Cross Check (Marriage Contract #1)

by Colleen Masters

  “I’m glad you still think so, after all this time,” he says, “Still the same old Abby, huh?”

  “More or less,” I shrug, “Though I seem to be more obnoxiously punctual these days. Where is everyone?”

  “Oh, Cooper doesn’t usually roll in until noon or so, and the rest of the office has taken to his schedule,” Emerson tells me.

  “Jeez,” I say, “Just when I was thinking this job couldn’t get any better...”

  “It’s a pretty sweet gig,” Emerson agrees, “We work hard, but on our own terms. I’ve never been happier with any other company I’ve worked for. I figured I’d get here early to meet you today, show you the ropes before everyone gets here. Ready to start, protégé?”

  “All set,” I say, draining the rest of my coffee, “Teach me your ways, O’ Wise One.”

  The rest of the day unfolds before us as Emerson walks me through all the ins and outs of the agency. My job will mostly consist of brainstorming new ideas for marketing and branding before passing them along to different clients. I’ll get to execute my ideas using Bastian’s top-of-the-line design suite, too. I never thought that I’d get to have a job that I actually like, especially not this early on in my career. Between the new gig at Bastian and Emerson happening back into my life, 26 is shaping up to be a fine year, indeed...

  That is, as long as I don’t think of the whole grandparents-disowning-me-thing.

  Emerson and I are sitting together at one end of the communal desk as our coworkers begin to arrive a couple hours later. Everyone greets me in a cordial, if not chipper, way. But hey, we’re all millennials, that’s how we roll. I’d rather they be real with me than overly enthusiastic. I recognize a few people—Bradley, Tyler, and Emily—from the other night at the bar. They all smile politely at me as they settle down to work, but I can feel their eyes darting back and forth between Emerson and me.

  I’m sure they’re wondering what we were doing at the bar together, what the nature of our relationship is, all that. I almost laugh, thinking about how I’d explain our relationship these days: “Oh, you know, we were step-siblings for a day, slept together once, haven’t seen each other in ten years, but yeah—it’s totally chill!” I decide not to worry about what anyone else might be thinking and focus on learning the ropes. By the end of my first day, I feel like I’m starting to have an idea of all that the job will entail, and I’m more excited than ever to keep learning more. It turns out, Emerson is a great teacher.

  Cooper doesn’t roll into until after noon, just like Emerson said. He smiles around at his worker bees, and comes over to say hello to me and Emerson.

  “How’s your first day so far, Abby?” he asks jovially.

  “I haven’t broken anything yet,” I reply, “So I guess it’s all good!”

  “She’s a natural at this,” Emerson tells Cooper.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tyler nudge Bradley and shoot him a knowing look. I should remind Emerson not to praise me too vocally around the others. It might get people talking about us. Maybe even feeling a little jealous of my friendly relationship with one of the agency’s higher-ups. My grandfather’s quip about what I might have done with Emerson to get this job still stings. I don’t want anyone here getting the same idea. Though glancing around the communal workstation, it looks like it might be too late for that.

  I feel myself growing quiet as the day wears on, self-conscious of what my coworkers might be saying about my rather cozy relationship with the head of the company’s European branch. By the time we all start to clock out and head home once more, my jaw may as well be wired shut. My growing silence isn’t lost on Emerson, either.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in all at once,” he says, as we step into the elevator together with a few other coworkers, “But you really are doing a great job. You’re going to do so well here, Abby. I’m proud of you.”

  I bite my tongue until we reach the ground floor. As the other Bastian employees head off in their own directions, Emerson and I fall into step with each other out on the sidewalk. I feel like I can breathe again for the first time in hours. Never underestimate the stifling nature of coworkers’ judgey passive aggression.

  “How does it not bother you that people are clearly gossiping about us in there?” I ask Emerson, as we head for the subway.

  “What are you talking about?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow at me.

  “Our coworkers,” I spell it out, “They obviously know that something’s up between us.”

  “Well, something is up, isn’t it?” he asks, slipping an arm around my waist in his mischievous fashion.

