Page 24 of Summertime Friends

“So—you got a name, States?”

“Emerson. I’m Emerson Clarke.”

12

LIAM

Six Summers Ago

She didn’t show for dinner.

I found myself quite disappointed in the fact. Not that I should have expected her to show. She warned me, but a guy can dream, right?

That’s what she feels like—a dream.

I never thought I’d see her again in a city of three million people and tourists. Ever since yesterday, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head.

But then I saw her today, again.

Hours ago, laying in the sun on a stone wall overlooking the city and ocean. Her head propped up on a bag, a book in her hands. I’d never seen someone look that serene and equally alluring at the same time.

The way her chocolate hair fell behind her, waves flowing out on the stone. Even from where I was sitting, I could tell she wasn’t wearing any makeup, not that she needs it, anyway.

I sat on the bench, a novel in hand, reading her between sentences. A pestering itch to know her, to be close to her. She looked over at me, a hauntingly angelic smile on her face, and damn if that didn’t do something to me. My veins singe at the memory of her smile.

Who smiles that big while reading? She does.

It fell away as she drew her mouth into a straight line and told me to take a picture.

If she only knew the amount of mental pictures I took. I’d be seeing her in all my favorite dreams now.

And maybe those dreams might come true tonight.

Her eyelids flutter. Emerson does her best not to show any other emotion except for leave-me-the-fuck-alone.

Whatever gloss she painted on tonight is reflecting in the light, drawing my eyes to her lips. Her tongue darts out of her mouth, wetting her lower lip. It makes them shimmer even more, and my blood rushes lower, turned on by everything that wicked tongue could do.

It doesn’t take long for one drink to become three, then four. Each drink loosening her walls.

Emerson is like an iceberg; what you see isn’t everything. What you should be afraid of is under the surface, just as the depths of her are more dangerous than this icy front she’s putting on.

I don’t know why. . . someday, I plan to ask, but tonight, I count myself lucky that she’s even showing it to me.

A comfort between us settles in quickly, and I fret that with one wrong move, it will be redacted as quickly.

There isn’t an arrogance to her like some beautiful women. Don’t get me wrong—Emerson is a sass, but in a funny, protective, captivating way that makes me want more of it. Every time she talks, I’m captivated by what she says and how she says it. Her lips move with such precision that I wonder what they’d be like on me.

I watch Emerson intently. I can’t take my eyes off her. Lost in a daydream of everything I want to do with her, but also simply lost in this moment with her.

I wonder if Emerson realizes how amazing she is.

In the time we’ve been talking, the bar has slowly transformed into more of a club. The center of the room has become a dance floor, lights are dimming, tables have all moved to the outskirts, and a DJ is now located in a corner booth.

“I think the two guys behind you are trying to get your attention,” Emerson says, gesturing over my shoulder.

Behind me, George and Callum are on the dance floor with girls in their arms. George points at me. Or is he pointing at Emerson?Definitely her. He raises his eyebrows toward the both of us and then turns his finger to beckon us to join them on the dance floor.

“Oh.” I turn back to her. “Those are my friends. They want us to join them out there, but we don’t have—”

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