by Farlow, LK
Anger, disbelief, and embarrassment burn my cheeks, but I shrug the button-down on all the same.
Immediately, his scent surrounds me, making me want to inhale deeply and hold my breath all at once.
The implications of our little spat don't really hit me until I turn around to find a desk only to find the entire class gaping at me. Well, except for Summer–she's glaring daggers.
I duck my head and rush to an open seat, sliding my laptop from my bag, determined to ignore the whispers. But Summer isn't content to be ignored. "I heard she's sleeping with him for an A, but after they fucked, he told her the best he could do was a C."
My eyes fill with tears, but I don't speak up in my defense. If high school taught me anything, it's that giving them a reaction, any kind of reaction, only makes it worse.
Apparently, Sterling's never learned this lesson. "Miss Winters, my desk."
Yes, her name is Summer Winters. I’m completely not surprised.
Summer saunters his way, her hips swaying like a pendulum. He crooks his finger, beckoning her closer.
Something akin to jealousy curls in my gut, but I squash it down. Sterling's free to talk to whomever. He's not mine. Hell, we're hardly even friends. I need to get a grip. Up until this week, he's been a grade-A asshole.
But still, I'm positively green over their nearness. It’s in this moment of weakness that I completely cave. As discreetly as possible, I turn my head into my shoulder, pressing my nose into the fabric of his shirt.
Sterling and Summer keep their tones low and their exchange private, but judging from the frown on her face when she turns around, things didn’t go in her favor.
She stalks back to her desk, snatches up her bag, and then leaves the classroom altogether, slamming the door in her wake.
"Now that that's over, let's talk more about the four components of social perceptions and how they affect human behavior. Observation provides the primary data of social perception. It's a compound of three sources: persons, situations, and behavior."
As he begins to lecture, I force myself to focus on his words and not the delicious all-male scent surrounding me. Eventually, I get in the groove and my pen flies over my page as I write down every word that leaves his mouth.
His ability to give life to the subject matter is a skill none of my other professors seems to possess. I'm not sure if it's his age, or a passion for the topic at hand, but he teaches in a way that makes you want to learn.
Before I know it, everyone around me is packing up to leave.
Sterling calls my name as I slide my laptop into my bag. I glance his way and he crooks his index finger, beckoning me toward him.
I stand from my desk, and bend to retrieve my messenger bag from the floor. As I straighten, I glance over my shoulder at Sterling, only to find his eyes glued to my ass.
I expect him to look away now that he's been caught. But if anything, he grows bolder, dragging his eyes over every square inch of me.
"See something interesting?" I ask, shocking the hell out of myself. Guess his boldness is rubbing off on me.
"Like? Undecided. Want? Abso-fucking-lutely."
"What?"
"Don't play dumb, Emmalyn. You're an attractive woman."
I gulp and then shrug. "So, about that quiz?" A subject change is definitely in order.
He nods toward a sheet of paper on the edge of his desk. "Come and get it."
I can't help but feel his words have a double meaning, one I'm not willing to look any further into. This truce between us is rocky at best, and there's no way I'm about to let something as banal as sexual chemistry dismantle it.
Clearing my throat, I stride toward him, determined to ignore the suggestive look in his eyes and the sensual dip of his voice.
"Thanks again for letting me retake it," I say, regretting the words as soon as I speak them.
Why is it so hard to get things right with him?
Thanking him was pretty much the dumbest thing I could've done. It makes it sound like he's doing me some great favor, by allowing me to retake the quiz, when it's his fault I'm in this predicament to begin with.
A satisfied smile plays on his lips, but I can't decide if it's in response to my slipup or if cocky-asshole is simply his default setting.
I'm betting on the latter.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sterling
Emmalyn reaches and grabs the quiz from the corner of the desk and plops herself ungracefully into the seat directly in front of me.
I watch as she presses her pen to the page, oddly enamored by the way her slim fingers grip the cylinder.
What in the actual fuck is wrong with me?
I'm not enamored by anything about Emmalyn Price.
Except the way she looks in your shirt, my sex-deprived brain taunts. Just think how much better she'd look in only your shirt...
I inhale a slow, deep breath through my nostrils, holding it a beat before exhaling. I need to center myself, to ground myself, to remember the fucking plan.
If only I knew what my damn plan was anymore. When I'm not doubting her culpability, I'm lusting after her like a teenaged boy with his first Victoria's Secret catalog. The fact that I've jacked off more times in the last few weeks to thoughts of her than I have in the last year is next-level fucked.
There's something about her that twists me up, and it's bullshit, because I'm supposed to be twisting her up. Hence the change of plans. But maybe...maybe I need to up the ante.
I told her I'd ruin her, and I meant it. I just have to try harder. To push harder. Eventually, one way or another, she has to break.
"All done," Emmalyn says, breaking me from my thoughts.
