake eyelashes, and adjusted the mesh and wire wings strapped to my back. The wings were already annoying me, but not as much as the length of my dress.
My Tinkerbell costume was much sexier and more revealing than I’d thought it would be when I bought it online. My boobs were threatening to spill out of the bright green satin bustier, and the nearly transparent matching skirt just barely made it halfway down my thighs. This is what I got for trusting the photographs on eBay. It would just have to do. The only other option at this point was cutting a couple of eye holes in a sheet and going to our Halloween party as a ghost.
“Wow,” Kate stammered when I opened the door a second later. “You look amazing!”
I smiled nervously. “It’s not too slutty?”
Kate shook her head. “It’s the exactly right amount of slutty. The fact that it’s your real hair up there in that silly bun is what makes it.”
Kate was blonde for Halloween too, but her flowing, gold Rapunzel hair was a wig. Our Halloween party was Disney themed and our apartment looked a bit like a five-year old’s birthday party (but with way more booze). I grabbed myself a cup of the pink punch and tried to work myself up for being social.
My current pair of wings notwithstanding, I was not a natural social butterfly like Kate. If it wasn’t for her, I probably wouldn’t have any friends. Moving in with Kate at the beginning of my sophomore year was the best decision I could have made for my social life, even if it meant living inside a kegger one night a week. This Halloween party promised to be no exception.
Costumed people began to trickle into our apartment, armed with beer, smiles, and excitement. I struggled to fit in. After the disaster that was my freshman year at a school back east, coming to the University of Texas had been a case of serious culture shock. They don’t call it a party school for nothing, and I’m a natural introvert and a bit of a nerd. Before coming here, I’d never had a drop to drink.
Unluckily for my liver, I was also a quick study. I’d determined that I hated most beer, most wine, and anything with a harsh liquor taste, but I loved anything sweet and fruity. Thankfully, Austin had a number of local breweries that specialized in ciders, shandys, and even sour beers.
“Are fairies supposed to be drinking, Tinkerbell?” someone asked me when I went to grab another apple cider from the fridge. I spun around and straightened, surprised.
Kate’s brother Ward was leaning against the door. I hadn’t realized that he’d followed me. I straightened abruptly, hoping my ass hadn’t been totally exposed by my tiny skirt when I bent over.
My breathing sped up and I felt myself biting down on my bottom lip nervously. The hand not clutching a bottle sent fingertips to my hemline and found that my skirt had ridden up a bit. Yeah, he’d definitely just seen my ass. His cocked eyebrow and even cockier smile told me that he had appreciated it, too. I felt a hot flush burn my cheeks.
It didn’t help that he seemed to know exactly what he did to me every time he came around, although this was only the third time I’d met him since Kate and I moved in together in August. I couldn’t hide my attraction to him at all. He teased me mercilessly at every opportunity, and it felt like he did it just to see me blush. He clearly found how bookish, quiet, and prone to embarrassment I was simply hilarious.
I wasn’t shy for his entertainment. I wished I could be different. But I would never be an extrovert like Ward, or his sister. Even dressed up like Tinkerbell and pumped full of alcohol, I was still just doomed to be a wallflower.
Ward and I stared across the kitchen at each other. Usually, I turned into a stammering mess whenever he was around. Thanks to the magic of alcohol, that wouldn’t be happening tonight.
I flicked my gaze up and down his figure and then did my best to tear my eyes away again. It was all I could do not to sigh dreamily. Broad shoulders and an obviously muscled chest narrowed to a slim waist and long legs. Powerful, sinuous arms ended in large, strong-looking hands. But it was his classically handsome face, with fair skin, dark blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and dark curly hair, that made my heart pound against my ribs.
“Who are you, the morality police?” I smiled at him confidently and floated across the kitchen floor toward him. I was buzzed and feeling good. Brave. For once I was brave. “I might be underage, but at least I follow directions. You’re not even wearing a costume.” I leveled a finger at his chest and pushed him back an inch. He laughed lightly.
Ward was dressed up as a football player, which was not a costume, because he was a football player for the Texas Longhorns. He’d actually graduated last May, but was in town for Kate’s birthday, which was two days after Halloween.
“Sure, I am,” he replied, grabbing my hand and tracing the logo with my finger. “This is the wrong team.”
I thought that red color looked unusual. I shrugged and smiled up at him. “You can’t expect me to know that. I don’t have much interest in sports.” We were still almost holding hands. His enveloped mine completely. I liked the feeling.
