Dear Elliot

by P. Stormcrow

Emma stopped and stared, cornflower orbs registering shock. “You don’t remember,” she whispered.

  “No.” Elliot tried one more step closer and when she didn’t move back again, he tried a weak smile. “I’m a terrible drunk, aren’t I?”

  She paused for a moment, then threw a punch at his chest. The impact caught him by surprise more than it hurt until a dull ache permeated through his muscles. She had a mean right hook.

  “Yes.”

  Another punch. He let it land, even though the first one hurt way more than he’d expected.

  “You. Are.”

  One more. But before it landed, he caught her wrist.

  How wrong would it be to kiss her right there and then? How could someone that angry be that beautiful? Instead, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight.

  Elliot would have let go if she’d resisted, but she surprised him yet again by hugging back, clinging to him as tightly as he did her. He cradled the back of her head with one hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  Emma leaned back but didn’t pull away enough to leave his embrace. “No more booze.”

  The thought itself almost sent Elliot into an anxiety attack. “I’m sorry, luv. I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s been my best coping mechanism to date.”

  She studied him with scrutiny, enough for him to shift side to side. “What happened?”

  Part of him wanted to tell her, but Elliot shook his head. “It’s not something I’m ready to talk about yet.”

  When she kept her steady gaze on him, he rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine. I won’t get pissed drunk again.”

  Emma shook her head, but a ghost of a smile played over her lips, and Elliot’s spirits lifted. Maybe that was why he had run away as a teenager, because no one should have that much power over him, even at a distance.

  “I need to go.” Emma left his arms, and he felt all the colder for it.

  Elliot glanced at the clock hanging on one of the kitchen walls. Fuck. How the bloody hell does she function this early in the morning? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had to make things right again. “When is the operation?”

  “Not sure yet. They are letting me talk to mom this morning first, though.”

  “And have you eaten?”

  Emma glanced at her messenger bag sitting on the counter. “I was going to eat once I got to the hospital.”

  “Okay, then sit.” Elliot grabbed the plate of peanut butter toast and pulled out one of the chairs by the counter.

  “But—”

  “You can spare fifteen minutes.” Elliot pointed. “Eat while I go shower and get dressed. I’ll go with you.”

  Emma sat with confusion still clouding her face. “But you just said you don’t like hospitals.”

  “Absolutely detest them. But you shouldn’t be alone for something like this.” And when she still stared at him with skepticism, he gave her a rueful smile. “Think of it as penance.” He turned to leave the kitchen.

  “What about your breakfast?”

  “I’m not the one who needs to talk to Anna and the doctors. I’ll grab something at the coffee shop there,” he called out. “Oh, and Holly brought you soup. Heat that up and eat it. I want to see you’ve put substantial food in your system when I come back.” Because the likelihood of her eating lunch was pretty minimal.

  Elliot kept up a brave face until he got away from her eyesight. He trembled as he struggled with large heaving breaths.

  No. I can do this. I have to do this.

  Man up.

  Elliot stumbled upstairs into his room and entered the en suite bathroom. This time, he turned the water in the shower stall to almost scalding before he stripped and entered.

  He sighed, letting the water help ease his headache, but he didn’t spend as long as he’d have liked. After shutting off the faucet, he toweled off and threw on random clothes before he donned his leather jacket. It was the hospital, not a club. He cringed at the last thought. Maybe no more clubs for a while.

  Not guessing how long he would be at the hospital with her, Elliot grabbed his own bag, threw in his notebooks and his lightweight laptop and slung it over his shoulders. On a whim, he grabbed the printed manuscript of his latest draft, riddled with red marks from edits, and shoved that in. Prepared at last, he straightened his clothes and readied to leave. But as he passed by the large mirror in the closet on his way to grab his leather jacket, he paused and checked himself.

  Did Emma find him attractive? Did she like his style? The image of her with the large football player flashed across his mind, but he shook his head to dismiss it. Damn it. Maybe I’m not her type anymore.

