Page 95 of The Fake Out

I found her waist and grabbed hold of her, my fingers biting into the fabric of her dress.

“I can handle Jake,” she huffed at me.

“Well aware, Mariposa. But I still have that being a gentleman problem that you put up with so patiently for me.”

A small laugh slipped from her lips.

I stepped around her and loomed over him, forcing him to back out the door. “Bye, Jake.” Once he was over the threshold, I pushed the door closed. Then I spun and took Gianna’s face in my hands, pressing my lips to hers so I could prove to myself that she was still here and still mine.

I pulled her into my body. “You deserve so much better than that idiot.”

“I’ve learned that.” She smiled against my lips. There was a peace in the fact that although she’d been annoyed and possibly exasperated by his appearance, she didn’t seem to care. At all. “And you need to get dressed so we can see some art.”

“Yup.” I pulled back. “Looking forward to it. One of my favorite artists is going to be there,” I joked as I turned and headed down the hall.

“Who is that?” she called from where she was still standing in the entryway.

“You’ll see.” I kept my tone light, but unease swirled in my stomach again, because she might not be smiling later.

“You okay?” I asked as Emerson parked the car in the parking garage under the auction house.

“I’m good,” he assured me, though he didn’t smile. He looked formal in his navy suit and white dress shirt. He’d skipped the tie, but he still looked buttoned-up. Not only were the clothes out of place—though I wouldn’t complain; the man looked good—but the normal lightness that surrounded him was missing.

The man had been tense since Jake had shown up. And there was an edge to his kiss. Lately, every kiss was laced with a hint of goodbye. But I didn’t want to say goodbye.

His strong hands were locked on the wheel, and he oozed competence. There was a security in the certainty with which Emerson moved through the world. Even when he was impulsive, he was confident. Being so close to that strength bolstered me in ways I’d never known existed.

Once he’d helped me out of the car—insisting it was the gentlemanly thing to do—we walked up the ramp to the street. As I reached for the entrance, his hand brushed mine. He simply raised a brow, the look sending sparks through me, and I let him open the door. The way Emerson approached each task made it clear that he didn’t think me less capable than he was. No, he went out of his way for me because he wanted to.

He loved showering people he cared about with physical affection like a hug or a squeeze of the hand. He was touchy. It was still foreign to me, since I’d grown up in a home where hugs weren’t common, despite how loving and supportive Pop was in every other way. But even though it hadn’t been my norm for so long, Emerson’s touch quieted this yearning inside me.

He also showered people with love through his actions. Ways he communicated his feelings without words. And those in particular locked tight in my chest.

I picked up a program and turned, ready to head in, but he grasped my wrist and locked it between his strong fingers. Forcing me to face him.

“Before we go in,” he said with a thick swallow, “I need to tell you something.”

My heart panged in my chest at the anxiety and fear etched into every line on his face. “Okay.”

He sucked in a deep breath, and when he opened his mouth, his words poured out fast. “I probably should have told you before now, but I worried you’d say no. And I want this moment for you. And I know you want it for you too.”

I tipped my head, confused, as my pulse quickened.

“The artist I’m excited to see featured tonight is…” He took a breath. “It’s you.”

My lung seized up as I gaped at him. “What?”

“Your work is on the block tonight.”

Wobbling, I grasped his arm to steady myself. My paintings were here? He released my hand and cupped my upper arms, like he was worried I’d fall over. Or maybe bolt. With a roll of my shoulders, I stepped out of his gasp and flipped through the program.

Page eight. I cleared my throat, but it was no use. My heart had firmly lodged itself there.

There in front of me were three of my paintings. One of Puff. The second was of the stadium. The third, New York City in the snow. Each had a price listed as well. The New York street scene was listed for five hundred dollars, but the one of Puff was four thousand. A burst of air escaped me. Who would pay that?

“How?” I blinked at the page, then up at him.

Guilt emanated from him, in the look on his face, in his eyes. “I gave them to Wren.”

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