“Hmm. What do you have an interest in, Tinkerbell?” His voice was soft, and there was something hot and heavy in his gaze.
“Emma,” I corrected automatically, still not pulling my hand away. I didn’t want him to get in the habit of calling me that.
Ward laughed at my answer. “Oh, so you’re self-obsessed?” He shrugged. “At least you’re honest. Most girls really try to hide that, at least at first.”
I giggled at him and my tone turned teasing. “Don’t call me Tinkerbell. And I have lots of interests. But what about you? Do you have any outside of football or is it all just visions of sweaty men with balls in your head?”
He smirked and set the beer he was holding in his left hand down on the counter with a decisive clink. His response was slow and suggestive. “Well now, I just have all sorts of interests beyond that.” His native, Texas drawl gave the words a few extra syllables we didn’t have in Connecticut. I smile
d shyly up at him and listened as he continued. “For one, I’m finding myself very interested in you, Emma.”
My lips parted in surprise. Ward was interested in me? As in, romantically interested? Interested in sexy-fun-times with me? The fact that we were standing alone, basically holding hands in the darkened kitchen suddenly percolated through my alcohol-soaked brain. He seemed to realize it too and straightened. He blinked like he’d just been awoken from a trance, releasing my hand which I pressed to his chest. I could hardly believe I was touching him. I stared at the hand like it belonged to someone else, and then looked up at him.
The look in his eyes suggested that he was thinking us through, just like me. He was Kate’s brother, no longer a student, and definitely not going to stick around. I was on the rebound from the world’s worst relationship, painfully shy, semi-drunk, and essentially wearing lingerie in public. We’d spent all most all of our time at this party until this point trading pointed jabs. But now I had a very different sort of exchange in mind.
Before I could overthink anything, I leaned up and up—he was much taller than my five-two—and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around my waist, crushing my stupid wings and then mumbling an apology against my lips. I could hear his heart beating hard as he pressed me closer into his chest, and he teased my tongue mercilessly with his until I was breathless. A dull, throbbing ache was starting in my core, and any silly things like consequences receded in importance. I only needed to fix that needy ache. The sound of someone laughing in the room beyond pulled us back to the moment. We needed to get out of this kitchen.
“Come on,” I told him, pulling him towards the hall. “My room is this way.”
He hesitated. “Emma, in three days I have to go back to—” he started to say. I shook my head and cut him off with another kiss.
“I know,” I told him when I pulled away. I leaned up to play with the soft tendrils of dark hair that curved around his ear, and then leaned up to whisper. “I’m not asking you to go steady.” He shivered and squeezed my waist.
“Are you sure?” he asked again. Distantly, I admired his willingness to be honest about what he was offering me and obtain my consent. He wasn’t offering love, or friendship, or even companionship. Just… right now. Just tonight. Impulsively, I decided it could be enough.
In that moment, I didn’t care that this would be very, very temporary. I was taking a risk and part of me knew I’d pay for it later, but at that second… I wanted to be the sort of girl who did fun and spontaneous things. I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be the girl who could recover from the last asshole I’d been with and come out swinging. I’d never done anything remotely like this before, but I found myself more excited than scared. Maybe I was channeling my inner, plucky Tinkerbell. Or maybe I was just dumb, drunk, and horny.
Whatever the reason was, my desire was simple. My answer was simple too.
“I know when to admit what I want, Ward. Do you?”
He smiled a slow, crooked smile, and then followed me back to my room.
1
Emma
Three years later…
I’d gone to twelve years of primary and secondary school. Four more years of undergraduate university. One year of graduate school. Almost two solid decades of formal education and what was I doing on a sunny afternoon in September? Mopping the filthy floor of a bar. All because my landlord wouldn’t let me pay my rent in poems and essays. Such was the life of a starving artist and student.
My new boss and old friend Kate was easing me into my first day at the ‘Lone Star Lounge’ with a little light manual labor. We’d been roommates a few years ago when we were both undergrads and had been friends ever since. I was lucky she could hook me up with this waitressing gig when I really needed it, even if it wasn’t exactly my dream job.
Coming back from my extended study abroad in the UK to find my grad school advisor on maternity leave had meant a sudden lack of stipend for me—I was planning on working as a teaching assistant this semester and had to scramble to find something last minute to make ends meet. I may have been a bit over-educated for bar work, but I could still mop and scrub with the best of them. I’ve secretly always found cleaning to be very satisfying.