  Why would I want to be her type? Not a good idea, El.

  A loud knock drew his attention, but before he could respond, Emma shouted through the door. “Are you done prettying yourself yet?”

  Elliot chuckled under his breath and crossed the room to open the door. “Have you finished eating?”

  “Yes.” Emma sounded more exasperated than upset. He could work with that.

  “And the soup?” he prompted

  Emma hesitated. “I had half a bowl.” At his raised brow, she groaned. “It’s six a.m.! I can’t eat that much this early in the morning.”

  “Oh, I see.” Elliot placed a hand on the top of her head. “Fine, let’s go.”

  “Hey!” Emma protested and grabbed his hand. But as their fingertips brushed, Emma’s cheeks heated to a lovely shade of red again.

  Compelled by the desire to push further, Elliot leaned forward without thinking and kissed the top of her head where his hand had been. There was a faint scent of cherry blossoms, the silkiness of her hair, the way she stiffened then relaxed. More.

  Emma tilted her head back to study him, wide-eyed in surprise, her lips parted. Those very kissable lips drew all his attention.

  “El?”

  His nickname whispered in a mix of wonder and uncertainty did it for him. He leaned in and watched her eyes flutter close before he closed his and pressed a kiss on the corner of her mouth. She tasted faintly of peanut butter, and when he eased back, he couldn’t help but smirk. She had listened to him.

  “El?” That voice of confusion and hesitance.

  Elliot stroked her hair. Later he would regret it, but for now he wanted just this moment, even if he was being selfish.

  Out of nowhere, Emma slapped him in the chest. “You jerk. This is the last thing I need right now.” She shook her head clear, turned away then stalked off.

  He stood there stunned at the quick switch in mood.

  Emma paused, stopping just before she walked too far out of sight and threw a glance over her shoulders “Well, are you coming?”

  Elliot laughed under his breath. “Yeah.”

  They made their way to the garage and Elliot eyed the old Beetle. He did not relish another ride cramped into that small car. “I think I’ll take the bike.”

  “Sure. Catch.” Emma made certain she had his attention before she chucked something toward him.

  He caught it and stared. A bottle of aspirin. Was his hangover that obvious? A knot in him unwound. “Thanks.”

  Emma only nodded, offered him a brief smile and got into her car.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dear Elliot,

  What was that? You need to stop messing with my head. How am I supposed to know whether you’re coming or going with the way you act? It was hard enough getting over you the first time. Stupid teenage hormones. But just because I’m past puberty, it’s not any easier. How am I supposed to do it this time?

  With love,

  Emma

  Emma stared at the text from Corey, uncertain whether to reply. He was only checking on her…as a friend. Or that’s what she kept telling herself. At last, she typed her reply.

  Elliot apologized. I’m okay. Mom’s in surgery right now.

  It only took thirty seconds after sending the text for one to come back.

  That’s good. Let me know if I can help. Goo
d luck.

  She should reply with something, but she didn’t have it in her. Instead, she paced along the hall in front of the operating room while Elliot sat on the bench. Aware of his gaze following her, she worried her lower lip then stopped and stood in front of him, hands on her hips. “Don’t you have to go get coffee or something?”

  Elliot tilted his head back. “For you?” There was that teasing smile again, but Emma ignored it as she glanced at the doors, wondering just how her mom was doing. She had been in there for over an hour now.

  “How is the suitor?” Elliot asked instead.

  Emma whipped around, pausing her in pacing. “What? Corey?” Suitor. Who even uses that word in this day and age?

  He nodded. “Weren’t you texting him?”

  “How did you know?” She stared at him, at her phone, then at him again.

  He shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

  Emma’s glance returned on her phone as she held it up “Corey and I are just friends.” She wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to explain. It wouldn’t matter to Elliot whether she had a boyfriend. And now was not the time to even think about her own relationship, not with Mom’s life on the line. She walked over to the door and placed one hand on it.

