by Cat Carmine
I finally drag myself out of my bedroom and into the kitchen. What I really need is a coffee. My eyes are burning, and my legs feel like they belong to someone else, but caffeine should help.
I find Lucy in there, humming while she whisks something in a vintage enamel bowl I didn’t even know we owned.
“Morning,” I mumble as I reach for a mug.
She jumps about six feet. “Emma! I didn’t realize you were here. I assumed you were at the gym.”
Why does everyone feel the need to remind me that I didn’t go to the gym this morning? Or, you know, that I haven’t been once in the last two weeks?
“Didn’t sleep well. Do we have coffee?”
She nods and gestures to the coffee pot on the counter. It’s half full.
“It’s fresh,” she assures me. “But do you even drink coffee?”
“Today I do.” I pour myself a cup and dump in some cream and sugar, also property of Lucy. I lean against the counter and watch as she continues to whisk. “What’s in the bowl?”
“Coconut whipped cream. I’m making waffles. Do you want some?” I nod, and she smiles. “Good. Because I made a lot. You’ll just have to wait while I photograph them first — they’re for the blog.”
“Anything I can do to help? As long as it doesn’t require any actual expertise.” I grin.
“You want to slice some strawberries?”
“That, I can do.”
I set about slicing fresh strawberries while Lucy finishes whipping the cream and starts pouring rich brown batter into the waffle maker — something else I didn’t even know we owned.
“So, Solange called me this morning,” I say while I slice.
“Solange, your publicist?”
“Yeah. It turns out they want me to go on Wake Up New York! To do an interview about the book.”
“What?!” Lucy turns away from her waffles, her face lit up. “That’s amazing! When?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t actually accepted yet.”
She stares at me. “Are you insane? Why wouldn’t you accept?”
I shrug, turning back to the berries. “I don’t know. What if I mess it up?”
“You won’t. Look how well the launch went.”
Oh, yeah, that went super well. I still cringe when I think of the humiliation of reading my anti-casual-sex screed in front of Tyler.
“I guess,” I mumble.
“You’re crazy,” Lucy says. She turns back to her waffles. “You know, most people would kill for an opportunity like that, right? I mean, I would personally kill for it. I assume there are others like me out there.”
I’m instantly filled with guilt. Like me, Lucy works for herself, and her income lives and dies by the success of her food blog. And here I am, complaining about this amazing opportunity that’s landed in my lap.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I’d be dumb to turn it down.” I’m still not sure I’m going to take it, but I should at least quit whining about it.
“Well, I wasn’t going to say it but … yes.” She grins as she flips the waffle maker open. The scent of warm chocolate fills our small kitchen.
“So, what exactly are you making?” I ask, peeking over her shoulder as she slides a perfectly-formed waffle out of the machine and onto a platter.
“Belgian chocolate waffles with cayenne pepper and coconut whipped cream.”
I blink a couple of times, and she laughs. My mouth is already watering.
“You better hurry up and take those pictures,” I tell her, “because otherwise you’re going to get a photo of my fork sneaking onto the plate.”
An hour later, I’m stuffed to the brim with chocolate waffles and more whipped cream than one person should realistically eat in a lifetime. I practically have to roll myself into my bedroom, but Lucy’s waffles were totally worth it.
I find my phone on the bed where I left it and discover I have a text from Tyler.
“Are your legs still shaking?”
I bite back a smile. Despite the abject humiliation of having a couple of teenagers walk in on us, everything up to that point had been beyond amazing. Is it any wonder I feel high on that man?
Of course, Rori’s warning still runs through my head. Tyler’s not husband material. I don’t even know if he’s dating material. Sure, the sex is good — phenomenal, really — but that’s not exactly enough to grow a relationship on. And for someone who’s built a career around telling people how to live their lives right, I can’t quite figure out how I’ve managed to make so many mistakes with him.
I can’t decide how to reply to the text, so instead I do something else I never, ever do — I don’t respond at all.
Instead, I pack my gym bag. Maybe some time on the good old StairMaster will bring me some clarity.
Seventeen
“Right. This looks … fine.” I sigh as I flip through the final draft of the Good Grant Books annual report. It’s not exactly filled with stellar achievements, but since it’s an annual report that covers last year’s activities, there’s not much I can do to make it look more impressive. Not unless I can invent a time machine in the next week, that is.
Diana flips the report closed with a loud sigh as the rest of the executive team looks on in silence.
“It is what it is.” Her lips are pursed. “Many people worked hard on pulling that report together.”
Other than the new self-help line, there’s not much to brag about for last year. A few fantasy series that are way past their prime, cookbooks that ended up being remaindered after a couple of months. The ‘digital’ section of the report includes a few cosmetic upgrades to the company’s website, and sweet fuck else. People might have loved Mr. Dee, my predecessor, but the man was firmly stuck in the eighties when it came to the business world. We don’t even do ebooks, for God’s sake.
