Page 142 of Summertime Friends

“London?!” My pulse races. Concern and despair wash over my face. He’s not here.

“The owner of a hotel we have been interested in for the past two years called us about purchasing it. He wants to meet to work out a deal. We were excited until he gave us a week’s expiration date. If we don’t come to an agreement by Friday, it’s going on the market, and we will have to battle it out with everyone else.”

“And you couldn’t go?”

“Liam offered.”

“. . . Because of me?”

“Not everything revolves around you States.” He finishes his drink and orders another. “He knows the guy personally. But if this partly concerned you, I wouldn’t blame him.”

“I thought you were TeamEmerson.”

“I am.”

“Sure.” I sigh-laugh-snort. I’m not sure what combination came out of my mouth. “I’m figuring it out,” I tell Cal.

“Are you?”

“Yes, I am—”

“You’ve had three years and an engagement to figure it out, States,” Cal says at the same time.

“Why does everyone keep acting like me, magically believing in love is supposed to be easy?”

“You are also blaming him for something he didn’t do. Letting it set you back. States—”

“Don’t States me, Cal. Be real with me. This isn’t some game to me, and I’m working on it.”

“By avoiding him?”

“I’m not avoiding him! I need space—I need to get out of his stupid gravitational pull for once to overcome this and stop letting it happen.”

“He deserves to feel the same love that he gives you.”

“Yes, I get that. It’s not that I don’t love him. I do. You know what? Forget it. I’m figuring it out, and that’s all that matters. Do you want this champagne?”

I shove the glass toward him and leave.

58

EMERSON

Now

Nothing is better than taking off your heels at the end of the day. I release a deep exhale at the immediate relief when my feet touch the cold floor.

Leaving my camera bag and purse on the counter, I go to my bedroom to change. I thought it would be Liam to take this off me tonight, not me. My arms twist around my back, stretching to reach the zipper. I unzip the back of the dress before untying the bow at the nape of my neck and letting it pool at my feet.

Dressed in my comfiest pajamas—sweats and Liam’s old soccer shirt- I return to the kitchen. Natalie’s letter stares at me from the fridge as I make a cup of nighttime tea.

I’m leaning against the counter, steeping the tea bag in the hot water. Pulling on the tag lightly, the bag moves around in the water. I stare back at the letter, contemplating whether I should finally read it.

Taking a deep breath, I reach for it.

Curling up in my favorite blanket on the couch with the tea, I open her letter.

Emme,

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