Page 61 of The Emerson Effect
He moves in front of me, and I swallow thickly. I don’t think I’ve been this nervous over being with a guy since my first time.Seven years ago.
“I had a really good time tonight, Twila,” he says, startling me out of my thoughts.
“I did, too,” I say, offering him a timid smile.
He opens his arms in invitation, and I step into them, snuggling against his chest as he hugs me with tight, strong arms. I squeeze him in turn, and he blows out a contented sigh before releasing me and taking a step back.
“Good night,” he says.
“Good night,” I chirp back automatically, despite my confusion.
Leaning in once more, he presses a light kiss to my cheek and whispers, “See you in the morning.”
Then he spins around and walks to his bedroom without a backward glance. I stand, frozen, as I watch him close the door. A second or two later, I snap out of it and walk to my own room, alone. I’m confused. And I also feel a strange mix of disappointment and relief.
I strip out of my boots and dress in a fog, replaying the night in my head. I walk into the bathroom and finish stripping, then spend ten minutes in the shower replaying it again. I’m sure Emerson wanted to kiss me on that dancefloor. I assumed he wanted to take things to the next level when he suggested we leave and come back to the room, but somewhere between there and here, he changed his mind.
Could he sense my nerves? Did he think…? Hell, I don’t know what he was thinking.
Blowing out a groan, I turn off the water, get out, and dry off before pulling on my pajama shorts and a tank top. I moisturize my face and brush my teeth before walking back into the bedroom and collapsing on the bed.
I still don’t know exactly what happened, but that’s a problem for tomorrow. Now, I need to sleep.
I’m fucking exhausted.
THIRTY-FOUR
Emerson
I wake up with the taste of Twila still on my lips. Going to bed alone last night was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it was obvious Twila was kind of freaking out. There was no way I was going to pressure her into anything she wasn’t ready for or even sure she wanted, so I left her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek before heading to my cold, lonely bed.
Pushing those discouraging thoughts away, I roll out of bed and head for the bathroom. After using the toilet, I take a quick shower and brush my teeth. Once I’m dressed in a pair of athletic shorts and a t-shirt, I head into the common area of the suite to see if Twila’s up, yet.
The room is empty, and her door is still closed, so I sit on the couch to check BingBang while I wait. It looks like we were filmed walking through the casino last night by a couple of people, but no one has posted anything from inside the club. I’m relieved, because those kisses we shared weren’t meant for public consumption. They were for us, and us alone.
“Morning,” Twila chirps as she exits her room, dressed in a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. “I’m starving. Want to go to the buffet downstairs for breakfast? They’re supposed to have a gourmet French toast bar on Saturdays.”
“Sure,” I say, pushing to my feet. “That sounds good.”
“Great,” she says, and her smile is a bit too tight. “Let’s go.”
I stare at the back of her head as she leads the way toward the door, my eyes narrowed. She’s avoiding any mention of last night and pretending everything is normal. Does that mean she regrets kissing me? Or is she upset with me for not pulling her into my bed? I’d rather the latter, honestly. I can deal with her upset. I can fix that, no problem.
But regret? That’s another animal, entirely.
At breakfast, Twila moans every time she takes a bite of her French toast, causing a bit of a problem in my pants. These shorts hide nothing, so I just pray the napkin in my lap covers the evidence of her effect on me so I don’t traumatize any of the other diners.
We talk a little bit about the videos posted of us last night and this morning, and Twila says she saw them, too. Again, she doesn’t breathe a word about what happened on that dancefloor last night. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.
Well, that’s too bad.
I can’t pretend that kiss never happened. I can’t act like I don’t want it to happen again when I most definitelydo. That, and so much more.
When we get back to the suite after breakfast, I take her hand and pull her toward the couch, saying, “I need to talk to you about something.”
She doesn’t resist, but she does scoot toward the opposite end of the couch the second we sit down. She looks tense and guarded, like she’s waiting for a bomb to drop, or something.
“I want to talk about what happened last night,” I say slowly. “About the kisses.”
