Her mouth twitches, and she shakes her head. “You’re kidding. That’s a sad excuse for a pickup line. ‘Hey girl, I love your dirty mouth.’”
“I’m serious.” I meet her amused gaze. “I learned something about you that day. About your character. You walked around muttering the entire time about privileged mama’s boys who piss on the floor and use too many towels and own an exorbitant amount of cologne. I was laughing so hard I was sure you’d hear me. But when you finished that day, everything was so clean and organized, and you never said a word to me. It’s like you cared about what you did because you made sure everything was in place and perfect. The towels rolled like I was on a cruise ship or something. You wrote me a note that I needed more shampoo.”
She snorts and places her face into my comforter before lifting her head to look at me. “You are really weird. You do know that, right? Like you have some fetish for foul-mouthed clean freaks.”
“Maybe I have a fetish for you.”
She rolls her eyes and smothers the smile I can see tipping the corner of her lips.
It’s clear she doesn’t know what to do with all this honesty. I forge ahead, not caring if I push her out of her comfort zone. “I think that’s one example of what’s made me respect you as a person. You didn’t like what you were doing that day. You were cursing like a marine in there, but you took pride in your job and never complained to any of us. And you were so funny. I wanted to poke my head around the corner that day and talk to you, but I also wanted to listen to you being yourself. Because even back then I wanted to know you better. You’re more than a pretty face.”
Emerson smooths the cotton comforter, her gaze following the movement of her hand instead of looking at me. “That’s a really decent thing to say. If you’re trying to score points with me, you’re not playing fair.” Her voice is low and unhappy, each word pulling at my heart.
“I’m trying to give you a compliment. It’s all true. You give so much of yourself and the world would be a nicer place if people were more like you.”
Her unhappy look slays me. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“It’s called repentance. You have no idea.”
“What’d you do? Steal Gabby’s candy as a kid?”
She visibly blanches and I regret saying something to trigger her reaction. I lay my hand over hers, stilling it. “I’m not buying that you’ve been some bad person in the past. I know you. Maybe you’ve made some bad decisions, but we all do that.”
She gives a rueful laugh. “I was a spoiled little girl who grew up into a spoiled teenager. You think you know me? You can’t even imagine the type of girl I was. The ultimate daddy’s girl. I asked for it and he gave it to me. And you know what? Daddy loved me so much he ignored his wife, his younger daughter, his obligations. I knew it, too. Loved it. Kept taking everything he gave until he couldn’t give any more.”
“Emerson, stop. Stop talking like you think a kid can be responsible for the things a parent does. You can try to paint yourself as selfish and try to push me away, but it isn’t going to work. You didn’t force your dad to do anything. He was a grown man.” I want to grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake, but of course I don’t.
Her face is flushed and she lies back, looking at the ceiling while she steadies her breath. “So, you see...baggage. Lots and lots of baggage.”
I take her hand and thread my fingers through hers. My body is pressed close to her side and I bring her hand to my lips to press a kiss against her knuckles. Her body stiffens. “People grow. We change the way we think about things, what we want, who we want.”
“Yeah,” she says with an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ve changed. I’m never going to be that selfish girl again. I do know what I want. I also know what’s realistic.”
“Good. Can you be honest then? Honest with me?” My voice is calm but my heartbeat drums in my ears. I was so in control a minute ago and now I’m afraid of what she’s going to say.
“Okay.”
“Do you trust me when I ask you to give us a chance?”
She eyes me without answering. I can see the quick flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
“Emerson? I’m asking you to trust me. I know you want to be with me. I can’t promise it will work forever. Hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do that with anyone. But I can tell you I’m going to try hard to make this work. And if it doesn’t, and you don’t want to work here because you decide you don’t want to be around me, I swear I’ll find you another job. If that’s what is holding you back, then it’s not an issue.”
She closes her eyes and wrinkles her nose like she’s tasted something sour. “No other women. No former girlfriends hanging around. If we are together, then it’s only me.”
“No threesomes then.” I try to keep a straight face.
Emerson smacks my chest. “You are pushing your luck.”
“Gorgeous Girl, I’ve got it. No threesome, twosomes that don’t involve you, or any combination to risk your trust. I’ll take care to be on my best behavior. You won’t regret it.”
“Okay. The fact you felt it necessary to say that already makes me regret it. Let’s stop talking.”
“Good idea.” I bend my head and slant my mouth across her smiling one.
Chapter Thirteen
Hot Boy
Emerson
I’m sitting on the edge of Dylan’s bed, buttoning my shirt with shaky hands. That’s as far as he got with his deft fingers—fingers a sculptor would envy. I chide myself for getting so worked up over a little kissing.
Bra still fastened? Check. Buttons lined up in correct buttonholes? Check. Panties damp? Oh, hell.
If I hadn’t put the brakes on, I’m sure I’d be calling him my lover instead of employer.
He stares at me with his velvety brown eyes, a gaze that warms me to the core and makes me want to jump on top of him like a nymphomaniac. Why does he have to be so hot? And what’s wrong with me? I stopped acting like some virginal flower when I was sixteen.
These days, my chastity belt squeaks with rust...until I look at Dylan. The amount of want coursing through my veins is obscene. Obscene and terrifying.
Dylan continues to stare, gaze flicking from my eyes, to my mouth, and down to follow my hands as I dress.
“Quit looking at me.” I flip my hair outside the collar of my shirt. My lips feel bruised from the intensity of kissing and my heart feels giddy from the pure joy of feeling treasured. Of forgetting the mundane things that make up my life—work, school, more work. Those things are only the tip of the iceberg I call responsibility.
“Can’t stop. I like the view too much,” he says, a low and totally sexual purr in his voice.
He takes a step toward me and I hold up a hand and shake my head. My heartbeat quickens to a mambo beat. I suck in air and lick my dry lips.
“How long have we been in here?” I ask. He grabs his phone and glances at the screen. “I don’t know. It’s six o’clock. You sure we can’t lock ourselves in here a while longer?”