Page 44 of The Emerson Effect
“No way,” he says, shaking his head. “Most people already assume you’re my secret crush and are shipping us, hard. That’s not going to change just because we confirm it.”
“I hope you’re right,” I murmur.
“I am,” he says, his voice laced with confidence. “I mean, what’s not to love about Twila Greene?”
My lips part on a sharp inhale, and I’m sure my eyes are as wide as saucers. Emerson blinks a couple of times, then rushes on.
“I mean, you never post anything insulting or defamatory. Your videos are all great, and people enjoy watching you. Not to mention you’re gorgeous, sweet, and smart. And fucking funny. You have nothing to worry about. Hell, I should be worrying people will think I’m not good enough for you.”
I laugh at that, but there’s a fluttering in my belly at his compliments that belies my humor. I may be playing it off like his words are no big deal and slightly ridiculous, but deep down, in my bones, Ifeelthem.
And I like them.
He said the words so naturally, so emphatically, I know he meant every one of them. They weren’t empty compliments meant to make me feel better. Emerson just told me how he feels about me, and I’m fucking ecstatic.
I manage to rein in my grin before he sees exactly how much his words affected me. Just because he thinks I’m sweet and pretty and funny doesn’t mean he likes me as more than a friend. Hell, I may not even reachthatdistinction in his mind.
I might just be a sweet, pretty, funny coworker. A collaborator.
“You want to read the comments together?” he asks, and I snap back to the present.
“Yes,” I say, getting up the grab my tablet from the kitchen counter before returning to the couch.
I’m glad he suggested this, because I don’t want to be alone if the trolls show up in force and start insulting me. I could call Joey, and she’d blow off Dallas in a second if I said I needed her, but watching with Emerson via a video chat just feels like the better option.
“People in the comments section of my video are already directing people to your tack. I can practically hear them squeeing,” Emerson says, the excitement in his voice palpable.
“Listen to this,” I say, my sights zeroing in on a comment on my video that’s written in all-caps. “GREENEHOUSE IS REAL, AND I’M HERE FOR IT!”
“GreeneHouse?” Emerson asks, then nods. “I like it.”
“How does she know your last name? I didn’t even know until you told me,” I ask him, and he smiles.
“You obviously don’t follow me on other social media platforms,” he says, shaking his head like he’s disappointed. Then he grins. “We’re going to have to change that now that we’re publicly crushing on each other.”
“I guess so,” I say. “I don’t really use the other sites, but I do have profiles, so I should be following you in case anyone checks. Are you following me?”
“I think so. I’m not sure,” he says slowly, and his smile tells me he’s lying.
Heisfollowing me, and he is sure.
I smile back at him before glancing down at my tablet and spotting a new comment on my video. My breath catches, and Emerson immediately grows serious, asking me what’s wrong.
“A new comment,” I say. “They’re accusing us of being liars and faking this whole thing for attention.”
“Ignore it,” he says firmly. “We knew not everyone would like us together or even believe this is real, and there’s nothing we can do but prove them wrong.”
“But they’re not wrong. Right?” I say in a quiet, shaky voice.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “They can’t prove anything, and most of our viewers believe us and are here for the romance.”
I nod, but guilt hollows out my chest. Weareliars. Wearefaking it. Aren’t we?
Sometimes, lately, I can’t even tell, myself.
TWENTY-FOUR
Emerson
