Page 37 of The Bloodfeather Promise
I never told her about the night Lacey showed up at my house and Emerson has not mentioned it. I imagine Lacey decided her embarrassment over the rejection should remain private. When I’ve gone into the bookstore, she is politely distant and I treat her the same way. Luann and Lloyd on the other hand, are warmly welcoming, peppering me with questions the way grandparents might with their own grandchildren. The older couple means well; their adoration for Emerson is a guarantee they will be curious about any man dating her.
Luann and Lloyd are sitting four or five groups of people away from us and their reaction to seeing us out together is as endearing as it is comical. Lloyd gives me an audacious wink of encouragement while Luann beams at us, pressing a hand to her chest every time one of us catches her eye. I know they like me. They think I’m a good guy.
I wonder if it’s true.
Others at the play cast us glances from time to time, but I’m wearing blinders. I spend the entire evening staring at Emerson, awed by her loveliness and slightly stunned by something I’d not experienced in a very long time. There I am, in the middle of a crowd, and not one single person really cares Greyson Finch is within arm’s reach. No one begs for an autograph, a photo, a hug, a handshake, and for once, I love the absent spotlight.
The best part of the evening comes when the play is over. Bringing the folded halves of the blanket together, our hands mesh, fingers entwining. Only the cool cotton separates our palms. With our foreheads nearly touching, my mouth is so achingly close to hers, I could swipe her bottom lip with my tongue. I breathe her in and simply wait. Wait for Emerson to lift her chin and give me the kiss I need like the air in my lungs.
She almost does… her breathing is shaky, her lips trembling while she gazes up at me. Stepping closer… and closer… leaning toward me until the edge of the blanket stretches so tightly between us becomes a barrier. One I could easily storm.
A group of ten-year-olds streak past, shattering the moment. In the firefly lit twilight, an impromptu game of freeze tag had begun. The boys chase the girls, sending them into shrieking gales of laughter as they nimbly evade capture. With the activity around us, Emerson steps back, giving a rueful shake of her head.
Untangling our fingers with haste, she folds the blanket without my help. Hiding my disappointment, I gather up the picnic basket, the empty wine bottle, and spent the next half hour cursing my hesitation in kissing her.
It was the only time she allowed me to get so close, other than the dance we shared. It’s been tempting to force her into even a small hint of intimacy. I’ve bided my time, and damn if I haven’t enjoyed it. But still, Emerson knows I want her… there is no doubt about it. What she doesn’t know is how shocked how I am that I could enjoy the last two months so damned much when sex was never an option.
Not knowing where I stand with her is part of the attraction, I think. This one won’t jump into my bed just because I want her there. I’m having to work for this, for her trust. Over the past two months, the glimmer of respect for her resistance to my advances slowly grew from a flicker to a full-fledged forest fire. Maybe she senses this change within me because, quite unexpectedly, Emerson agrees to dinner at my house.
She is coming to Lullaby Tides.
The romantic implication of this date has my heart pounding.
* * *
This is so unlike me.
The afternoon of Emerson’s arrival, I am an absolute wreck.
I’ve probably checked on dinner five hundred times. The delicate grouper entrée must maintain the correct temperature. I’ve checked the wine more often than that, refilling the ice bucket twice. I don’t want the Batard-Montrachet to be anything less than perfectly chilled. At five hundred dollars a bottle, it’s a goddamn waste if the ice melts.
The head chef from The Shayla just left, with the promise of returning in the morning to pick everything up from the dinner arranged on the terrace. He’ll also prepare a gourmet breakfast fit for a king when he comes back.
If things go as planned, Emerson will be here, eating that breakfast with me.
She’ll be warm and sleepy in my bed when I roll her over. I’ll let her know the chocolate croissants and French-pressed coffee is ready. Does she like her eggs over easy or scrambled? Or would she rather have Eggs Benedict with fresh lump crabmeat and béarnaise sauce? Does she prefer her applewood bacon crispy or soft? What’s her preference for fruit? I’ll have anything she wants made available, no matter the expense.
Of course, it goes without saying I’ll make love to her again before allowing her out of my bed. I won’t be satisfied by one night of lovemaking with Emerson. My plan is we’ll spend every night together until I leave Sea Cove.
The buzzer for the gate sounds, jarring me out of my pleasant daydreams. I nearly break out in a cold sweat.
Jesus, Grey. Pull your shit together.
Pushing the button that allows the gates to swing open, I watch as she pulls around the cobblestone circular drive. I motion that she can park in front of the triple-tiered, stone fountain bubbling in the center of the flagstones. I half-thought she’d drive her little golf cart, but no, she’s in a white Tahoe. It’s an older model and looks entirely too big for her.
I exit the front door, trotting down the stone steps as Emerson slides out of the SUV. When she turns to retrieve something from the passenger seat, my feet suddenly stick to the cobblestones as though they are coated in superglue. The inside of my cheek is practically bitten to a pulp as she stretches from the driver’s side and across the console in an effort to reach the item. The movement puts her backside to me, and that sweet little ass of hers is temptingly displayed in an impossibly snug pair of black capri pants. One foot kicks up as she leans over even further. The strappy, rose gold sandals have enough of a heel to make her legs appear a mile long. Fluttering in a soft cloud of silk, the blouse matches the color of her shoes and leaves her shoulders bare.
Finally, she turns from the SUV holding a bouquet of Casablanca lilies and something else about the size of my palm. It’s square, wrapped in kraft paper, and tied with a simple aqua blue ribbon.
“Hi,” she says, smiling at me while shutting the Tahoe’s door. “I wasn’t quite sure where to park, so…”
“Anywhere is fine.” I almost run down the remaining steps to get to her. Sweet Jesus. She looks good enough to eat and smells even better. Combatting the evening’s humidity, she’s got her hair pulled into a ponytail. It’s a thick, tumbling, cascade of raven-hued curls that I want to wrap about my hand so I can pull her in for a scorching kiss. A few wispy tendrils tease her ears and the soft curve of her jawline.How in the hell will I keep my hands off her until after dinner?
“Okay.” Emerson nods at the flowers in her arms, shifting her feet in what I now recognize as nervous energy. “These are for the dinner table; although, if you already have an arrangement, we can just put them in the kitchen or something. You probably think it’s weird, right? Bringing a guy flowers.”
“I’d rather have these than what the chef set up.” Touching her elbow, I fight back a shudder at how warm her skin is. The tantalizing scent of sugar and cinnamon floats off her, her peachy pink lips curving at the feel of my hand on her.
She’s not showing any signs of objection to my touching her, and that’s a good thing. Because unless she asks me to stop, I’ll keep doing it. This past week, waiting for tonight, I’ve touched her as often as I could. Innocent moments where I held her elbow or let my fingertips brush over hers when handing her a vanilla macaroon Frappuccino.
