Page 39 of The Emerson Effect
“I live in Long Beach,” he says. “I rent a house with three roommates––Ritchie, Stone and Mason. Stone and Mason are identical twins.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Twins, huh?”
“Don’t go getting any ideas. You’re mine,” he says.
He’s obviously teasing. There’s laughter in his voice, and his eyes are sparkling with humor. But that doesn’t stop my skin from prickling and my breath from catching at the possessive words.
“I, uh. Live in Grenville,” I say quickly. “It’s in North County, about forty-five minutes north of San Diego.”
“I’ve driven through there before,” he says. “Do you have roommates?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I bought my house when the product collaborations became lucrative.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and I try not to flinch. I’m a proud homeowner, but I don’t want Emerson to think I’m boasting or have some sort of superiority complex. He asked, and it’s the truth.
“That’s impressive,” he says after a short whistle.
He seems genuinely impressed without any jealous or bitter undertones, and my shoulders relax. “Want a tour?”
“Absolutely.”
I turn my camera to forward facing and take him on a quick tour of the house. He makes comments here and there about the furniture he likes, the size of the rooms, and the décor. When I head outside, he murmurs something unintelligible.
I flip the camera back around and shoot him a questioning look. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, shrugging slightly. “It’s just kind of like returning to the scene of the crime.”
“The scene of the crime?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “You jumped into that pool. My roommate commandeered my duo of the video, you got drunk and lashed out, and here we are. I guess I kind of have a soft spot for your backyard, now.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so. When you finally come over, we’ll have to recreate it. But this time, you’ll jump in, and I’ll be the one getting overly wet.”
His eyes flare before he catches himself, and the unintentional innuendo in my words hits me. My cheeks heat, and one corner of his mouth quirks up, revealing that adorable dimple.
“Shut up,” I say with a laugh. “You know what I meant.”
He chuckles, and thankfully, changes the subject. “Okay, my turn. But my rental isn’t as nice as your house, so temper your expectations.”
He takes me on a quick tour of the downstairs, and while his place doesn’t have all the upgraded features mine has, it’s a nice home. Upstairs, he explains the layout behind closed doors. Ritchie has one of the two main bedrooms with an en suite bathroom, and the twins share a Jack-and-Jill bathroom between their two rooms.
Emerson walks into his bedroom, and, despite not knowing he’d be showing it to me, it’s neat and tidy. After showing me his equally organized bathroom, he flips his camera so I can see his face again.
“That’s pretty much it. We don’t have much more than a small patio with a fire pit out back, but it’s not so bad. We only have to mow the front yard.”
“It’s a nice house,” I say.
“Not as nice as yours,” he counters.
“When did it become a competition?” I ask, arching a single brow.
“Okay, fine,” he says with a playful roll of his eyes. “We both have nice homes.”
I smile, ignoring the twinge of guilt I feel in the pit of my stomach. I was so angry at him for tacking and duoing my videos for his own gain, and all the while, I was living in my own home…swimming in my own pool…while he has to rent a house that has no backyard with three roommates just to make ends meet.
“Twila?”
“What?’ I ask, snapping out of my self-flagellating thoughts.