A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought I’d even care about the annual report. I wanted to do the bare minimum to keep my father happy, and I would’ve signed off on this report with my eyes closed, just to get it off my desk. But ever since my conversation with my father the other day — when he’d asked me what I was going to do about the fact that the company was losing money — I’ve had this nagging sense of something pushing me forward. A sense of drive. Of purpose. Something I haven’t felt in quite a while.
“I get that,” I try to assure her and everyone else in the room. “And the report itself is fine. Clear, concise, polished. Please make sure your teams all know that I value the work that went into this. But mark my words, next year’s is going to be a hell of a lot more impressive.”
My words seem to surprise her, and to be honest, they kind of surprise me a bit, too. I hadn’t really thought much about being here next year, but now, the idea of producing another report this lackluster is a no-go as far as I’m concerned. And regardless of what the outlooks say, I know the publishing arm could be profitable, with the right direction. For the first time, I feel excited about the possibility of being the man to take it in that direction.
I slide the report back to Diana, and she slips it between two folders, out of sight, maybe so that we can all put it behind us for now.
“Any other updates?” I glance around the rest of the executive team.
We’re in the boardroom, at the second of the weekly all-departments meetings I implemented while I try to get up to speed on everything. And judging by the cautious way everyone has been feeling each other out at these meetings, I’m guessing they haven’t done too many of them in the past.
“Nothing from accounting,” Antonio says.
The head of legal, who sits next to him, shakes her head as well.
“Publicity?” I ask, directing my question to Solange, who’s acting head this week.
“Nothing major. We have an opportunity to get one of our new self-help books featured on Wake Up New York! But unfortunately, I’m still working on convincing our author.”
My ears perk up at the mention of the self-help line.
“W
hich author?” I ask casually, clicking my pen open and closed.
“Emma Holloway. Her book is Miss Emma’s —”
“—Guide to Dating. Yes, I’m familiar with it.”
“Oh, of course, that’s right. You went to the launch.” Solange smiles politely, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Diana raising her eyebrows.
I click the pen thoughtfully again, ignoring her and thinking about Emma. Okay, I mostly try to think about why she wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to do a high-profile television interview. But I’ll admit that a few other less appropriate thoughts might also stroll through my mind. Like the other night at the Kinsmen.
I shift in my seat. “Did she say why she didn’t want to do it?”
“Not really.” Solange twists one long braid around her finger. “Just the usual bit about not wanting to screw up. I’ll keep working on her.”
“Let me talk to her,” I say quickly.
Diana raises her eyebrows further, her eyes narrowing as she watches me click my pen again. I stuff it into my pocket to force myself to stop fidgeting with it, and snap my folio closed. I ignore Diana and her pursed, red lips.
“Right. If no one has any other updates, I think we can consider this meeting adjourned.”
Everyone shuffles out after me, and I head back to my office. My mind is still on Emma, of course, and now I’m considering the fact that she hadn’t texted me back since I saw her the other day. It had only been a couple of days, and I’d told myself she was just busy, but hearing that she’s actually considering turning down the interview makes me wonder if something is wrong. My stomach churns nervously, and I can’t get to my phone fast enough.
I nod quickly at Keagan, then seal myself in my office. I use my desk phone to dial Emma’s number, then curse under my breath when it goes to voicemail.
“Emma, it’s Tyler. I’m calling about official work business, which means you have to call me back. I look forward to hearing your sexy voice. Soon.”
I hang up and wait. And wait. I check the messages on my cell phone, but there’s nothing there, either. I scroll through my texts and see the one I sent my sister the other day. After seeing Emma and her sister joking around with each other at the Kinsmen the other day, I’d realized how much I missed Lacy, so I’d taken Emma’s advice and sent her a text to tell her so. Except she hadn’t answered yet.
What the hell is up with women ignoring me this week?
Just as I’m considering which of them I should text first, my desk phone rings.
I reach for it so fast I fumble the handset and scramble to finally shove it up against my ear.
“Tyler Grant.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and a smile stretches across my face. “Hello, Emma.”
“This better be actual work business.”
“Of course it is.”
I can practically hear the adorable way she’d be pursing her lips.
“Solange told me you were offered a spot on the Wake Up New York! morning show, and you haven’t accepted it yet.”
“Oh. That.” Emma sighs.
“Yeah. That. What’s up?”
She sighs again. “I don’t know. The reading was bad enough. A live television interview is just …” She shudders audibly.
“Well, I happen to think your reading went very well.”
“You would think that.”
“I’m serious, Emma. You were fantastic. And sure, maybe you were nervous, but no one else could tell. You looked like the beautiful, confident woman you are.”
Emma is quiet for a minute. “I wasn’t just nervous; I was completely freaking out.”
I chuckle. “Well, that might have been partly my fault.”
She laughs. “Yes, it was definitely partly your fault. In fact, I’d say it was mostly your fault.”
“I’ll own that. But if you do the show, you won’t have to worry about me. I promise to stay far away and not make you come in the bathroom five minutes beforehand. Unless, of course, you think that would help …”
“You are completely incorrigible,” she laughs.
“Does that mean you’ll do the show?”
She sighs. “I don’t know, Tyler. I need to think about it some more.”
