Emerson opens an eye. A smile tugs at the corner of his lip. “Oh? Are you seeing someone?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, it’s . . .” I let out a laugh at myself. How do I explain this situation without looking ridiculous? “A friend? I guess? A man. Well, that doesn’t matter.”
Emerson raises a speculative eyebrow.
“He’s been staying with me. He gave me a ride to the hospital, and there was a bunch of confusion and everyone just assumed he was the father and . . . well anyway, he’s been a lot of help.” He’s saved my ass, if I’m being honest, but I promised Emerson I was going to be able to handle this on my own.
Emerson’s smile pinches into something more like a scowl.
This is it. This is when he announces that he’s no longer covering my biggest expense.
“Have you been friends with him long?”
“Err, no? I mean, I knew him before I had the baby, of course”—a whole week before—”but the whole birth was . . . it was a thing.”
That scowl intensifies. “But he’s just a friend? He’s not anything more?”
“No, definitely not. He’s very muchnotinto me.”
Although he was extremely cozy with me last night after that shower. Could have been just, like, a really good hand job in my shower, and who doesn’t want to cuddle after that?
Emerson’s look tells me he doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t even know Blaise. “I should meet him.”
“What?” I sputter.
“Have your friends met him?”
“Of course they have!”
“And they think he’s safe? There’s a lot of creeps out there, Tilly.”
“He’s not a creep. He’s just weird, is all. He’s fine.”
Emerson doesn’t look at all satisfied by this, but he lets it go at that. He does insist on spending the next few hours with me, donning a hat to take a walk in the park and then taking me shopping.
Never once mentioning that he’s paying thousands of dollars a month for my father’s home despite my attempts at telling him we’re never going back to what we once were.
It’s past five by the time we return to my apartment, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because he’s hoping to run into the man I’m co-parenting with. I probably should just tell him it’s Blaise Sinclair who’s living with me, but that seems like it’ll lead to more questions.
Like, why is he slumming it here.
Emerson does his best to tone his expression down when he looks up at my apartment building, which he’s seen a couple times before, but I’ve never let him in. I’m not letting him in this time, either, and he believes my lie when I tell him there’s an elevator I’ll take up to my unit, so I can just load up the stroller. Really, I’ll park the stroller at the bottom of the stairs, take Donovan up, and then run back down for everything else. So far, nothing’s ever been stolen.
“Maybe you should just come back to the set,” he huffs. “Bring Donovan with you. We’ll figure out child care.”
“You know that won’t work.”
“I know, but . . .” He snaps Donovan’s car seat into the stroller as he casts another glance at the building. “I should meet him.”
“He’s taking care of me. I’m good. I promise.”
“You’ll call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” I won’t, but it’ll keep him from nosing in further. I nudge into the space between Emerson and the stroller, adjusting Donovan’s blanket and the sun bonnet.
Emerson wraps an arm around my waist and kisses my shoulder. It’s just a second, a flash of the past, a little too personal to be friendly but too brief to fuss about. He steps back.
And grunts at the sound of something hitting him.