I reach out to take the paper from her, intentionally brushing my fingers against hers. As clear as day, I can see the jolt of pleasure travel through her. And from such a simple touch. Immediately, my mind is brimming with ideas of other ways I could touch her.
Jesus. Christ. What is wrong with me?
She pulls her hand away first. "Thanks for the shirt."
I look back in time to see her shrugging out of it, the smooth skin of her shoulders on display.
Desire pools in my gut. “Let me take you to lunch again?”
“What?” Her question echoes my own thoughts. Because, seriously, what?
“When? Now?” she asks.
“Now.”
“Really?” She swipes her tongue over her bottom lip, in a move that’s far sexier than it has any right to be.
I shove back from the desk, planting my palms on the wooden top. I lean into her space and am instantly taken by her scent mingling with mine. “Say yes,” I croak, wondering, again, what it is about her that knocks me so off course. “Say yes and let me spend time with you, let me be in your space, let me prove to you that I’m trying. Trying to be better, to learn, to see. Please?”
My plea seems to shock her as much as it does me. But I think it’s working; she’s going to give in, because I think she wants me every bit as much as I want her.
We’re both just smart enough not to admit it out loud.
“Okay, yeah. That sounds... great.”
I grin, victorious. “Let’s go.”
As we fall into step with one another, I instinctually bring my hand to the small of her back. There’s something about touching her that calms the raging seas in my mind.
“So, where are we going?” she asks as I open the car door for her.
I wait until she’s buckled before joining her on the driver’s side. “You’ll see.”
The drive is quiet, with Emmalyn staring at the passing scenery and me lost in my thoughts of... well, her. Until we roll through the main town square without stopping at any of the eateries.
“Where did you say we were going again?” Her voice wobbles with the slightest hint of nerves.
Grinning, I drum my fingers on the wheel. “I didn’t.” This whole idea is most likely going to explode in my face, and yet I press my foot down more fi
rmly on the accelerator.
“Sterling.” Two syllables have never been more full of frustration. I’m delighted.
“Emmalyn,” I volley back, keeping my tone light. Jovial, even.
“Please tell me where you’re taking me.”
“Or...” I drag the word out as I flip my blinker on. “I could just show you.”
“This is where you live?” she asks as I key in the gate code.
“Yup.” The wrought iron monstrosity swings open, allowing us entry.
“You brought me to your house?”
“That does, in fact, seem to be the case.” My voice is rife with humor.
“Why?” Hers is not. If anything, my little mouse sounds about zero-point-two seconds from flinging herself from my car.
She’s even edging her right hand ever so slowly toward the door handle, as if she’s contemplating bolting at any moment.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Run.” I nod to her white-knuckled fingers. “Not only would I catch you, but you’d hurt yourself.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m just taking you to lunch, Emmalyn.” I guide the car into my designated parking space and kill the engine. “I know we had a rocky start, but not everything I do has nefarious motives.”
She casts me a doubtful look, so I shoot her my most charming smile.
“Fine. But don’t make me regret this, Sterling.”
“I won’t,” I say, all the while thinking, I’ll make you regret so much more than this. I’ll make you regret ever crossing my best friend. I’ll make you regret it all.
In sync, we unbuckle and exit my car. “Which is yours?” she asks, eyeing the row of two-story luxury townhomes curiously.
I guide her to the end unit and swipe my fob over the sensor. I give her one last look before swinging the door open and letting her inside.
For the first time in a long time, I take in the space I call home with fresh eyes. From the high ceilings with exposed ductwork and dark stained concrete floors to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall making up the back of my living room, this place is pure masculine splendor.
With a chef’s kitchen full of top-of-the-line appliances, three spacious bedrooms, each with their own en suite, and a deck that nearly doubles my living space, there’s not a single amenity missing.
And thanks to my designer, it looks lived in. Welcoming, even, if Emmalyn’s slack-jawed expression is anything to go by.
“Whoa,” she breathes out as she takes in the view beyond the wall of windows. “You live here?”
Then again, it could be the million-dollar mountain view that has her catching flies. It is what sold me on the place, after all.
“I do.” I close the door behind us and usher her deeper into my house.
“It’s amazing.”
“You like it then?” I ask, moving in close behind her.
She shivers at my nearness. “I love it.”
For some reason, her approval sends a warm tingle through me.
“Are you hungry?” I know I am, but food is the last thing on my mind. I’m craving another taste of Emmalyn, which is unfortunately not on the menu.
“I could eat.”
I swallow down a million dirty retorts, and instead ask her if sandwiches are okay.
“As long as there aren’t pickles or onions involved, I’m down.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
“Such a giver.” Her playful tone is a shock to my system, but I decide to roll with it.
“Typically, I prefer to take.” I wink. “But something about seeing you in my space has me feeling particularly hospitable.”
“Lucky me.”
“Why don’t you head out to the deck, and I’ll throw these sandwiches together and join you?”
“Are you sure don’t need help?”
“I am one-hundred percent sure I can slap meat between some bread.”
