Beauty and the Running Back (27 page)

“That’s not true,” I whisper, my eyes stinging with
unexpected tears. “I did need you, Emerson. So much...”

“I needed you too,” he replies, rubbing his thumb against my
hand, “But we couldn’t be in each others’ lives then. Not with everything that
had happened. But look. We seem to have found our way back in again.”

“So it would seem,” I smile softly.

“I’ve spent the past eight years wondering what I would say
to you, if I ever saw you again,” Emerson murmurs, his voice dipping low. I
know that dip, know what it means. Between that and the gleam in his eye, his
intentions are pretty clear. And despite every ounce of logic I possess, I can
feel myself responding to his lead.

“What do you want to say, then?” I ask, my own voice soft
and husky. My heart feels like a kick drum as Emerson moves closer to me. Our
sides brush against each other as he moves his hand up my arm, pulling me in.

“It turns out, I don’t want to
say
anything,” he says, his words gravelly and
ardent. His lips move ever closer to mine, and I can feel my mouth lifting to
his, as if of its own accord. Emerson goes on, his mouth nearly on mine, “I’d
rather show you...”

“Hey Emerson!” someone says from across the room.

I jerk away from Emerson as a trio of familiar faces make
their way across the room. I recognize the two men and woman as some of the
young people manning the communal desk at Bastian. My new coworkers, as it
were. And they’ve just happened upon me about to suck face with my superior. I
stare at Emerson, my mind scrambling to figure out what my heart wants. He just
looks back at me with frustrated desire, forcing a smile as his colleagues come
over.

“How’s it going, Bradley?” Emerson asks, as the stylish
threesome comes to a stop before us, “Tyler, Emily—Do you guys all know Abby?”

“You’re the new recruit, right?” the man called Bradley
asks. He’s doing the whole trendy-pseudo-rustic look, full beard and all. And
from the barely-concealed amusement on his face, I know he’s hip to what was
about to happen between me and Emerson. They all are.

“That’s me,” I say faintly. Looking up at them, then across
the table at Emerson, I feel like we’re back in our hometown diner—that night
Emerson’s lax bros nearly gave me a heart attack. I feel the panic beginning to
rise inside of me at the mere thought of it.

“You guys mind if we join you?” asks Emily, the chic hipster
with bright violet hair.

“I was actually just going to head out,” I say, grabbing my
purse and rising quickly to my feet. “I’ll have to catch a drink with you guys
some other time!”

“Abby,” Emerson says, his smile tightening. “You don’t have
to go already—”

“I really do,” I shoot back firmly.

“What about your drink?” he presses, as our coworkers drink
in the tense drama.

With my eyes locked on Emerson, I raise my martini glass and
knock back the rest, chugging the insanely expensive and delicious liquor just
to spite him. He holds my gaze, his expression hardening into that unreadable
mask I know so well.

“See you guys later,” I say to Emerson and our three
flabbergasted coworkers. “You have a lovely evening.”

Without another word, I turn on my heel and dash out of the
bar. I’ve barely made it back onto the busy street before the tears come. I
should have known that this—being alone with Emerson—would be too much for me
all at once. There’s too much history there, too much pain, for some breezy
birthday drinks to be possible. I hurry back toward the subway, cursing myself
for being such a damn idiot.

“I’d love to not make this running-after-you thing a habit,”
I hear Emerson’s terse voice say from over my shoulder.

“There’s an easy fix for that,” I snap back, “Stop running after
me.”

I draw myself up short as Emerson places his staggering,
perfect body in my path.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he tells me, “I shouldn’t
have pushed you. It’s just...I can’t pretend that I don’t still want you, Abby.
That I don’t still care—”

“Goddammit Emerson,” I exclaim, wrapping my arms around my
waist, “Haven’t you ever heard of subtlety?”

“Tried it once. Not a fan,” he shrugs.

“This isn’t going to work,” I tell him, shaking my head, “We
can’t just pick up right where we left off after that night at the beach.”

“Why not?” he insists, taking my hands in his.

“Because you took a sledgehammer to my heart, you asshole!”
I say, tearing away from his grasp. “I’ve loved you for the better part of a
decade, but we’re not kids anymore, Emerson. We can’t just throw caution to the
wind, you live in Europe, and—”

“We’re twenty-five!” he laughs, incredulously, “We can do
whatever we like.”

