As our doorbell rang the next night, signaling Deborah’s grand entrance into our family’s life, my dad asked me to answer the door. It wasn’t until I was en route that he mentioned Deborah’s son would also be joining us for dinner. When I swung open the door to welcome our guest and her plus one, I’m surprised that my jaw didn’t crack from hitting the floor so hard. There, standing on my doorstep, was Emerson Sawyer. And I could tell from the blank, disinterested look in his eye that he had no idea who I was.
“What’s this?” Emerson interrupts my thoughts, grinning as he snatches the metallic flask out of my back pocket. A trail of sensation sears along the skin just above my belt as his fingers brush against my bare flesh. Goosebumps spring up where his fingertips glanced against my body. It’s like my every cell is hard-wired to respond to him. I need to give each and every one of those cells a stern talking-to.
Emerson knocks back a slug of booze without checking to see what it is first, and lets out a raucous hoot as he tastes the strong whiskey.
“You brought the good stuff!” he crows, draping a muscled arm across my shoulder. “This must be from Daddy’s stash, huh?”
“Give it back, Sawyer,” I demand, trying half-heartedly to push him away from me. If I’m being perfectly honest, the feel of his hard, solid body against mine is something I’ll never stop secretly jonesing for—but he can never know that.
“Come on, Sis. Sharing is caring,” he teases, holding the flask up in the air, just out of my reach. Mocking my height—or lack thereof—is one of his favorite hobbies.
I sigh, refusing to engage in his game. Sometimes, I miss the days where Emerson didn’t even know my name. We don’t go to a gigantic school—there are about three hundred kids in our senior class. So for the first three years of high school, I was able to harbor a huge, unrequited crush on Emerson without ever actually having to speak to him. Emerson’s a lacrosse player, part of the “in” crowd. Because our school is so diverse, socio-economically speaking, popularity doesn’t depend on how much money your family has. If it did, I might actually be known around school as something other than “that short girl who’s always drawing.” But the gods of popularity did not decide to favor me, it would seem. My very petite, nerdy, soft-spoken self is just about invisible in the halls of McCarren High School. In fact, these days, the thing I’m best known for there is being the daughter of the guy Emerson’s “hot mom” is dating.
Oh, goody.
“Just take the damn flask,” I mutter, turning on my heel to go, “I’m out of here anyway. Enjoy yourself, Sawyer.”
But as I attempt to make my grand exit, Emerson steps directly into my path, his staggeringly built body blocking my way. I collide with his muscular form, my hands landing flush against his abdomen. I have to swallow a moan as I feel his insanely cut six pack rippling beneath my fingers. I step quickly away, catching Riley’s amused gaze. She knows all about my feelings for Emerson, being my best friend and all. Hopefully, the other dozen people here in this room can’t see right through me, too. Especially Emerson himself.
“Don’t be such a downer,” he laughs, handing me the flask and extinguishing his smoke in someone’s discarded red cup. “Stay and have fun for once in your life.”
“I’m not a downer. You’re just a pain in the ass,” I reply, snatching the flask out of his strong hands.
“Hey. I had a very troubled childhood,” he says over-dramatically, laying a hand over his heart and arranging his features into an anguished pout. “I can’t help myself.”
“Who am I, Officer Krupke?” I ask, laughing despite myself. “Give me a break.”
It’s no wonder Emerson is so popular, with his wicked sense of humor, his bad boy good looks, and his devil-may-care attitude. He could have his pick of any girl in our school, of that much I am absolutely certain. I’ve been keeping careful tabs on his romantic life for years now, and he definitely doesn’t seem to be the “relationship type”. He’s hanging out with a new girl every weekend, just about. And it seems that this weekend is no exception.
“Hey Emerson,” a breathy voice says from over his shoulder. Two thin, manicured hands slide around his torso from behind, and a beautiful, green-eyed face peeks around his built form.
