Page 58 of The Emerson Effect
“It’ll be fun,” I say brightly. “Should we get ready? I’m kind of starving.”
“Me, too,” he says, visibly relaxing.
“See you in a few,” I call out as I turn, then hurry back to my bedroom, closing myself inside.
Moving to the bed, I plop down with a sigh. I really need to get myself together. This romance, relationship, or whatever you want to call it isfake. It’s not real, and I cannot allow myself to develop real feelings.
Yeah. Too late for that.
“Fuck,” I whisper and push myself up off the bed.
Grabbing the lavender dress I brought from where I hung it in the closet, I drop it to the bed and strip off the comfy clothes I threw on after my shower earlier. I strap the girls into my fanciest push-up bra, pull on the matching underwear, then head into the bathroom to style my hair and apply some makeup. The dress is short and snug, but has a mock-turtleneck and long sleeves, so I’ll be waiting until the last minute to pull it on so I don’t sweat through it while I’m getting ready.
I stare at my reflection for several beats without moving. I really like Emerson, and my feelings aren’t as “friendly” as they’re supposed to be. I’ve accepted that. Now, I just need to figure out how to lock those feelings down before he realizes it.
I don’t know which would be worse––his rejection, itself, or the pity I’m sure would be in his eyes as he gives it.
No. I have to get this under control. I have to be okay with being friends.
And I have topretendI’m faking it with Emerson without letting my budding feelings rise to the surface.
Giving my reflection a firm nod, I steel my spine and pull my long hair up into a messy bun at my nape, leaving a few loose tendrils in the front to frame my face. I take my time painting on eyeliner and shadow, giving myself a smoky eye that makes my bluish-green orbs pop. After applying some mascara, a little cream blush, and a layer of pink gloss, I’m happy with the effect.
I walk back to the bed and carefully put on the dress before pulling on a pair of knee-high boots. Then, I go back into the bathroom to give myself one more perusal. I look good. If anyone tries to take pictures or videos of us, I’ll be ready.
At least, as ready as any woman who’s definitely falling for her fake boyfriend can be.
Yeah.
I’m ready.
THIRTY-TWO
Emerson
I can’t stop staring. At least, I can’t when she’s not looking. As soon as she turns my way, I whip my gaze away from her like a teenager staring at his first crush.
Twila Greene is gorgeous.
I mean, I already knew that, of course. But tonight? Tonight, she’s a burning star, and I’m just a lowly planet orbiting her without getting too close, lest I be incinerated.
It’s a horrendous battle, meeting her gaze as we chat over a dinner of steaks and baked potatoes while fighting to keep my expression neutral and friendly.
Because we’re friends. Of course, we are.
But every minute I spend with her makes me like her more. In a distinctlyun-friend-like way. She’s so fucking sweet. Smart as a whip. Funny as hell. And, God,sokind.
It feels like a betrayal of trust, lusting after her like this when she believes in me enough to be here, just the two of us, in order to fool all of BingBang. I’ve got to get this under control.
“You okay?”
Twila’s question jerks me out of my self-flagellating thoughts, and the word, “What?” barks out of me a lot harsher than I’d like. I clear my throat and offer her an apologetic smile, asking in a softer tone, “What?”
“I asked if you’re okay,” she says, her eyes narrowing with concern. “You were off in la-la land there for a minute.”
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I guess I just zoned out for a sec. How’s your food?”
“It’s good,” she says, still watching me like she has the magical power to pick through my thoughts and figure out exactly what had me so spaced out. “You sure you’re okay?”
