James smiled, a slow forming thing, revealing two overly pointed eye teeth. Fangs. And not the plastic clip-on ones. The porcelain ones that you need to temporarily cement in. There was a strange twisting in her belly as she looked at him, a sensation that made her wish a bit that he would drag her out of there and sink those fangs into her lips, her neck, her inner thigh.
Seriously, what the hell was wrong with her?
“Got a thing for biting, huh?” James asked, smiling wider as he watched the look of shock cross her face, quickly replaced with distaste. “Don't worry about it. Most women do. Predatory. Primal. It's a turn on.”
“Not for me,” she lied, wishing she could throw back three shots without it making her look like she needed alcohol to be able to deal with him.
James lifted a brow, moving forward, sliding one of his boots between her heeled feet and she felt the tension up her toes to her core. There was an instinctual wish to flee, a weird fluttering feeling in her chest and belly telling her to run. Was he actually planning on kissing her? Right there? In front of the entire town? There was an unexpected jolt of anticipation at the idea.
James leaned his face in, tilting slightly to the side like he was going to sink his lips or teeth into the skin on her neck. She felt her breath catch in her throat, her pulse beating wildly. James laughed, a low, humorless sound, his breath warming her skin. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “not at all, huh?” He straightened away from her, looking at her face with a mix of amusement and desire. She was so easy to read. And right then, she was both shooting daggers at him and using every bit of self-control to not drag him out of there. “Come on,” he said, reaching for her hand. “let's dance.”
As if on cue, the slow, sensual Annie Lennox version of “I Put A Spell On You” started to play. Of course it couldn't be something as comical as “The Monster Mash”. Of course that wouldn't be her luck.
There was a second of uncertainty, James watching her like maybe she would reject him, before he reached forward and slowly moved an arm across her hips, pulling her toward his chest. Her arm slid up to his shoulder, her other hand still trapped in his, brought up to the side. Her eyes stayed on his, red and foreign but still his. Deep. With small smile lines to the sides. His hand pressed into her lower back, pushing her up against his pelvis.
And then they were moving. A slow dance, barely making their feet leave the floor. A hush fell around them, like a curtain had been drawn on the world outside of their arms.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Emily felt her body melt against his. Maybe fighting her attraction to him was just a waste of time. Why fight something you obviously wanted?
A slow smirk played at James' lips. He leaned his face closer to hers, making her think he was going to kiss her. Right there. In the middle of a dance floor. In her old high school.
“I think I just won,” he said instead, winking at her.
That. That was why she was fighting it. Right there in all of his arrogance. In his certainty in her desire for him. In his steadfast determination to win her. Like a fucking prize at a town fair. Like he would earn bragging rights for bagging her. Fuck him. And his charming smile. And his perfect face. And his undeniable game.
James felt his smile falter. He had been celebrating too soon. Him and his stupid mouth. Because where she had been plastered against him a second ago, she was standing pin straight with inches between them. Her eyes that had been heavy lidded and turned on looked lowered and angry.
“No,” Emily said, letting out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. “Darling, you just lost.”
And then she was pulling out of his arms, storming off the dance floor. Lena and Eric were sitting at a table, Eric holding a green test tube shot out in the air that she took as she stormed off.
Emily flung herself into the hallway, mumbling under her breath. “That narcissistic asshole. Who the hell does he think he is? He won? I'm gonna show that son of a bi...”
“Things seem right on track then,” Maude said, eyebrow raised, listening to Emily's tirade.
“There is no track to be on,” Emily protested, the shot on top of her drinks making her lips feel almost numb. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“No?” Maude asked, smiling. “So that aint a hickey from him on your neck? Hmm?” Maude cackled, wiggling her eyebrows.
“He's a tool.”
Maude shrugged. “Tool huh? Any chance... drilling or... hammering came to mind when you said that?”
“Oh my god,” Emily groaned, walking down the hall a way. “Get your mind out of the gutter, woman.”