My heart clenches painfully as I recognize Courtney Haines, a gorgeous redheaded girl in our senior class. She’s our resident thespian, the beautiful star of every single school play, talent show, and choir concert. She’ll probably head to New York after graduation and become some Broadway sensation. But right now, she seems pretty happy in the role of Girl Who Gets to Make Out With Emerson Sawyer Tonight.
I have to admit, I would be too.
Stop that, I chide myself, shaking off my discomfort. You’re not allowed to like him like that anymore. Your parents are dating. Plus, he thinks of you as an annoying little gnat...when he thinks of you at all. Get a grip, Abby.
“Hey Riley. Hey Abby,” Courtney Haines says, draping Emerson’s arm over her shoulder. “Glad you guys could make it to my little shindig!”
“This is your house?” I exclaim, looking around in wonder. My dad’s place is pretty stately, but her home is truly a den of luxury. It’s more of an estate than anything else. Our area of Connecticut is chock full of gigantic homes, but her family’s puts them all to shame.
“Yep. And this would be my room,” she smiles smugly, letting her hand travel down into Emerson’s back pocket. “My parents were nice enough to give me the master suite and everything, their dear hearts.”
“How nice,” Riley says flatly, stepping up beside me. Riley’s family is distinctly working-class, and the trappings of wealth have never interested her much. She’s never held my family’s financial situation against me, of course. But that’s only because I’m aware of the privilege that comes along with having a family that’s “old money”. She has no patience for the rich kids in our school, who seem oblivious to how good they have it. And Courtney is most certainly one of that number.
“Come on babe,” the redheaded girl says to Emerson, “We’re just about to play a little game. You girls should play too!”
“What sort of game are we talking about?” Riley asks, stealing a nip of my booze. “Darts? Poker?”
“Seven Minutes in Heaven,” Courtney squeals, bouncing up and down excitedly on the balls of her feet.
“Are you serious?” I blurt out.
“Sure,” Courtney replies, miffed by my less-than-enthusiastic response. “What’s the problem? We’re doing it ironically. You’re some kind of hipster, aren’t you? You should appreciate that.”
“I’m not a hipster,” I reply, “I just like to read, occasionally.”
Emerson tries to cover up a hearty chuckle with a cough. I glance over at him, amazed. Did I actually just make my Detractor-in-Residence laugh?
“Whatever,” Courtney chirps, towing Emerson back toward the group, “Join in or don’t.”
“Let’s get out of here,” I mutter to Riley, as Emerson strides away.
“And miss your chance to wind up in the closet with your OTL?” she grins back.
“My what?” I ask blankly.
“Your One True Love, obviously,” she says, looping an arm around my waist and dragging me toward the group.
“Oh please,” I whisper, “It was just a crush! And besides, it’s over now.”
“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes, “Because I didn’t just see you fawn over his six pack for a long, steamy moment back there.”
“I didn’t fawn over anything,” I hiss, “I just—”
“OK!” Courtney chirps, rubbing her hands together and looking around at her assembled guests. “Let’s do this. Everyone know the rules of Seven Minutes in Heaven?” Her eyes land on me. “Abby?”
“Ha. Ha.” I murmur, wanting very badly to melt into a puddle. “Yes, I know the rules. I was in eighth grade once, too.”
The group chuckles, surprised by my swipe at the queen bee. Courtney isn’t the kind of girl who
gets talked back to very often. Which, in my opinion, is why she should be talked back to at every opportunity. Even Emerson cocks his head at me in something that looks faintly like admiration. Or at least, something other than generally bored disdain, which is his default attitude toward me.
“OK. So who wants to pick our first two victims?” Courtney asks, her green eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Me! Dibs!” Riley says firmly, thrusting her hand into the air before anyone else has a chance to. A cold stab of panic rips through me as my best friend smiles wickedly.
“Great,” Courtney chirps. “Riley, you start. Who should we stick in the closet first?”
“Don’t you dare,” I mutter under my breath, “Riley, I mean it—”
“Emerson and Abby!” Riley crows triumphantly, shooting me a smile that clearly says, You know you want it. You’ll thank me for this someday.
