Page 67 of Playboy Pitcher
Rolling her eyes, Emma opens four drawers before finding a spoon. Opening the jar, she shoves the spoon inside and holds up a glob of peanut butter. “Luckily for you, I’m not company; I’m family.” Popping the spoon in her mouth, she licks it clean, then points it at me like a sword. “Now, stop avoiding my question. Where have you been all night?”
“Out,” I grumble, stomping back into the living room with Emma right on my heels.
“Well, no shit, Sherlock. I’ve beenin, so I pretty much gathered that. Were you with LaCroix? Kind of late for a work meeting, isn’t it?”
“I’m not having this discussion with you.” I spin around to find that damn spoon in my face again.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Will?” she asks. Lines crease her forehead, and my stomach roils.
“I’ve got it under control.” Exhausted and emotionally wrung out, I collapse onto the couch. “Just trust me.”
Emma sits next to me. Dropping the spoon inside the jar, she hugs it to her chest. “I do trust you, Will…with my life. But I also know you better than anyone. You’re not thinking with your brain right now.”
I drop my head back and close my eyes. “Oh, gross, Em, don’t say it.” Especially not after what I just did.
She snorts so loud, I pop one eye open. “Okay, I wasn’t goingthere, but since you brought it up, evenyoucan’t deny Benson LaCroix is hot. It’s not exactly a hardship being his wife.”
“I’m not his wife.”
She smirks. “According to the state of Georgia you are.” Digging in her pocket, she fishes out a piece of paper, unfolds it and then dangles it in front of my face.
My marriage certificate.
Snatching it out of her hands, I look up at her in shock. “Where did you get that?” Shaking my head, I hold up a hand. “You know what? Never mind. I’m too exhausted for this shit.”
“And drunk.”
I open my mouth to argue, when Emma cocks an eyebrow.
You sang karaoke then had sex in a parking lot, dumbass.
I sigh. “Maybe just a little.”
“So,” she says, diving into the peanut butter again while propping her dirty sneakers on what’s probably a five-thousand-dollar glass table from Tiffany’s. “What did you and the ball and chain do tonight?”
I almost lie, but what’s the point? Besides, she probably won’t believe me anyway. “We went to dinner—at a bar. A karaoke bar. Where I, uh…karaoke’ed.”
The spoon flies out of her hand, landing with a clatter onto the marble tile. “I’m sorry, did you say you sang? Out loud? In front of people? On purpose?”
“Gee, thanks for the ego boost.”
“No offense, but it’s just that you won’t even sing in the shower, and LaCroix got you up on a stage?” Her freckled nose wrinkles as a wide grin pulls across her face.
“What’s that look for?”
“You like him,” she says in a sing-songy voice.
“I tolerate him.”
“Whatever you say.”
There’s a marked silence that I don’t like. Emma and I are close, and this tension between us is shifting everything off balance. Clearing my throat, I prop my feet up beside hers.
Fuck Tiffany.
“How did you even find this place?”
She digs into her other pocket, then holds up her phone. “Your overprotective ass enabled the tracker app on my cell. Well, tit for tat, sis. That goes both ways.”