“
You’re
twenty-six,” I remind him, “And
I’ve
spent the last eight years picking up the pieces of my life on my own. I’m not
about to let you shatter them again.”

“Is that what you think I’d do, if you gave me another
chance?” he asks, his voice hard.

“No,” I reply, feeling my bottom lip begin to tremble, “I
know it’s what you’d do.”

His eyes flash with wounded sorrow as I barrel past him.
This time, he lets me go. I charge away, back up to my haven on the Upper West
Side, struggling to hold it together.

I manage to make it all the way home before my own grief
spills over. By the time I glance at my bedside clock, I see that it’s after
midnight. It’s officially my own twenty-sixth birthday. And would you look at
that? I’m lying here alone, miserable as ever.

“See, this is why I hate birthdays,” I mutter to myself,
surrendering to sleep at last.

Chapter Fourteen

* * *

It seems that Emerson has taken the hint. There aren’t a
thousand voicemails and texts waiting on my phone in the morning, and he
doesn’t appear out of thin air all day during my birthday. Riley, unable to
contain herself, wakes me up with a wonderful breakfast spread to start the day
off right. One look at my face and she doesn’t press for details about the
night before. She’s a saint, that woman. We take our time waking up, head out
for a hot yoga class, and take a nice long walk along the Hudson River together.
Eventually, I fill her in on what went down at drinks last night. She listens
pensively as I give her the scoop.

“You may not want to hear this,” she begins, glancing at me
as we stroll by the water.

“That probably means I need to hear it though, right?” I
sigh, “Go ahead. Shoot.”

“It sounds like you’re scared by how much you still care
about him,” Riley says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “And you’re terrified of
history repeating itself.”

“I
do
still care about him,” I admit, surprised by the knot in my throat. “I never
stopped caring about him.”

“I know,” Riley smiles sadly, “I’ve been with you these last
eight years since he disappeared from your life. But Abby...you have to
remember that there’s one huge difference between then and now.”

“His pecs?” I offer. “You should
see
them, Ri—”

“Not what I meant,” she laughs. “I was going to say, you
were kids when everything went wrong before. You had to answer to your
horrible, selfish parents. Now, you have no one to answer to but yourselves.”

“Maybe that’s what’s freaking me out,” I say softly,
“There’s no one to blame if things go wrong again. If we mess it up this
time...it’s because we’re not actually right for each other.”

“Being a grownup sucks, don’t it?” Riley laughs, shaking her
head. “But you know what else sucks? Squandering a wonderful relationship with
someone you’re nuts about, just because you’re scared.”

“How can you always know the right thing to say?” I ask her,
amazed.

“I’m just a genius,” she sighs, as we turn toward home,
“NBD.”

My grandparents are swinging by the apartment to check up on
the place and have drinks before we go out to dinner, but that won’t be until
early this evening. I have the whole lazy late afternoon to myself. Which would
be fine and dandy if I could do anything but lay around thinking about Emerson.
I need to check in with him about last night and explain my freak out. But
every time I reach for my cell, something stops me.

“Come on, Miss 26-year-old,” I mutter sternly, staring down
at my phone, “Put on your big girl panties and give him a—”

I let out a very undignified yelp as the phone begins to
vibrate in my hands. Dropping the device onto my bed in surprise, I peer down
at it and feel my stomach flip. There’s a text on my screen that simply reads:

Hey Abby, it’s
Emerson.

I grab up the phone and text back before I lose my nerve.

Me: Hey, I was
just about to call you. I want to talk.

Him: So do I. How
do you feel about doing it in person?

Me: Oh, I don’t
think I have time to come all the way back downtown before my plans tonight.

Him: You don’t
have to come downtown.

Me: No?

I jump a foot in the air as my apartment buzzer rings.
Another text arrives in its wake:

Him: Nope.

“Are you expecting a package?” Riley calls from the living
room.

“No, Ri, it’s him!” I gasp, yanking open my bedroom door.

“Emerson is here? At our apartment?!” she breathes
excitedly, “Well, what are you waiting for? Buzz him up!”