“Oh,” Courtney replies, the corners of her pretty mouth turning down. “I mean. I guess that’s fine. If you’re into incest or whatever.”
Our classmates laugh with delight as that taboo word drifts through the air like some smoke from one of Emerson’s cigarettes. A deep pang of shame twists my core. I’ve spent many a sleepless night berating myself for still being attracted to Emerson. I’ve hurled the “I word” at myself a million times, hoping to break the spell he’s cast over me. But no dice. No matter how wrong the rest of the world might think it is, I’m crazy for this gorgeous, cool, sneakily intelligent boy. Our parents little affair can’t change that.
“Super twisted, Riley,” Emerson laughs, crossing his thick arms. “I like it.”
Courtney’s eyes flash with jealousy as she swings her gaze my way.
“Fine,” she snaps, clearly annoyed not to be heading into the closet with Emerson herself. “But you two had better make good on it. No twiddling your thumbs in there. We’ll want some proof that you actually did something. Right everyone?”
A chorus of assenting murmurs sounds off around the circle. I look around at my classmates, befuddled and humiliated.
“What the hell kind of proof do you want?” I ask, “I’m not the sex tape sorta gal.”
“Figure it out yourself,” Courtney sniffs, shoving Emerson toward me. “You can thank your bestie Riley for her suggestion.”
“Thanks bestie,” Emerson grins at Riley, coming to a stop in front of me. He makes a grand sweeping gesture, offering his arm as if we were going to a ball. “Ma’am?” he teases.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I grumble, storming past him to the closet door.
The crowd makes kissy noises as I wrench open the door and march inside with Emerson on my heels. As I step into the space, I’m taken aback. I was expecting some kind of coat closet, with barely enough room to move around. But of course, Courtney’s closet is an enormous walk-in affair, with rows and rows of clothing, shoes, and accessories lining the huge space. Her closet is fancier, and perhaps even as big, as my bedroom at home. There are golden-plated fixtures, a sparkly chandelier hanging overhead, and a decadent, velvet fainting sofa standing front-and-center.
Emerson steps up beside me as both of our gazes fall on the couch. We steal simultaneous glances at each other, then quickly look away. My cheeks flame red as I try and dislodge the sexy images playing out in my mind’s eye: Emerson laying me out across that sofa, ripping my clothes off, and having his way with me as the smooth velvet upholstery caresses my bare skin.
He, on the other hand, is probably preoccupied with counting down the minutes before this little joke is over.
“See? This is why I never come to parties,” I murmur, crossing my arms tightly across my chest.
“Really? I thought it was ‘cause no one ever asked you to,” he says wryly, taking a seat on the fainting sofa and stretching out his long, toned body. Tormenting me, is more like it.
“I would have expected you to have better plans, at least,” I reply. “We need to start coordinating with each other so this doesn’t happen.”
“What, this?” he asks, gesturing around at the closet as our seven minutes unfold.
“Not this specifically,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I just mean we should avoid seeing each other any more than we absolutely have to. Especially now that you and your mother...” I trail off, shaking my head.
“Since we what?” Emerson snaps, suddenly on the defensive, “Invaded your precious ivory tower?”
I bite my lip, intimidated by his heated tone. My dad and Deborah have recently decided to move in together. Or rather, they’ve decided that Deborah and Emerson are going to move in with us. They’re going to rent out their apartment on the other side of town and shack up in our place for the time being. One big, utterly strange, less-than-happy family. As if crushing on Emerson wasn’t weird enough for me, now the object of my unfortunate desire is going to be sleeping under the same roof, as well. College really can’t start soon enough for me.
“You have to admit, it’s kind of strange,” I murmur, averting my eyes. “Dad and Deborah’s whole thing, I mean. They’ve known each other for, what, two months? And they’re already moving in together?”
“My mom’s a crazy, impulsive bitch,” Emerson shrugs, “And your dad seems like someone who does whatever the fuck he wants without thinking about the consequences. What about this is surprising to you?”
