Now, I have Emma. One hand on my arm. One quirk of her eyebrow calming and guiding me.
Tonight, I don’t just want her on the sidelines. I told myself that I asked her to accompany me as my plus-one in the hopes that she’ll be reminded that this job can be fun. That it can havesome glamour and perks. But if I’m unflinchingly honest with myself, I can admit that’s not the only reason.
I’m way too aware that tonight is the last night I can command her time. That unless I get one last Hail Mary and she somehow changes her mind, tomorrow, she won’t be my assistant. Which means I won’t see her every day.
It still doesn’t feel real. If she truly does leave, I’ll figure out what to do tomorrow. For tonight, I want her next to me—and not in the background. If I only have until midnight, I want it all. Every last baleful look, stubborn argument, biting comment, and reluctant smile.
But even though my words are a weak approximation of what I wanted to say, I can’t harness my expression. And perhaps she reads something of my admiration because she flushes.
I grin. “You’re blushing again.”
“What?” she blusters, blushing further. “I don’t blush. How ridiculous.”
“Maybe not on your face. But you do on your chest,” I say with a pointed look at her pink skin.
Then I hold out my arm. “Our chariot awaits.” I wince. Of all things to say, that’s what I chose?
When she sets her hand on my arm, the contact sends a jolt of electricity through me. Which I ignore.
Emma chuckles. “Which chariot?”
“The Jaguar.”
“Your grandpa’s.”
“I got it detailed. Three times.”
“It’s not very gentlemanly of you to mention that,” she says with a bracing look.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a gentleman, then,” I retort.
She rolls her eyes as we make our way out of the mansion, down the steps, and toward the waiting car.
I open the door for her and then walk over to the other side and slide in.
When the car pulls away, she surprises me by smiling softly. “I like it when you talk about him.”
“My grandpa?”
She nods.
“He was old-school Hollywood… and complicated. But I loved him.”
He had notions that were both gentlemanly and deeply misogynistic. My grandfather liked his secretaries. My grandmother liked her pool boys. My dad liked his nannies. And my mom liked her Valium. Is it any wonder I’m not great with relationships? I think with dark humor.
“And yet, you didn’t yell at—or fire—me for throwing up all over his car,” she observes.
“Well, to be fair, I couldn’t fire you. You’d already quit.”
“True.”
Our eyes meet. And there it is. That silent, shared laughter between us.
“Do you—do you remember much of that night?” I work up the nerve to ask.
The street and the views out the darkened window pull her attention. “Some,” she says carefully.
That one word doesn’t explain what I need to know. It doesn’t tell me if she remembers what she said. Was it just the alcohol talking?
