Page 110 of Things I Overshared
Skye’s messages do make me wince, though. On paper, from a distance, this does look like classic Sam, jumping on the next available man that shows interest. But I wasn’t looking for this. I wasn’t on the hunt for someone to flirt with or to keep me from loneliness. Hell, if I was, I was looking at Chase or Thomas. I also didn’t make Emerson into something he’s not. He still drives me insane with his one-word answers and quiet stares. He is not going to whisk me to parties and entertain friends. He doesn’t shower me with compliments or tell long, funny stories. He’s just Emerson and—
Crap.
He’s just Emerson, and I love him.
I love him.
Hooooolllllyyyyy Toledo.
It’s too early for this!Crap crap crappity shit shit shit!
Now that I’ve thought them, meant them, felt them loud and clear, how am I going to keep those three words from flopping out of my damn mouth!?
_________
I sit at a café table by the tower waiting for him—the man Ilove! Ahhhh!—to find me. I sense him before I see him, as if he parts the crowds and pulls the sunlight onto him like a spotlight. He’s in a white button-up and gray slacks, his lightest pair, and his more casual black loafers. His top few buttons are undone and his black Ray-Bans are tucked there, settled in between the definition of his chest that his tailored shirt can’t hide. His light brown hair is messier than usual from sweat and the breeze, and he has a five-o’clock shadow since we had no meetings today. What kills me more than all of that, though, are those icy eyes, staring at me as if I’m his oasis in a vast desert. No one has ever looked at me that way.
He sits down across from me with a grin and sets a small paper gift bag on the table.
“You went shopping?”
His head rears back at the idea. “I went toonestore, for this.” He pushes the bag toward me.
“For me?” I squeak. He nods.
I open the sack and see a velvet box inside, and immediately die at least two mini deaths. It’s not a ring box. It’s big and flat, but no matter what’s inside, no man has ever bought me fancy jewelry before. I pull it out and open it. I gasp because it’s gold with tiny diamonds—that’s what I notice right away, how dainty and sparkly it is. It’s a short chain with small evenly spaced charms, like I’ve seen trendy Instagrammers wear. I expect to see my name spelled out, but then I really look, and the charms aren’t letters. There is a little sparkling plane, the Big Ben, a sailboat, a train, an Eiffel Tower, and . . . the Statue of Liberty.
“It’s our trip,” I croak out. My eyes are filling, and I can’t help it. “And home,” I add.
“You like it?”
“I love it.” I can barely say the words. He smiles, one of the wide ones that steals all the oxygen from my brain. I lean toward him. “Will you put it on?” He crosses around and gently puts it around my neck and then kisses me behind each ear.
I grab him and pull him down and kiss him like my life depends on having his tongue on mine. In this moment, it feels like it does. He moans and pulls away, because my tears are falling around his mouth. He looks at me, confused. I shake my head and plop it firmly in my hands.Breathe, Samantha, just breathe.
“Angel?” He sits down, pulling the chair from across the table to right next to my own. He puts a hand on my back, and I actually shrink away for a second without meaning too. “Samantha. What is it?”
“This is just a lot, Emerson. Are you trying to kill me? Like death by romance? Death by looking like a freaking suit model all the time? What the hell is that about? I mean, buy some flip-flops! Wear jeans for once in your life! And weeks ago, you couldn’t even stand me, remember that? Remember how you were horrible? Now I’m just trying to be calm and cool and relaxed and not let myself blurt out that I love you already becausehello, it’s too soon, and then you go get me not just the most beautiful necklace ever, that probably costs like the same as a tiny house somewhere in Montana or something, but it’s sentimental!” I wipe my face, which is in a full-on snotty cry now. “Why are you being sentimental! You’re supposed to be cold, icy Emerson Frozone Clarksicle the Snow King, remember? You said I’d be the death of you, but it’s the opposite, and I am dying over here. Dy. Ing.”
Wait.
What did I just say.
Emerson looks down at me, smiling his smug, proud smile, the one with the corresponding eye twinkle. He hands me a napkin from the table. He says nothing, just studying me like he does. I try not to vomit, realizing I just said out loud that I was trying not to say the thing and thereby saying the actual thing I was trying not to say.
“Emerson?” I sniff.
“Mm?”
“I need you to pretend I didn’t say any of that. I got choked up because I love the gift, which is perfect and wonderful, and that was it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Are you ready to go? I’m ready to go. L-Let’s go,” I stutter, getting up in a rush, because I am hanging on by a tiny, thoroughly embarrassed thread. The rest of the day is a mostly happy blur. Emerson stares at me more throughout the day, still looking smug, and I pretend not to notice. I turn various shades of pink and red, reliving my vulnerability nightmare at the café, but he doesn’t bring it up.
Do I secretly hope he’ll say something wonderful, like,It’s okay, Angel, I already love you too?Yes, I do. Do I really,reallyhope that he’ll take me back to the hotel and finally produce a box of protection and seal the intimate deal with me? I desperately do. But neither of those things happen. In fact, after a delicious dinner, a headache takes my gentle giant down. This time, I hold back all my caregiving instincts and just ask him what he wants me to do.
“I’m just going to try to sleep, but you don’t have to tiptoe around. Just come to bed when you want.”