  “Seriously Emerson,” I say, drawing to a stop beside the subway entrance, “Aren’t you worried that this could mess things up for us at work?”

  “No,” he says shortly, looking a bit irked. “I’m not worried about being fodder for the rumor mill for a week or two. This isn’t high school, Ab. Gossip can’t hurt you.”

  “It could be a bigger deal than that,” I reply anxiously, “I mean, what if Cooper doesn’t approve of us...being whatever we are?”

  “How can he disapprove of ‘whatever we are’ if we haven’t even decided what we are yet?” Emerson counters.

  “Oof. This is making my head hurt,” I laugh, the tension of the day dispelling now that we’re out of the office.

  “Bet I have the cure for what ails you,” he replies, taking my hand in his and tugging me down the block.

  “That’s my train,” I inform him, glancing back at the subway.

  “I know,” he says, “But my apartment is this way.”

  “Are you inviting me over?” I ask, trailing along behind him.

  “Obviously,” he laughs.

  “What...for?” I ask, digging my heels in ever-so-slightly.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a pretty decent cook,” he replies, “Let me make you dinner. We can call it a belated double-birthday celebration, since our other attempts at celebrating got...derailed this weekend.”

  Dinner at Emerson’s apartment? That sounds an awful lot like a romantic evening to me. And though I know it would be wise to take this whole thing slow, I just can’t resist him tonight. Who am I kidding—when have I ever been able to resist Emerson Sawyer?

  “OK,” I smile, “Lead on, Iron Chef.”

  * * *

  We swing by a fancy high-end grocery store on the way to Emerson’s apartment so he can gather his ingredients. I can’t help but smile wistfully as I think of the last time he cooked for me. There was so much sweetness and sorrow wrapped up in those few fleeting weeks of our younger years that any thought of them is bursting with remembered sensation. Of course, it’s not like this reunion of ours has been without its emotional moments.

  “Here we are,” Emerson says, drawing to a stop on a gorgeous block lined with cozy cafes and classy boutiques. He leads me up a set of stone steps and unlocks a door there.

  “This is where you live?” I breathe, glancing over my shoulder at the cosmopolitan block.

  “Sure is,” he says, holding the door for me.

  I expect to walk into the lobby of an apartment building, a ground floor leading off to a bunch of different units. But as Emerson nudges open a second door and steps through, I feel my jaw drop. The entire space inside is an open, spacious loft. This entire building is his. I’ve watched enough house-hunting reality TV to know that this is easily a multi-million dollar property—and this isn’t even his only place!

  The impossibly high ceilings vault above a perfectly-arranged interior. There’s a huge, sparkling kitchen, a sunken living room, and an enclosed bedroom off the main space. Huge, towering windows take up the entire wall opposite us, and lead off onto a private terrace. The design is mostly minimal—white walls and hardwood floors—with purposeful touches of natural materials like wood and stone. The appliances and decor are an artful mix of new and vintage. Emerson’s home is utterly perfect. It could have been ripped right off my “dream home” Pinterest pag
e. Amazing how our tastes are so aligned, even though we come from totally different backgrounds and have led completely different lives.

  I’d call that a good sign.

  I gasp as a throw pillow comes barreling my way, only to realize in the next moment that the galloping bundle of white fluff is actually an adorable little West Highland Terrier. The tiny dog collides with my legs, tail wagging a million miles an hour.

  “You must be Roxie,” I laugh, reaching down to scratch her ears.

  “Yep. That’s the lady of the house,” Emerson smiles.

  “House?” I shoot back, kneeling down to get a better look at the friendly Westie. “More like palace.”

  “Pick your jaw up off the floor and tell me what kind of wine you like,” he laughs, setting the groceries down on the kitchen island.

  “Something red,” I say, staring in wonder at the impeccable space.

  “Coming right up,” he replies, opening a concealed miniature wine cellar nestled into the island. “How does a nice Rioja sound?”