  “Emma.”

  “What?” She snapped her head back to glare at him, irritated that he had interrupted her worrying. But she stopped as he held a pile of paper out to her. When she hesitated, he held it a little higher toward her.

  “What’s this?” Emma took the papers, skepticism giving the last word a higher pitch than she’d intended.

  “I presumed you read Worlds Beyond,” Elliot lowered his gaze to the top of the first page.

  “Yeah and…?” Right. She had lent him her other E.A. Jones book. She followed his gaze and her heart stopped.

  Worlds Apart.

  Wait! What?

  “I figured you might want to read the next book, even if it’s still rough.”

  The next book. It wasn’t supposed to be released until the September. “How did you get…?”

  Elliot leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, another smirk on his lips. “It’s easy to get it when you’re the writer.”

  E.A. Jones. E stood for Elliot. What…? Emma’s brain came to a screeching halt as she stared at him, gaping.

  “You’re E.A. Jones,” she whispered, still in disbelief.

  “Elliot Avery Jones. Yes.” Laughter danced in those emerald depths.

  “Then Jones…” That was her last name!

  He had the grace now to redden and looked away while clearing his throat.

  “You stole my last name!” Emma shrieked and took one step closer to hit him with one hand while the other clutched the manuscript tighter

  “Hey, hey.” Elliot stood and caught her wrist. “Everyone’s watching,” he murmured, and she froze, sweeping her gaze across the room. Several nurses and some visitors had stopped. At least two patients had poked their head through their doors.

  Fuck. Emma clamped her mouth shut and glared at him. “We are going to discuss this later,” she said through gritted teeth.

  He grinned at her and pinched the stack of papers between his thumb and forefinger. “Should I take this back then?”

  “No!” Emma twisted, the motion yanking the papers out from his fingers while also wrenching her hand from his grip. “Don’t you dare.” Torn between anger at appropriating her last name for his pen name without permission, confused by the implications of him doing so and thrilled by the fact that he was the author who had written some of the books she liked the most, she spun around until her back faced him in order to buy herself more time to achieve composure. And in her arms was the precious manuscript of the next book of her favorite series.

  Elliot Avery Jones.

  He took my last name. Only married people take last names.

  Heat crawled up her neck and reached her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied flaming red in the reflection of the chrome bar lining the wall.

  Behind her, the door squeaked open and her heart leaped to her throat. She spared a split second to realize and appreciate that Elliot had kept her distracted with the revelation. Should I be thanking him or berating him? Maybe I should kiss him. That would show him.

  The thought tempted her much more than it should, even if it was inappropriate for the situation at hand.

  Emma hurried to the doctor and air whooshed out of her lungs at the happy and relieved expression on her face.

  “The surgery was a success,” Dr. Gupta declared.

  Elliot came up from behind, silent but with a hand on the small of her back. Emma should have protested, but the doctor’s words occupied her attention and his touch steadied her more than she expected.

  Dr. Gupta’s eyes flickered over to Elliot, but when Emma nodded for her to continue, she spoke again. “We’ve removed the masses. Mrs. Jones will need to stay for a few days to ensure optimal recovery.”

  Emma cleared her throat as waves of joy washed over her. “Thank you, Dr. Gupta.”

  She bobbed her head and patted Emma’s arm. “She’ll be in room thirty-four-B on the fourth floor. I’ll check on her again later this afternoon when I do my rounds.” With a brief smile at both of them, she hurried off.

  “She’s okay,” Emma whispered, then cocked her head back to glance at Elliot. “She’s okay.” It came out with a little broken sob.

  “Come here.” Elliot turned her around and enfolded her in his arms. He held her to him, stroking her hair while she sucked in deep breaths of air.

  She’s safe. She’s okay. She can beat this.

  Another fresh bout of tears sprang forth and her shoulders shook.