I lean back in my leather chair and think. I hate hearing her sound worried like this. “Let’s go out this weekend,” I say. “Take your mind off things for a bit. Maybe you’ll feel better if you relax a bit.”
“I don’t know…”
My chest tightens. “You don’t know? It’s an easy question, Emma, and spoiler alert — the answer is yes.”
I try to keep my tone light, and thankfully, Emma laughs.
“I don’t know, Tyler. Whenever I spend time with you, I end up humiliated.”
“Hey now, you can’t blame me for all of that. I didn’t force you to show up at my house drunk.”
“Oh, God, don’t remind me. But that’s exactly what I mean. I don’t recognize myself when I’m around you. I feel like a different person.”
I swallow. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly.
I run my hands through my hair. As much I enjoy tormenting Emma and watching her squirm, I never want her to feel bad about it.
“Let’s go away,” I blurt.
“Go away?”
“Just for the weekend. Then you don’t have to worry about who you are or aren’t. Hell, you can be whoever you damn well please.”
“Where would we go?”
My mind races. I haven’t exactly put any thought into planning this. “Catskills? We have a summer home up there, but my mom’s in Milan this week, so no one is using it. It’s a beautiful spot, right on a lake. We can go to dinner, get ice cream, whatever you want. Make it a fun getaway weekend.”
I’m rambling, but I suddenly feel desperate for her to say yes. The thought of an entire weekend away with Emma — with no work, no family, nothing to keep us apart — seems like a fucking dream come true.
“Maybe…” she says slowly.
“Say yes, Emma. Come on. You need this. Give yourself some time away from all the book craziness. Maybe you’ll even feel better about the interview by Monday.”
“I could use a break,” she admits. “I haven’t been on vacation in … God, I don’t even know how long.”
“See? A woman like you deserves some quality bikini time. If you won’t do it for yourself, at least do it for me. You can’t deprive me of a vision like that.”
To my relief, she giggles. “Well, when you put it that way …”
“Is that a yes?”
I can picture her pursing her lips, but then she laughs again. “Yes, I suppose it’s a yes.”
I grin. My heart is racing, but now it’s with elation. “Good. I promise you a weekend you won’t ever forget.”
“That’s kind of what I’m afraid of…” she laments, but I can tell that she’s smiling.
Eighteen
When Tyler’s SUV cruises to a stop in front of my apartment building, my heart gives an involuntary flutter. It stutters again when he climbs out and strides towards me, his broad chest swathed in a casual polo shirt, a pair of jeans hugging his hips in an effortless and completely sexy way.
My heart flutters one more time when he presents me with a huge take-away cup of coffee and a greasy paper bag. I peek inside the bag and find both a breakfast sandwich and what appears to be a chocolate croissant.
“Are you trying to torture me?” I ask, blinking up at him as he grabs the tan leather weekend bag that’s sitting on the sidewalk beside my feet.
“Hey, you’re on vacation this weekend, remember?” He tosses my bag into the backseat. “Besides, I didn’t know which one to get you — and then I remembered someone once told me you’re both spicy and sweet. So I went for both.”
He grins, and my damn heart flutters again. I flash back to the night inside the coat room at the Kinsmen, to the words that had tumbled out of my mou
th in the heat of the moment. In the harsh Saturday morning sunlight, they feel embarrassing and tawdry, but the way Tyler’s looking at me makes me want to say all of that again. And then some.
He holds the car door open for me and then crosses around to the driver’s seat. After he pulls back into traffic, he takes a slow glance over at me.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear jeans before.”
I cross my legs self-consciously. I don’t wear jeans often, and choosing them this morning had felt like the sartorial equivalent of thumbing my nose at all my usual rules and embracing Tyler’s vacation idea. Now, I wish I’d put in the effort of wearing something nicer.
Tyler chuckles. “Emma, relax. I like the jeans. And I’m really going to like slowly peeling them off of you later.”
I bite back a smile. Okay. The jeans can stay.
“Where exactly are we going, anyway?” I ask him.
“Up near Windham. My parents have a summer home there.”
“Wait, isn’t that area known for their skiing?”
“I guess.” He shrugs.
“Yet you have a summer home there.”
“For skiing, we go to Aspen.” He grins. “Besides, it’s a beautiful spot, right on a lake and very private. Perfect for skinny dipping.” He winks.
I snort in laughter until I realize he isn’t kidding. “Nice try.”
“What?” he asks innocently.
“You should know I don’t do skinny-dipping. Have you even met me?”
“Oh, I’ve met you. And I seem to remember there were quite a few other things you claimed you’d never do, but that turned out to be quite enjoyable.” He keeps his eyes on the road, but I don’t mistake the devilish glint in them. “Besides, this weekend is for letting go, remember?”
I pretend to roll my eyes. “Look, let’s not go too crazy here. I’m already wearing jeans, remember?”
He chuckles. “Fine. We’ll table the skinny-dipping. For now.” His hand crosses the space between us and then it’s resting casually, comfortably, on my knee. It’s so easy, so natural, that for a second it takes me aback. I stare down at his hand, at the way his thumb moves back and forth over the fabric of my jeans. I swallow.
