Page 60 of The Emma Special

“You think I own a pair of maroon pants?”

“So, I’ll wear the red dress?”

Someone, anyone, needed to save James at this moment. “Please, I would love the red dress.”

“It’s kind of short. Is that okay? Maybe I’ll just wear the little black one. It’s good for anything.”

He swallowed.

“What time are you picking me up?” she asked quickly, as if she hadn’t just fried his brain talking about red and black dresses.

“Um, six?”

“That sounded like a question. Are you asking me if you’re picking me up at six?”

Snap out of it. “Sorry. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Great. I’ll wear red. You wear that black shirt I love so much. See you then!”

Just like that, the call was over. James let the phone slip from his hand into his lap and pushed his fingers through his hair. What was he doing? Emma had burst into his life and left her sparkles everywhere like a beautiful trail of evidence.

He could vacuum the confetti pieces in his car, but he wouldn’t.

He could let Emma go and chalk it up to a fleeting encounter with a friend, but he wouldn’t. He’d missed his chance in high school, but not this time.

Instead, he’d make up poor excuses like the need for a date to family dinner just to see her face again because the thought of another day without her in it was not an option.

The overhead sun had warmed his car to an uncomfortable temperature. He started the AC and adjusted the vents to blow the cool air over his face. Eyes closed, he sat and breathed.

This was step one. Now that she was speaking to him again, he had one evening to show her they could be more than friends.

Chapter 17

Emma Is A Dance Monkey

“I can’t believe you made me wear this dress.” Emma winced, then transferred her weight to the ball of her left foot to keep her spiked heels from aerating his parents’ backyard. They’d gotten halfway to the flower garden after Sharon had shooed her out the door until dinner was served. Emma’s bum knee decided that was far enough. Traitorous joint couldn’t even be a team player when it counted.

Her final self-diagnosis was a simple knee sprain, and she refused to believe it was anything more serious. After the initial injury her senior year, she’d babied it until the swelling went down. The knee never fully healed, and it had progressively gotten worse over the last month.

Every step had to be slowly and carefully balanced. She was fine as long as she kept it from turning, twisting, bending—let’s be honest, moving. That one semester of ballet in middle school was coming in handy. Her left leg was getting stronger by the hour.

James had warned her not to wear the heels. But, dad-gum, if she was going to wear this dress for once in her life she was going to do it right. She hopped on her toe and grabbed the hand he offered. Balancing on her right foot, she curled toward James to adjust his perfectly folded collar. The farce provided the moment she needed to get up in his face and glare at him before the show started and she had to perform in front of his family. “You shouldn’t have done this to me.”

James, loyal to his pretend boyfriend role, rested his hands on both sides of her waist and softened his voice to match hers. “Oh, yeah. It’s all my fault.”

“Yes, and now I look like I’m trying to show off.”

“I regret nothing.”

“I am way too dressed up.”

“You’re gorgeous.” His touch at her side commandeered too much attention.

She fought for any and all rational thought. “That’s not the point.”

“Sorry. What was your point?” His question floated in one ear and out the other as her attention focused on the well-dressed man holding her, complimenting her, smiling at her. At least he was as overdressed as she was.

What was her point? Oh, right. “You misrepresented what this dinner would be.”