  “It sounds...nice,” I tell him, settling down at one of the wooden stools before the counter. Roxie follows me over into the kitchen and sits at my feet, staring up at me with amiable, adorable curiosity.

  “She likes you,” Emerson observes, pausing to give Roxie a good nuzzling.

  “Well. She has wonderful taste,” I kid, flipping my blonde hair theatrically.

  He produces a couple of wine glasses and pours generously. “To our 26th years,” he smiles, clinking my glass.

  “To you not doing too shabbily for yourself,” I reply, taking a sip of the delicious wine. “I mean, you told me how well you’ve made out with this app development gig, but holy crap. This loft, Emerson...”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says, gathering and prepping his ingredients. “I actually prefer it to my place in London, to tell you the truth. But that’s where Cooper decided he needs me most, so.”

  It takes a second for Emerson’s words to click. Of course. He’s not even based here at the New York offices of Bastian. He runs the show in Europe. That means, of course, that he’s probably due back there soon. Like, the end of the week soon. Why didn’t I think of that before?

  “You OK?” he asks, heating up some olive oil in a cast iron skillet.

  “Oh. Yeah,” I say, snapping back to attention. “I just...Kind of forgot that this is a temporary situation. You being in New York.”

  “Mmm,” he mutters, noncommittally, “It’s true, I did only swing by to train the new recruit at Cooper’s request. If I would have known that you were the new recruit, well...”

  “Well what?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the island.

  He glances over his shoulder at me, smiling. “Maybe I wouldn’t have bought a return ticket, in the end.”

  I’m torn between elation and trepidation. Best not force the issue of what’s going to happen between us once my training is complete and focus on the moment at hand. I watch as Emerson grills two delectable salmon fillets, blanches some broccoli rabe, and prepares a small batch of pesto pasta. The food smells amazing, the wine is fantastic, and I’m here with one of my favorite people on earth. Today may have been a little bit rough, but it sure is shaping up nicely. If I try real hard, I can pretend that this is what my life is like every day, and forget that this is just a fleeting anomaly.

  “Here we go,” Emerson says proudly, plating our food and nodding toward the terrace. “Shall we?”

  I follow him out onto the secluded patio with Roxie right on my heels. We settle down at a little table beneath a canopy of string lights and overgrown ivy. I know I shouldn’t get attached to this place, this feeling, but I can’t help it. This is all so...perfect. And that’s even before I taste the food.

  “Oh my god...” I murmur, taking my first bite of perfectly grilled salmon.

  “Better than my risotto, even?” Emerson asks, helping himself to his meal.

  “I never would have thought it possible but, yes,” I exclaim, savoring the taste.

  “I kept up with the hobby,” he says modestly, “Spending a bit of time in France certainly whipped my cooking skills into shape.”

  “You lived in France?” I ask, wide-eyed.

  “Oh yeah,” he nods, “France, England, Spain, even Finland for a while.”

  “Damn,” I whistle, “I’ve been in the same apartment since I was eighteen.”

  “Nothing wrong with having roots,” he replies.

  “Yeah...” I murmur, thinking of my grandparents’ threat to tear those roots right out from under me.

  We savor our incredible meal, the fine wine, each other’s company—and of course the delightful presence of Roxie. It’s shaping up to be a pretty good first day at the new job after all, even if this is strictly extra-curricular. The evening wears on, a couple more glasses of wine are poured, and Emerson even manages to find a record we can both agree on—Iron and Wine, an old favorite of ours. We retire back into the loft, and I meander about the space at my leisure, taking in all the little details that make his house a home.

  “I’d offer you a grand tour,” Emerson says, watching me from the center of the room, “But this is pretty much it.”

  “What about in there?” I ask, nodding toward the bedroom door.

  “You trying to get a peek at my bedroom, Rowan?” he asks, grinning.

  “Maybe I am, Sawyer,” I shrug, “Unless you’re afraid of me finding your Playboy stash or something.”

  “This from the girl who kept a vibrator within arm’s length through her entire adolescence,” he laughs, walking toward his room.

  “I have needs, OK?” I exclaim, feigning defensiveness.