“You know, Emily,” Maude called, not caring who overheard. She was never one for subtlety. “you've never been a woman afraid of her own desires. Ask any of your ex lovers. So what are you so scared of?”
Emily turned quickly, but Maude had already opened the door to the gym and disappeared. Scared? She wasn't scared. Not of James Michaels. Not of her attraction to him. Not of his attraction to her.
No, she wasn't, absolutely was not scared.
But there was a little voice in her mind that sounded suspiciously like Devon's that suggested the lady doth protest too much.
She charged back into the gym and right to the drinks. If she couldn't have a good time sober, thanks to Mr. Fancypants and his stupid, sexy face... well then she was going to have to find a good drunk.
James left the dance floor to go sit next to Lena and Eric, who had another shot for him at the ready.
“You got under her skin,” Eric said, his gray eyes looking amused. “I don't think I have ever seen Em so flustered over a guy before. Don't get me wrong,” he said, holding up a hand at James' worried expression. “I am enjoying it immensely. She needed someone who was more of a challenge.”
James snorted a little. “I'm afraid she's the one who is the challenge,” he said, watching Emily drink her fourth Widow Maker of the night. Lena had only had one and she claimed she was too unsteady to walk. Apparently it was a really toxic brew of liquor.
“She's pissed because you're stepping on her toes at work,” Lena said, rolling her eyes. Were all men really that blind?
“I'm not...”
“Even if you're not, you are,” Lena said, smiling a bit at him. “It's her inn. She takes pride in it. She's spent years devoting herself to it. So you coming in and taking over is like a slap in the face.”
“But I haven't even done anything boss like,” James said, shaking his head. No one would ever accuse him of being even remotely boss-ish.
“But you will. And she knows that. And she needs to hate you for that. If you were just some random guy who showed up in town, she would have screwed your brains out ten times over by now. But she wont let that happen because she will hate herself for that.”
“So what you're saying is...” James started.
“You're fucked,” Eric finished for him, smiling devilishly.
“Yeah,” James said, watching Emily accept another Widow Maker and be led to the dance floor by some other guy. “sounds about right.”
Eight
She was trashed. Her cheeks felt wonderfully numb and she kept bringing her gloved hands up to touch her face and giggling. The DJ had long given up on playing Halloween-themed songs and Emily was on the dance floor with a guy she had gone on one disastrous date with five years before. He was average height and too thin. Brown hair, brown eyes. Utterly plain and forgettable. In fact, she had completely forgotten about him until he walked up and asked her to dance.
It came back in bright, vivid, alcohol-infused dramatics. She had met him two towns over when she had gone to pick up the salon quality sample shampoo and conditioner they provided in the inn bathrooms. He had been bumbling and overeager, but he was a fresh face and she had decided to agree to going out with him. He had picked her up in his beat-up car with a pizza light on top. Then took her out to get sushi. But only after he finished his last two deliveries of the nigh
t. He had made her split the check and tried to talk her into coming back to his house (AKA his mother's basement) after.
But he wanted to dance with her. And she was blissfully tingly. So she had agreed. But as the songs changed, he got more and more handsy. She kept swatting at him playfully, trying to ignore his childish fumbling and enjoy the music.
“Mind if I cut in?” a voice asked, sounding far away to her ears as she swirled in slow, sensual circles, arms up, hips moving suggestively.
She finally made her way back to where she started, feeling like it had taken her hours, to find James standing there, a flirtatious smile playing at his lips. “Hey,” she said, her brows drawing together. “where'd the pizza man go?”
James watched her, the lines in her forehead as her brow furrowed, her eyes seeming cloudy and uncomprehending with alcohol. “The... pizza man?” he asked, almost laughing. God, she was gone.
“Yeah,” Emily said, smiling, tilting her head up at him. “Pizza is good.”
“Well,” James said, laughing. “I am no pizza guy... but I can... deliver if you want me to.”
