Page 81 of The Emerson Effect
I pretend it’s all very interesting while my brain screams that it’s not weird for me to kiss her. She’s my wife. Well, technically speaking, that is. For now.
And I hate how that tiny display of affection made Twila react. I hate it with the power of a thousand suns.
But I smile and pretend to be happy because, apparently, that’s what we’re doing now.
When we get back on the road, I turn up the radio and grin when Twila sings along. She might be trying to pretend there’s nothing between us but our deal and some great sex, but I can’t do it anymore.
She delights me in every way. I’m done fighting it.Done.
I’m in love with my wife, and I’m over trying to hide it. If she doesn’t love me back, so be it.
But if there’s a chance she does, and she wants to try to make this work, I have to take it. I have to let her know I want the same thing. But I have to move slowly. I don’t want to scare her away.
So, for the rest of the drive, I keep my hands to myself and sing along with her, which makes her deliriously happy. And that, my friends, is the key.
I’ll make Twila Greene-House so incredibly happy, she’ll have no choice but to keep me. Forever.
FORTY-SEVEN
Twila
When we arrived at Emerson’s last night, his roommates were gone. Emerson gave me a tour of the place, and it looks exactly as it did in the video tour he gave me a few weeks ago. It was clean and tidy, a bit surprising for a bachelor pad. We had an easy dinner of sandwiches and chips before retiring for the evening to his bedroom.
I turn my head to look at him, and he’s sleeping peacefully. When we climbed into bed last night, he pulled me into the spooning position, kissed the back of my head, and said “Good night, Twila.”
I’d never admit it out loud, but I was a bit disappointed. He didn’t try to start anything sexual, and his actions put the kibosh on me trying to instigate it. I guess he was tired, or something.
I didn’t hear his roommates arrive home before I fell asleep around midnight, so I assume they’re still in bed this early in the morning. Moving carefully so as not to jostle the bed, I climb out and sneak downstairs in my pajamas. I need some caffeine.
The scent of fresh coffee curls into my nostrils as I pad barefoot into the kitchen. Before I can twirl around for a hasty retreat, a deep voice calls out, “Well, hello there.”
I freeze mid-turn, then exhale slowly as I spin to face the owner of that baritone voice. My eyes widen as they land on all six-feet-plus of him, looking sleepy and mussed in a black t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants. His blond hair is standing up at weird angles, and his chocolate brown eyes are soft and welcoming.
“Hi,” I squeak, then clear my throat, trying again. “Hi, I’m Twila.”
The Adonis nods, saying, “I recognize you from BingBang. I’m Stone.”
Ah, one of the twins. I stiffen at the thought.Oh, Jesus. There are two of him?
I haven’t even finished considering the possibility when the man, himself, joins us. Shirtless and stretching like a tiger, a carbon copy of Stone walks in, pausing when he sees me.
“Mason, Twila. Twila, Mason,” Stone says as he holds out a steaming mug in my direction.
I look back and forth between them for three, maybe four, seconds, my head on a swivel and my eyes wide. They both stare back at me, their right eyebrows arched in the most identical of ways.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, shaking my head.
Four eyes narrow immediately, and I find myself apologizing. I take the cup Stone is still holding out for me, and I try to gather my wits as I head for the fridge to grab the bottle of vanilla creamer I saw in there last night. When I look back at the twins, they’re still frowning.
I’m confused for a beat, and then, it hits me. They’re not happy about my reaction to their combined appearance. I study them both as I take a sip of my coffee. They’re definitely inprotective mode, and the only person they can be protecting is Emerson.
Fake or not, hiswifeshouldn’t be checking them out.
Not that I am. Not really. My reaction was pure shock at their general attractiveness. Hell, just because I’m not ordering doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu. And besides, as gorgeous as they are, they still have nothing on Emerson.
“Emer––” I start, but the word cuts off when their other roommate––this must be Ritchie––walks into the kitchen.
Jesus.He’s tall, too, but where the twins are light, he’s dark. Brown hair curls around his head like a halo and dark blue eyes study me from behind black-rimmed glasses.
