Page 98 of Things I Overshared
Emerson: Bikinis
I laugh. That was definitely not what I was expecting.
Me: You want me to meet with our French customers in my teeny neon bikini?
Emerson: I changed my mind. Long pants, long sleeves, overcoat.
LOL It’s summer!
C’mon, I want to know which outfits you like
All of them
Even the neon?
Yes.
Not one favorite?
Your dresses are my favorite.
Dresses it is. Except I will most definitely be wearing my padded sports bra, Ass Leggings, and cropped tank top today. All this self-restraint of his is messing with my mind. I pack in a rush, sorting through my cutest dresses, underwear, bikinis, and pajamas. My hands shake with the realization: I am about to spend two weeks in the City of Love with Emerson Clark.Eeeeeeeeeee!
He calls for my leave-behind bags, which I set out in the hall for him. I throw my hair in a high pony and dust a barely there makeup look on my face at the last minute. Finally, I roll out my Paris bag and my backpack and meet him at the door. He lets out a grunty scoff when his eyes take me in from toes to ponytail. He throws his head back and inhales deeply, and I can’t help but giggle.
“You are . . . cruel.”
“Like I said. Motivation.” I shrug playfully while mentally high-fiving myself. He sets his jaw in a hard line and shakes his head. He lets out what I would describe as an actual growl. He reaches for my bag and motions for me to lead the way out to the elevator. When I pass him, he smacks my ass so hard, I jump and scream. But my scream is cut off by an attack of kisses. Emerson shoves me up against the door frame and moves his hands to the crease on the back of my leggings.
He kisses along my chest, along the scoop of my tank, and grunts out, “We . . . do not . . . have time . . . for this.” His mouth is back on mine as one of his hands moves from back to front and cups me, hard. I am instantly drenched. I shudder as he squeezes and pulls away. “Shit, woman. You’ll be the death of me,” he mutters with his eyes still closed.
“To be continued?” I say quietly, unable to hold back my smile. When he opens his eyes and looks back at me, they look almost menacing.
“Definitely.”
_________
“What are the odds?” he whispers to me after we get settled in our seats on the Eurostar train. I was staring out the window, thinking, and apparently the Adonis next to me was reading my thoughts. I look up at him, then down to our hands that he’s just laced together.
“They’re actually pretty bad in Europe, one in 73,573. But that’s over your whole lifetime. We’re not here that long, obviously, so the annual number is much better—one in 5,885,800. Still, flying is much safer.”
“Why didn’t we fly?”
“I’ve never done a train through Europe. It sounded like it would be fun.”
Emerson leans down and kisses me softly, caressing my tongue with his for just a few moments. He pulls away and runs his nose along my own. “It will be.”
I believe him.
As we get underway, I find myself shifting awkwardly in my seat. The urge to chat away with him is overwhelming. I know part of it is travel nerves, but another part is general anxiety about us. What are we now? What does he want? What happens in two weeks when we fly home?
At the same time, I am determined not to be my “full self,” as my sister Skye would say. I have scared off every single guy, every single time. By being too eager, too excited, too needy, too hopeful. I don’t want to do that this time. It feels so different than all the times before, but I’m still me, a full-on hot mess. And Emerson is still a calm, quiet, actual genius.
“Samantha.”
“Hm?” I look up at him with a small smile.
“Talk to me,” he commands.