Emily laughed, a high, girlish sound and she reached out and slapped his arm. “You're dirty.”
“You like it,” James shot back, reaching out to take her chin in his hands. “How many of Maude's drinks have you had?”
“Oh, I don't know. Six or seven. They're called Window Makers,” she said, her tone sounding haughty. “No. Wait. That's not it. Willow Makers? W... w...” she looked up at the ceiling like it had the answers, then looked around them with squinted eyes. “Why aren't we dancing?” she asked, pouting at him and sounding whiny.
James turned his head to the side. “That's a very good question,” he said, reaching and pulling her forward. She toppled into his chest, bumping her chin off his collarbone in the process and laughing. “And I think the word you were looking for was 'widow',” he said. At her blank look he added, “Widow Makers.”
James slowly started leading her off the dance floor, moving like they were dancing still, getting closer to the door. If he didn't get her out of there, she would end up falling all over herself. Or, worse yet, going home with some random loser who didn't think she was too wasted to consent.
“You smell like... a new car,” she declared, taking an exaggeratedly long sniff of his shirt.
“That must be my new car scent cologne,” James laughed, prying her arm from around his back so he could step away a little.
“We're outside,” Emily observed. The cool air felt nice on her overheated skin.
“Yes, Sherlock, we sure are,” he said, watching as she stripped her gloves off her arms and carelessly dropped them in the road. He laughed, stooping down to retrieve them. Her red hair was blowing around her face, cheeks pink from alcohol.
“My whole face is numb,” she said, pushing her hands against her cheeks. “even my lips,” she said, rubbing her thumb across her lower lip. “I cant feel anything. You could kiss me right now, Mr. Fancypants, and I wouldn't feel anything. Nothing at all,” she said, waving a hand out and almost slapping his face by accident.
“Nothing huh?” he asked, trying not to think about her mouth. Trying to focus on how drunk she was. And how kissing someone so drunk would be hugely inappropriate.
“Nope. See?” she asked, grabbing the lapels of his trench coat and tugging him forward, making him almost topple in the process. She pulled him downward slightly and pressed her lips to his, a lingering but chaste kiss. She pulled away, giggling, eyes bright. “Nothing. I guess all I need to stop being attracted to you is alcohol. Who'da thunk it?” she asked, walking into the middle of the street. She saluted a man who was standing next to a car that was, thankfully blocking the street from any driving through. “Sheriff,” she said, trying to sound serious and breaking off into laughter, bending slightly forward, hugging her middle.
“Emmy,” the sheriff said, trying to hide a smile. “up to no good as usual.”
Emily smiled. “I feel nothing when I kiss him,” she announced, pointing at James who bowed his head, rubbing his brow in embarrassment.
“Is that so?” the sheriff asked, nodding at James. “Get her home before she tries to get you naked to see if she feels that,” he warned.
“On it,” he said, reaching out to grab her arm when she started to fall forward as she tried to pull off her shoes, kicking them off in different directions, leaving James to scramble after them. “Where is home?” he asked, catching up with her as she stopped to stare up at the moon.
She looked over her shoulder at him, one brow lifted at him like he was an idiot. “The inn... duh.”
“Right,” James said, turning her and linking his free arm through one of hers. His other held her gloves, and shoes, and one of the gold stud earrings she had lost when she tossed her hair.
The inn was empty when they went it. Almost eerily so. No one walking around. No humming from the kitchen or cleaning staff. No movement from the guest rooms upstairs.
“Alright, Miss. Rabbit,” James said, massaging her arm slightly. “Where do you do your sleeping?”
“Take me to your coffin, vampire,” she yelled. “I've never had sex in a coffin.”
“I'd hope not,” James laughed, letting her lead him through a door behind the kitchen. “And you're not having sex tonight either.”
“Sex is good,” she said, distractedly as she pulled her bedroom door open.
“Mmhmm,” he agreed, searching in the dark for the light switch. “but only when you are sober enough to remember it.”