“But. I. What if—” I stammer, biting my lip.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Riley groans. She marches across
the room and pushes the “door” button on the buzzer, granting Emerson access to
our building. “You’re welcome,” she grins, marching toward her room, “I’ll be
in my boudoir. Call if you need any further intervention, yeah?”

“Thanks,” I say weakly, paralyzed as I stare at the front
door.

At least I made an effort to look presentable today. I’ve
got my favorite pair of skinny jeans on, a slouchy white tee with a charcoal
cardigan, and some eclectic pieces of jewelry I’ve picked up at the Brooklyn
flea market. My blonde hair hangs in loose, easy waves, and my favorite red
matte lipstick finishes off the look. Still, even knowing that I look my
millennial-chic best, my heart nearly bursts out of my chest as I hear a knock
on the door.

He’s here.

“Answer it or I will!” Riley trills from the other room.

“Ugh. Fine,” I mutter, going to the door. “Quit crackin’ the
whip, would you?”

“What’s that about whips?” Emerson grins, as I swing the
door open.

“Oh,” I stammer, taken aback by his perfect appearance yet
again.

He’s wearing a black v-neck and gray jeans, and the
smattering of stubble on his jaw is as sexy as ever. The glasses are nowhere to
be seen, which means his vibrant blue eyes are on full, gorgeous display. The
tee shirt cuts off just above his bulging, perfect biceps. I spot a few new
tattoos on his arms, too. Guess there’s still a bad boy mixed in with that tech
billionaire.

“No literal whips on hand, sorry to disappoint you,” I
laugh, moving aside to let him in.

“What a shame,” he sighs, taking a look around the
apartment. I’m suddenly self-conscious of the ornate, elegant decor. I know
Emerson has money now and everything, but the decadence of my grandparents’
apartment still has me feeling very uncool.

“I know, this place is a bit much,” I say nervously,
watching his blue eyes rove around the space. “But, you know, it’s my
grandparents’. They’re not exactly hip to the whole minimalism, eco-friendly
movement. Actually, they’re stopping by soon for a little birthday
celebration.”

“Frank and Jillian?” Emerson asks, laying on a parody of his
most proper, upper-class voice. “What a delight!”

“Yeah. Not my idea of a good time, but they’re family. And
they’ve also been supporting me my entire life. So I can handle a bit of WASPy
tension once in a while,” I reply.

“I’ll be sure to get out of here before they show up,”
Emerson says, “Wouldn’t want anyone to have a heart attack on your birthday.”

“I’m sure they’d be happy to see you,” I offer.

We look at each other for a moment before busting out laughing.
Emerson is the last person on the planet my grandparents would want to run
into, billionaire or no.

“I doubt they’d be impressed by something as gauche as ‘new
money’,” Emerson chortles, settling down on the couch.

“Yes, how
dare
you be successful in this economy, young man,” I reply, doing my best Frank
Rowan impression as I settle down beside Emerson.

We sit next to each other and lapse into silence. I guess
this is the moment where we’re supposed to address what went down last night,
but it’s always hard to start.

“I hope you don’t mind my swinging by,” Emerson begins, “I
know it’s an uninvited visit, but I wanted to talk to you before we got back
into the office on Monday.”

“Right,” I laugh, “Yeah, that might have been awkward.”

“I also didn’t want to let the day pass without wishing you
a happy birthday,” he goes on, training those gorgeous eyes on me.

“Oh,” I breathe, very aware of the slender space between us.
“Thanks, Emerson.”

“Has it been a good one so far?” he asks softly.

“It just got a lot better, to tell you the truth,” I reply,
my voice low and quiet. I feel that panicked resistance rising in me the more
my want of him grows, but I force myself to get through it. Deal with it. I
won’t let my own fears fuck this moment up.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Emerson smiles, “And I hope this
isn’t too forward, but I also wanted to make sure to give you your birthday
present before the day was out.”

“What?” I laugh, turning to face him on the couch. “What do
you mean, present? We only just ran into each other two days ago. How did you
already—?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been holding onto it for a while,” he
says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. “About eight years, as a matter of
fact.”

The world grinds to a halt around me as he produces a simple
black ring box. I stare at the tiny gift, my mind and heart making the obvious
leap. Emerson watches my jaw hit the floor and rushes to assure me.

“Oh god. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that to you,” he laughs.

“Right,” I breathe, “Of course.”

