Would she listen? Doubtful.
When I suggested she sit down because she stumbled three times in those damnable silver heels, she gave me the finger.
Where’s a half-drunk bottle of bourbon stashed in a locker when you need it?
That imagined alcohol would calm the ache in my chest because there was a war inside me—my mind and body fought for control.
“No. I can’t cut it out. Not until we get out of here,” she said, pushing past me to pace across the small space again. Her hands clenched and released before rising to her neck and massaging the spot where it met her shoulder.
“Emma. You have to sit down. You’re going to give yourself blisters.”
“Blisters are the least of my concerns. I just want to get out of here.”
I watched her pass by me two more times before my hand darted out, and I grabbed her wrist. She tried to pull away, but I had her entire wrist between my fingers. She relented after a moment, and I tugged her closer, rubbing my thumb along the steady thump of her pulse. It raced under my touch, and I raised an eyebrow, keeping steady pressure on her until she sat beside me. The silky material of her dress clung to her curves and stretched across her gorgeous hips as she lowered herself down.
“Come here and talk to me, Emma.”
She crossed her arms and tilted her head in the opposite direction. Then, like the air had been sucked from her lungs, her shoulders deflated, and her head dropped to her chest.
I knew that look—it was the body language that gave it away. All night, she’d put up a hell of a wall, like a feral animal poised to attack with her tail puffed and her teeth bared. She’d rip me to shreds with her claws if I got too close—or said the wrong thing. But the way she tucked her arms close to her body, making herself smaller, shielding herself, told another tale.
With each passing moment, her fingers dug deeper into her palms, causing her knuckles to turn an eerie shade of white and her lips to tremble. Emma was holding on by a thread, using sheer stubborn pride to keep herself together. I was filled with a deep-seated respect for her fortitude and desperation to tug her into my arms and demand she forgive every transgression I’d ever committed.
“I thought that by showing up here tonight, I could make up for what happened on Friday.”
“You mean where you showed up in jeans, insulted me, then left?”
“You weren’t exactly a picture-perfect princess, babe.”
“I know that,” she said, throwing her arms in the air. Before she could start pacing again, I stood as well, wrapping my arms around her and tugging her onto the bench and into my lap. She froze but, after a moment, melted into my embrace. Her legs peeked out from the large slit in her dress—almost up to her waist—and I found myself transfixed by the amount of skin I’d revealed.
My hands skimmed over her on the unforgiving bench, and my brain short-circuited as I stared at her, not sure where to touch her first or if she’d even welcome it. Still, the need to set her skin ablaze with my hands and mouth, leaving small flames in my wake as I mapped her skin, was overwhelming.
“I didn’t want to go another day without you,” I said, pressing my face into her neck. I felt her body tighten and then relax as she breathed, unsure if that was the right thing to say.
Was it as effective as‘I’m a jealous prick and want you all to myself?’
Probably not, but one of us had to open the line of communication. Neither of us would have been as defensive and hot-headed as we were the other night unless there were genuine feelings involved. Feelings I was tired of denying. With age came wisdom and all that bullshit, so I refused to be the guy who didn’t go leaping head-first into what he wanted.
So, it took meyearsto figure it out. It was like a lightning bolt to the heart. As soon as I said the words out loud—or to my brother—I knew I would doanythingto make it a reality.
Of course, the first time I had the chance to tell her how I felt, I fucked it five ways to Sunday. I got defensive and jealous and every other descriptive word you could think of for my shit behavior. All because I couldn’t say the one thing I felt deep in my bones.
I’ve fallen in love with you.
“I deleted those dating apps, Miller,” she whispered, almost as if she was sharing some long-repressed secret and not words that had me purring like a goddamned tiger. “All of that is over.”
I roared, exhaling hard enough to see goose bumps appear on her neck. No more pathetic, limp-dick boys making her cry.
“Fuck, Emma. You couldn’t have told me that in a text message?” I asked before releasing a nervous chuckle. She curled her body into mine, sighing as she rested her head on my shoulder.
“No, something like that needed to be said in person.”
“Yeah. I guess I understand that. Thank you for telling me.”
Her hands came to my arms, and she wiggled, making it so I had to put my hands on her hips to steady her—this was not the time for my dick to want in on the action.
I watched her, knowing fate was forcing us to finally have an honest talk, but the harsh ball of tension lodged in my throat prevented any additional words from coming out.