Emily reached up behind her back, trying to grasp the end of her zipper and accidentally launching herself forward.
“Here,” James said, pulling her back onto her feet. “Let me help.”
“You just want to see me naked,” she said, twisting away from his hands.
“Yes, I do,” he agreed, putting his arms around her, grabbing the zipper, and pulling it down until he felt the line of her panties. “Just not tonight.”
“You better leave now then,” she warned, pulling her dress down with her back to him. He watched as the fabric pulled away, revealing her bare back. Braless. Then the top of her panties, purple. Lace. To match her gloves. Like she had planned on getting lucky when she dressed for the night. “cause I'm getting naked.”
“Right,” James said, shaking his head and moving toward the door. “Right. See you tomorrow.”
“Mmhmm,” she murmured, falling forward onto her bed with her arms stretched out, seeming to fall asleep almost immediately.
He closed the door behind him and went to take a long, cold shower.
Nine
There was some kind of sledgehammer behind her eyes before she even woke up. She groaned, pushing herself up on her elbows, surprised she had managed to sleep that way. She felt dry from the inside out.
Oh, alcohol.
She sat at the edge of the bed, holding her head in her hands. She had a few vivid memories from the night before. Getting dressed. How the gym looked. Dancing with James. Storming off. The conversation with Maude. Then making her way to the refreshment table.
Oh, those fucking Widow Makers.
Emily made a dying animal sound, getting up and walking toward the bathroom in search of water and aspirin.
There were other dances. A lot of other dances. With men she mostly couldn't place. Probably because they came from a town or two over. She gulped two cups of water down with a few aspirin and got into the shower, wishing her dehydrated body could just suck the water in through her pores.
She stood under the cold water for a minute, just enjoying the shock, before she let her mind wander back toward the events of the night before, forcing the memories to get clearer.
Something about a pizza guy. Which made no sense because there was no pizza places in Stars Landing. Why had she been talking about a pizza guy?
With James.
Emily whimpered, bumping her forehead a
gainst the cold tile.
Of course. Of course James was there to witness her drunken escapades. Alright. She needed to know what kind of fool she made of herself. Was it cute? Or angry? Or, heaven forbid, flirtatious?
She remembered James... dancing her out of the school? Then he had walked her home. She vaguely remembered seeing Aiden, the sheriff.
But that was all she could force to come back.
Emily got out of the shower and quickly dressed in a pair of baggy blue jeans and a ill-fitting tan sweater. She felt like crap and the idea of skin tight clothes made her want to just crawl back into bed. She left her hair down, wet around her shoulders. Pulling it up would only make the headache worse.
And then she was off in search of coffee. In an IV drip if at all possible.
The kitchen was empty. Emily had a momentary surge of panic that she had slept through breakfast service before she looked at the clock and realized it was only six-thirty. That made no sense. The kitchen should be bustling, rushing to make greasy breakfast potatoes and huge omelets to help with all the hangovers. That was tradition. They should be packed.
She made her way into the dining room, finding only worrisome silence. She walked into the hallway to see a sign there saying that breakfast service would be delayed until seven a.m and apologizing for any inconvenience.
What the actual hell was going on? No one delayed breakfast. That was not how things worked. You had set hours and you kept them. Besides, she was the only one with the authority to delay and kind of guest services. And while the night was a drunken blur, she was pretty sure she was way too far gone to write such a neat sign.
She froze in the hallway. James.
Then she heard the voices, calm, eager, coming from the sitting room. She took a long sip of her coffee as she followed the noise, stopping dead in the doorway. All the staff, from the waiters and maid to Meggie, Alec, and Devon were all seated on the couch and chairs, some perching on the edges. Two of the waiters sat on the coffee table. James was the only one standing, an undeniable assertion of authority. He was in front of the fireplace looking more professional than she had seen him before. He had on brown slacks with a faint white plaid pattern, a white t-shirt, and a brown sweater vest.
What The Heart Knows Page 6