  “Is that so?” he replies, his voice going raspy around the edges as he pauses in the doorway of his bedroom.

  The delicious wine has lowered both of our inhibitions, and my body comes alive as I feel us transitioning into the more...sensual part of the evening. We haven’t mentioned our steamy kiss from this weekend, yet, but we seem to be coming back around to right where we left off. Emerson’s blue eyes flash with desire as I step up to him, resting a hand on the firm panes of his chest.

  “You know about my needs better than anyone,” I say softly, trailing my fingers down his cut, defined torso.

  “Mmm. We’ll just have to see what we can do about them, then,” he murmurs, catching my wrist. My eyes go wide as he draws my hand to his full lips and takes the tip of my finger into his mouth. I feel his tongue brush against my fingertip, remember what it felt like to feel his mouth other places...and break off into his room, chest pounding.

  It’s a small, simple space with high ceilings and a huge king bed front and center. A sleek dresser and wide window round out the space, and a few well-placed keepsakes make it feel like a sacred space. I trail my fingers along the dresser, setting down my drained glass of wine. I’m just on the far edge of tipsy, and my cares are swirling away by the second.

  There are a few framed pictures on the dresser, and my stomach turns to see an old wedding photo. It isn’t of our parents’ ridiculous ceremony, of course, but I do recognize a much-younger Deb. This must be from her first wedding to Emerson’s father, a man who looks remarkably like the one standing next to me now. Deb looks so happy. Healthy, even. It breaks my heart to think of what her life has become.

  I tear my eyes away from the old picture and notice that a second frame holds not a photograph, but a drawing. It only takes a split second for me to recognize it, and as soon as I do, I feel my hand fly to my lips. There, on Emerson’s dresser, is the sketch of him I drew when we were kids, the one I gave to him on his eighteenth birthday. The drawing features him in half-profile, looking serious and sure. I worked on this piece for hours—days, even—before giving it to him in that seaside motel room. It’s been preserved perfectly, lovingly, and for a spell I’m too moved to speak.

  Two strong arms wrap around my waist from behind as I stare at the picture of teenage Emerson, drawn by my very own hand.
I clasp his hands where they rest against my body, letting my head lean back against his chest.

  “You kept it,” I whisper, turning my face toward his.

  “Of course,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of my head. “That picture has traveled the world with me. I’ve kept it in every home I’ve ever lived in, from my little apartment in Philly to my flat in London. Every time I get to thinking that I don’t deserve my success, that I’m just some punk kid who’s pulling one over on the rest of the world, I just look at this picture. It’s always reminded me that there’s someone in the world who thinks I’m strong, and worthy. Someone who loved me, once.”

  “Loves you,” I whisper, turning to face him, “Not loved. Loves. Present tense.”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the teacher this week,” he murmurs, running his hands down the sides of my body. “What are you doing giving me a grammar lesson?”

  “Oh, I think we both still have plenty to teach each other, Emerson,” I say, taking his scruffy, sculpted face in my hands.

  “You mean it, then?” he asks, grabbing hold of my slender hips. “You...you still...?”

  “I love you, Emerson,” I whisper, letting those blue eyes swallow me whole. “I always have. I always will.”

  “Thank god,” he grins, pulling me to him, “‘Unrequited’ isn’t a good shade on me.”

  “You mean...” I breathe.

  “I love you too, Abby,” he says, “But right now, I need you too much to waste another second talking about it.”

  “Fine by me,” I murmur.

  I throw my arms around Emerson’s shoulders as he brings his lips to mine. He scoops me up into his arms as his powerful jaw works my mouth wide open. I clasp my ankles around his tapered waist, and he bears my weight as if it were nothing. His tongue glides against mine, caressing it, as he spins me around in the air, laying me out flat across his king bed. He lowers his staggering body to mine, encompassing me, subsuming me. I can feel his every muscle ripple as we move together, a tangle of limbs and lust. I bury my fingers in his hair, letting my tongue sweep against his as his hands roam down the length of my body.