  Stop crying. You are leaving wet spots on his shirt.

  It took three more tries before she could get her emotions under control. Emma pulled back as Elliot smiled down at her.

  “Don’t get my manuscript wet now. I still need to type up my edits for my editor.” But his tone remained soft.

  Emma chuckled and hiccupped, wiping her face roughly with the heel of her palm.

  “Hey.” Elliot took her hand and tugged it away from her face before he wiped her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Gentle.”

  She swallowed, her breathing growing shorter for an entirely different reason, and shook her head. “Let’s go see Mom.”

  * * * *

  It was one a.m. when Emma stumbled out of her room at the sound of glass shattering as it hit the floor. With a baseball bat in hand, dressed in a light robe over a T-shirt dress, she inched along the hall toward the direction of the sound, her heart pounding with the fear of an intruder—only she stopped short at the doorway of the bar.

  Elliot cursed as he picked his way around the glass, muttering to himself. On closer inspection, a Scotch glass lay on the floor, scattered into tiny glittering pieces. No liquid though, at least.

  “Don’t move.” Emma’s voice rang out with authority. She abandoned the bat and ran to the mud room to pull on her combat boots, then to the kitchen for a garbage bag, the broom and dustpan. When she returned, she growled to see Elliot still moving.

  “Hey,” she barked out, and this time Elliot froze.

  Satisfied, she began to sweep up the larger pieces. Aware of Elliot watching her every move, she worked as fast as she could until she couldn’t stand it anymore. “What?” She snapped, irritated. All she wanted to do was sleep. She didn’t have the energy for another sparring session with him.

  “Nothing.”

  Her gaze fell on his trembling hands, and realization hit her. “Rough night?”

  “No, I just like drinking in the wee hours of the morning. It’s a writer’s thing.”

  The haunted eyes told her otherwise. Emma ignored his reply. “Was it the hospital trip?”

  Elliot looked as though he wanted to make another joke but nodded at last.

  “Just let me clean up this mess.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Elliot attempted a sm
ile, but it came out weak.

  There were a hundred things she could say to that ironic comment, but Emma focused on cleaning the glass instead then bringing the vacuum in to suck up the smaller shards.

  Elliot deserved a pass. How many times had she caught him shivering through the day? Taking deep breaths? That faraway look of pain and horror? He hadn’t needed to be there, didn’t need to be triggering himself, but he had and managed it somehow, too. She owed him for that.

  “There. It’s safe now,” Emma declared at last.

  “Thank you.” Elliot returned to the bar and sought a new glass.

  Emma watched him and let out a long sigh. “Here.” She joined him and rummaged until she pulled out several bottles.

  “What are you doing?”

  She grinned at him. “Want to help me invent the next Emma’s Special?”

  He laughed. “Sure.”

  “Good. Take a seat. You can be my taste tester.”

  The cherry blossoms outside were in full bloom, and a sudden flash of inspiration spurred Emma into action. Tequila, grenadine and grapefruit juice went into the shaker. She added a splash of orange juice as well to bring back a bit of sweetness—and instead of lime juice, used yuzu citrus juice instead to bring a Japanese feel to the drink. Salt the rim of the glass already full of ice. Shake. Pour. Add a twist of yuzu citrus.

  “Beautiful.”

  She looked up as she pushed the modern glass toward Elliot and her breath caught. He kept his eyes on her rather than the drink, and she was no longer sure if he referred to the drink or her.

  It didn’t help that instead of taking a sip, he held the glass up to her. “You first. After all, you made it.”

  She parted her lips and let him tip the contents in, her cheeks hot as the sweet mingling with the salt led to a slight burn. But his gesture had distracted her too much for her to focus on the flavor profile, mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze.

  “How is it?” Elliot asked, as if oblivious to the effect he had on her.

  “Oh. Um.” Emma took another sip before she drew back and licked her lips. “Needs more tequila—and less orange juice.”