He goes to hand me the box, but at the last second holds it
up over his head, out of my reach. His favorite old joke from when we were
kids. And given that he’s got even more height on me now, the joke holds. I
give him a playful shove, and he finally hands the box to me.

My hands tremble as I force a placid smile onto my face and
open the ring box. Am I relieved that he didn’t just whip out an engagement
ring, or was some ridiculous little corner of my mind hoping that he was going
to? Whatever the case may be, the question fades out of my mind as I lift the
lid of the box and see what’s inside.

It’s a delicate silver ring, set with one gleaming
freshwater pearl. I know I’ve seen this ring before. But where?

“When we were at the beach for our birthdays, all those
years ago,” Emerson says, watching me intently, “We stopped at that one shop
you liked so much in town, with all those handmade crafts and things. You
stared at this ring for a good five minutes, just admiring it. You didn’t say
anything, of course, but I knew you loved it. I waited until you were trying
things on in the dressing room and bought it for you. For your eighteenth
birthday. But with everything that actually ended up happening that day...I
never got a chance to give it to you. Well. Until now, that is.”

“You’ve...held onto this the whole time?” I whisper, looking
up at him in wonder, “You’ve had this ring for eight years, Emerson?”

“I guess some part of me always hoped I’d have the chance to
give it to you someday,” he says softly. “And would you look at that? Here you
are.”

“Here I am,” I smile.

“I never forgot about you, Abby,” he says, resting a hand on
mine, “Not for a second. Through every other relationship, and date, and fling,
I always had you at the back of my mind. No one ever measured up to you. I’m
not blaming you for my lack of committed relationships, of course. It’s
just...I never wanted to settle down with anyone else. Because the person I
really cared about was still out there. Only, I’d already met and lost her.”

“You didn’t lose me,” I whisper, lacing my fingers through
his. “We just...misplaced each other for a while.”

“I’ll take that,” he smiles, inching toward me.

I force myself to take a deep breath as we move closer, and
closer. The heat and nearness of him is making my head spin, and that’s not
all. I clench my thighs together, acutely aware of the throbbing need building
between my legs. Just being close to him, alone in this room, is enough to turn
me on. It dawns on me, for the first time, that I don’t have to say “no” in
this moment. Nothing is stopping me from being with Emerson the way I
want
to be.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Emerson murmurs fiercely, catching
my face in hands.

“Well. You know how I feel about showing and telling,
Sawyer,” I whisper, my voice low and rasping with want.

“That I do,” he grins, those blue eyes mere inches from
mine.

And with that, he tugs me tightly against him and brings his
mouth to mine. I bend my body to his, opening myself without a second thought.
The familiar taste of him, still the same after all these years, sets the
synapses of my brain sparking, dredging up a million memories. My every barrier
and defense goes crumbling down as I run my fingers through his now-cropped
brown hair. I press my body flush against his as I feel his tongue sweep
against mine. He kisses me swiftly, ferociously, and I match his intensity at
every stroke. Now that we’ve given ourselves the permission to touch and be
touched by each other, there’s no stopping us.

“No one’s ever made me feel the way you do,” I gasp, as
Emerson pulls me onto his lap, kissing down along my throat.

“I just know you, Abby,” he growls, his hands running down
the length of my body. “My god, you feel exactly the same. The way your body
moves, the way you respond to me...”

“I’ve missed these hands,” I groan softly, as Emerson
brushes his fingers against my tender inner thigh, runs his hands over the rise
of my ass.

“They’ve missed you,” he smiles devilishly, catching my lips
in his once more.

I can’t keep my hips from grinding against his as I straddle
him on the couch. Our tongues glide against each other, twisting and caressing
like I wish our limbs could, right this second. My breath comes hard and fast
as that throbbing between my legs grows more intense—more intent on getting
what it wants. I can already feel myself getting wet for him as he pulls me
flush against him—lets me feel the telltale rise in his jeans.

“No one’s ever known how to turn me on like you do, either,”
he says, his fierce blue eyes hard on my face.

“I can’t believe we’ve gone so long without this,” I
breathe, taking his gorgeous, sculpted face in my hands.

“We don’t have to wait any longer,” he replies, turning his
face to lay a kiss against my palm. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to,” I whisper, letting my sex rub
ever-so-lightly against his stiff cock.