“The early afternoons are usually super dead during the school year,” Kate told me from her position behind the register. She wasn’t kidding. There were only a few patrons, all nursing drinks or happily ensconced in their laptops. “I’m going to go work on some stuff in the office for a few minutes. Will you be ok by yourself for a while?”
I resisted the urge to be sarcastic or snippy and put a pleasant smile on my face. “Sure. I got this.”
It wasn’t Kate’s fault that I was sulking and irritable. She was a great friend. She’d also been a great teacher so far, instructing me in the little particulars of serving patrons and tending bar here. No. It was something else that had me all worked up. With Kate in the other room, and Willie—the other employee—distracted by his newspaper, I couldn’t resist the masochistic impulse to tune the TV behind the bar into the source of my foul, irrational mood.
I was probably one of only a handful of people in the world that knew that CSPAN was playing the award ceremony for the United States Poet Laureate today. It’s also probable that I was one of only a handful of people who cared. But there I was, caring so deeply about who would be selected as this year’s national poet that my blood pressure was high, and my face was flushed.
Up on the screen above the bar, the camera found the man I was looking for: Adam Barnstead, PhD. Brilliant writer. Gifted scholar. Consummate liar. Total asshole. And finalist for today’s prize. An esteemed professor of literature and my former mentor. My former lover.
Everything in my life seemed to keep drawing me back into his destructive orbit like a comet around a black hole. His gravity well was too deep, and my inertia was too weak to escape. Even watching him now felt like a personal failure of will. Like an aching, open wound, or a burst blister, seeing him caused me physical pain. All these years later and my heart was still raw and bleeding over Adam.
If he wins Poet Laureate while I’m working as a glorified janitor, I’m going to fucking scream.
As I watched, the announcer smiled and congratulated all the finalists. He extended his handshake and the award, however, to an older woman with graying hair. She beamed and cried as she accepted, fanning her hands elatedly like she’d just won an Oscar. I could hardly believe my eyes. Another writer had just won the position Adam coveted. He lost. The bastard lost. Today was Adam’s turn to stand on the sidelines while his hopes and dreams burned up and compressed into a singularity of empty nothingness. His turn to feel his pride get ripped in two. It was clear from his face that he’d been sure he would win.
Adam’s almost-handsome and ever-smiling face turned shocked. Then anxious, confused, and ashen. Then, at last, utterly blank. Although his smile returned after a beat, it now looked painted on. Mine, however, had never been more genuine. He would have to start his new job at the University of Texas without this feather in his cap.
His expression made me remember when he made me feel like that: small and insignificant, weak, and fragile. Stretched so thin by shame, failure, and mortification that I might tear apart. Adam ran his hands through the salt-and-pepper chestnut hair at his temples and looked, for once, his age: forty-three.
Behind his horn rim glasses, his eyes were focused murderously on the winner as disappointment gave way to something more malignant. Dark, envious energy glittered in his hazel eyes. In answer, pure schadenfreude suffused through me like a drug, electrifying every synapse with vicarious, uncharitable pleasure. There wasn’t a thing he could do.
He deserved to lose. In fact, he deserved to lose everything. At least this was a decent start.
I’d been a freshman in college when he used me. Just nineteen years old. I thought I’d been in love with him, and he said he was in love with me. I was really just a toy. Another pretty coed who was too
naïve, too proud, and too dumb to listen when a grad student tried to tell me what Adam really was. Like a fool, I’d told her she was just jealous.
My humiliation was a distant and unimportant memory as I watched Adam squirm on the podium.
While I was basking in the glow of heartfelt revenge, I heard the door behind me swing open. What started as a slight turn of my head became a fully-fledged three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation of my body when I realized who has just walked in the door. My battered little heart did a somersault.
Ward Williams. Kate’s brother. I knew this was coming—he owned this bar—but I was still unprepared. He hadn’t noticed me yet. I prayed it would stay that way for a while longer. I hadn’t seen him since our one night stand several years back, and still felt awkward and ashamed about the whole thing. I’d known what I was getting myself into, but I’d still cried the next day when I woke up and he was gone.
I wished it had never happened. The night I spent with Ward was the night I’d learned that I wasn’t the type of girl who could do ‘no strings’. It might work for some girls, but it just made me feel empty and unwanted, especially after the earth-shattering sex we’d had. I hated feeling like I was disposable. I’d promised Kate I could handle seeing Ward again, but now that I was seeing him, I wasn’t so sure.
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