“Good point,” I laugh hollowly, daring to sit on the very edge of the couch beside him. The mere proximity of his body to mine has my stomach twisting in anxious knots. Has it been seven minutes yet or what?
“Well,” Emerson sighs, swinging his legs around so that he’s sitting beside me. “Are we gonna get it on now or what?”
“Ugh,” I groan, giving him a shove, “Stop it, would you? Why do you get so much pleasure out of making me miserable?”
“I don’t,” he replies, “It’s just so goddamn easy that I can’t help myself. How the hell did you get to be such a little prude?”
“Who says I’m a prude?” I shoot back, “You don’t know anything about my life.”
“I know that I’ve never seen you even talk to a guy,” Emerson shoots back.
“What’re you, keeping track of my lovers or something?” I reply. “Get a life, Sawyer.”
Of course, I don’t mind at all that Emerson’s taking notice of my love life, paltry though it may be. As insane as it is, I can’t help but hope that there’s some chance he could come to feel the same way about me as I do him. Call me a dreamer, I guess. A dirty dreamer.
“What are brothers for?” Emerson grins, slipping an arm around my waist.
My head sets to spinning as the nearness of him entrances me. I look up at his gorgeous, sculpted face, mere inches away from my own. I’ve never been this close to him before. I memorize the contours of his perfect features—his high cheekbones, his aquiline nose, the scruff along his razor sharp jaw, and of course those dark blue eyes. From this close, I can see that there are specks of gold gleaming in his irises, and a dash of freckles across the bridge of his nose. At last, my eyes land firmly on his full, firm lips, half curled into a devilish grin.
His arm is still circled around my tiny waist. Am I imagining things, or is his grip growing the slightest bit tighter? A silence blooms over us, heavy and thick. My eyes flick back up to his. A cast of seriousness has come over his gaze. To my amazement, I watch as his face moves closer to mine, by barely a millimeter—
“Five minutes!” I hear Courtney call from outside the door.
“Shit,” I mutter, tearing my eyes away from his perfect face. My whole body is on fire with scattered anticipation. For a second there, I actually thought he was going to kiss me. Talk about wishful thinking. “So. How are we going to please the horny masses?” I ask, nodding toward the door.
“I have an idea,” Emerson says, his grin returning at full force. “You’re going to give me your panties.”
My jaw falls open as I whip around to face him. “Excuse me?” I splutter.
“You heard me. Hand them over,” Emerson says, punching me lightly on the arm. “I can hold them up as proof that we did the deed, and everyone will know that you’re not a frigid, virginal weirdo.”
“That is so messed up,” I say, jumping to my feet. I’m just going to leave the whole “frigid virgin” thing alone for now, I decide. No use opening that can of worms. “Let those assholes think what they want. I’ll never have to see any of them again in a few months.”
“Come on, Sis. Do it for me, then,” Emerson says, standing to meet me. He catches my arm, giving me a soft tug toward him. “Don’t you want to help me protect my reputation?”
“Not really,” I reply, as he closes the space between us. I wonder if he can see my heart pounding through my black sweater, see my knees trembling beneath my tartan miniskirt?
“What if I ask you nicely?” he returns, his voice softer, huskier than I’ve ever heard it. He runs his hands down my arms, not an inch of air between our bodies. That seriousness has hardened his features once again...or is he just fucking with me?
“Are you really capable of that? Asking nicely?” I try to joke, but my own voice seems to have dropped a lusty octave. My breath catches in my throat as his hands land firmly on my slender hips.
“Give me your panties,” he growls, his fingers tightening ever-so-slightly, “Please.”
I stare up at him in amazement. He’s totally serious. If I had any sense at all, I’d step away, laugh off his request, and wait for the next five minutes to tick by. But my sense has been fully eclipsed by my want to please him in any way that I can. Maybe he’s joking after all, but I’m not going to let this moment slip away between my fingers. I have to show Emerson Sawyer what I’m made of. It’s now or never.
Cross Check (Marriage Contract #1) Page 17