She hesitates for only a moment, a dopey smile on her face, before the tempting view lures her toward the massive sliding glass doors.
As soon as she steps outside, I take what feels like my first full breath since she walked into class this morning.
Something about seeing her in my shirt, in my space, it feels right. Natural, even. Which is downright terrifying.
Maybe bringing her here wasn’t the best idea after all...
I shake the thought off. Too late now.
In the kitchen, I make quick work of plating up some turkey sandwiches, along with some fresh fruit and leftover pasta salad.
“It’s beautiful, right?” I step onto the deck, our lunch tray precariously balanced in my right hand.
“Oh!” She tears herself away from the view and rushes toward me. “Let me help you.”
I set the tray down onto the table with a flourish. “I’ve got it. Let me take care of you, Emmalyn. Something tells me very few people have ever bothered to do that.”
“To do what?”
I slide out a chair for her and help her into it. “Take care of you.” She blushes as she sits, and I help scoot her into the table.
“What makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling I get.” I grab two waters from my outdoor fridge and join her. “Am I wrong?”
She drops her eyes to her plate and pokes at the fruit with her fork. “I guess you’re right.”
“You deserve to be taken care of.” I almost gag at the saccharine words leaving my mouth. But I also kind of mean them.
She pops a grape into her mouth and chews it thoughtfully. “I think I do okay taking care of myself.” She scrunches her nose. “Most days at least.”
“Your mom isn’t there for you?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I’m fairly certain if you looked up gold digger in the dictionary, Sarah Pearson’s picture would be printed beside the definition.
“Um. Well.” She sets her fork down and wraps her arms around herself. “She... her marriage... when everything came to a head, she decided her status meant more than my suffering.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Suffer?”
Emmalyn laughs uncomfortably. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“It’s a fairly simple question.” I’m not sure what I’m hoping to gain here, but I keep pushing, hoping for a crack, a fissure, some kind of chink in her armor.
“Yes.” She whispers the word with her eyes still downcast. “Every day.”
My heart clenches at the pure sorrow in her tone. It constricts at the hurt, the agony—and then, because I’m a sick bastard, it beats a little faster.
“As you probably know, talking to someone can help. Have you... do you talk to someone about your... trauma?”
“I do.” She frowns. “Well, I did. I haven’t found a therapist here. I do a video call with my old one sometimes, though.”
“You should find someone here. I can make a few suggestions, if you want.”
“Um. Sure. That... that’d be great.”
I want to smile, but I know it’ll be all teeth and far from charming, so I bite down on my lower lip and suppress the urge. “And in the meantime, you’re welcome to talk to me. You know, if you want.”
Emmalyn pushes her plate away, still mostly full, and I worry I’ve pushed her too far.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to.”
“No, it’s...” She trails off. “I think I’d like that, but maybe you could talk to me, too. Open up to me a little? I’ve known you since I was eight, but you’re still virtually a stranger to me.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal, little mouse.”
“Why do you call me that?”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “At first, because you were always so scared. Now though, it’s because I think you’re brave.”
“That literally makes no sense,” she says, laughing. The melodious sound brushes against my skin like a warm caress.
“Make
s sense to me.”
“So, what now?”
“Coffee with a view? You know, since I inadvertently owe you one.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I am always down for coffee.”
“Be right back.”
Back inside, I can’t help but smile as I make our coffee. The thought of her opening up to me is exhilarating. The very idea of Emmalyn sharing her secrets with me, of her freely giving me the very ammunition I’ve been searching for... it’s almost too much to bear.
On the flip side, our little heart-to-hearts could also be the thing that proves her innocence.
I guess only time will tell.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emmy
While Sterling makes coffee, I wander from the table over to the set of chaise lounges on the far end of the deck. Seriously, who knew townhomes had decks this size?
I hesitate for a moment before lowering myself down onto one, reclining myself against the back to enjoy the view.
Fog is slowly descending, both in the air and my mind. Being here, seeing this side of him, has me second-guessing everything.
Is this all a game? I was positive of it a few days ago, but now... I’m not so sure. I know the smart thing to do is to guard my heart, but I find myself wanting to carve it from my chest and offer it up—whole, bloody, and still beating—on a platter for him.
Stupid girl.
But that’s what men like Sterling do. They make level-headed girls do idiotic things. They don’t just break hearts, they fracture souls, all the while skating through life unscathed.
“Mind if I join you?” Sterling asks from behind me, causing me to jump.
“Depends.” I lean forward and twist around to look at him. “Did you bring coffee?”
“Yes.” He places another tray, though this one’s smaller, down onto the table separating the two chaises. “And cookies, too.”
My eyes widen and my belly sings at the sight of a fresh sleeve of Oreos on the tray. “My favorite.”
“Would it be weird if I confessed to already knowing that?”
I snatch a cookie and shove it in my mouth. I nod as I chew. “Yes, very.”