Page 55 of The Emerson Effect
“Yuck. Nay,” I say, shivering like someone just walked over my grave.
“Good answer,” he says, grinning widely. “What toppings do you like?”
“I likemeat,” I say, and when his eyes widen a fraction, a chuckle bursts out of me. “Oh, my God, pervert. I meant pepperoni. Bacon. Sausage. On my pizza.”
“I knew that,” he murmurs, his expression relaxing into a warm smile. “I like meat, too. What about mushrooms and peppers?”
“I’ll allow it,” I say. “But no olives.”
“Of course, not,” he says, feigning shock. “Only monsters like olives in any form.”
“Truth,” I say, and he chuckles.
“Okay, what about wings? Buffalo or barbecue?”
“Buffalo. And before you ask, ranch dressing all the way. Blue cheese isblech.”
“Agreed,” he says. “Sauce or dry rub?”
“Both,” I say firmly, and he nods.
“I think we’re going to get along just fine, Twila Greene.”
So do I. I don’t say the words aloud, but I can tell by his grin he knows I agree with him.
We drink our beers and eat bread until the pizza and wings arrive, and the conversation never lags. Talking with Emerson is easy and comfortable, like we’ve known each other for ages. I wonder why that is until it finally hits me. It’shim.
Emerson is just so easygoing and friendly, he makes me feel relaxed and safe. He’s also funny and entertaining. It doesn’t hurt that he’s gorgeous, either. He has no problem holding my attention, and I never feel bored.
We decide to lay low tonight since we’re both a little tired from the drive. We’ll hit the strip tomorrow, and maybe go to a club or a show in the evening. Maybe we’ll be recognized, and someone will post footage of us together. If not, we can film our own footage to post. But tonight, we just want to hang out in our suite and get some rest.
After dinner, we head back upstairs. In the elevator, Emerson holds my hand long after the doors close, leaving us alone. I don’t move, barely even breathe, and a few beats later, he squeezes my hand before releasing it.
The feeling of loss is surprising while somehow simultaneously expected. I didn’t want him to let go. I like the feeling of his palm against mine.
But nobody’s watching, so there’s no reason for him to hold on. Right?
THIRTY
Emerson
I’m having such a great time with Twila, I’m finding it difficult to remember this is all supposed to be fake. She reminded me, though, in the elevator on the way up here when I held her hand longer than necessary. She was stiff and barely breathing, and I imagined her inner conflict. The fight between rescuing her hand from mine and causing unnecessary friction between us by pulling away.
I don’t ever want to give her any reason to feel uncomfortable, so I released her hand despite wanting to hang on a while longer.
“Want to watch a movie?” she asks when we are safely behind the closed door of our suite.
“Yes,” I say, and she smiles at the enthusiasm in my voice.
“Let’s change into our comfies, first,” she suggests, and I nod.
With one last smile, she disappears into her bedroom, sliding the barn-style door closed behind her. I rush into my own room, stripping quickly before pulling on some athletic shorts and a t-shirt. Padding to the bathroom on bare feet, I wash my hands and face, brush my teeth, and spritz on some cologne.
Okay. Once again, the cologne is overkill. Shoot me.
But I want to smell good for Twila.
When I get back out into the common area, Twila’s not there and her bedroom door is still closed. I head straight for the mini bar and find a bag of microwave popcorn. Tossing it into the microwave to pop, I find some sodas in the tiny refrigerator and take them to the coffee table in the living room area. I turn on the T.V. and log into my favorite streaming service before heading back to the kitchenette to retrieve the popcorn. Just as I open the steaming bag, Twila emerges.
