Page 101 of Things I Overshared
We walked like lovers, leisurely, fingers intertwined, stealing kisses every few steps. Emerson even took selfies with me whenever I asked, even though there was some sighing and lack of full smiles. He led me past the touristy Instagrammable streets to find this little café tucked away in a courtyard.
We’ve had salad and bread and wine, and I’ve chatted his ear off with a million Paris tidbits and questions. Emerson has melted my panties with his almost-perfect French throughout the evening, asking questions and ordering our meals.
We’re finishing up our amazing meal in this amazing secret spot in freaking Paris! He’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him, maybe ever. Which is why I am motivated to ask the hard questions, starting with the accident.
“It was . . . severe.” He wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin. Then sets it back on his knee in a neat folded rectangle. “Pretty bad concussion, broken leg and ribs. I was in the hospital for weeks.”
“Do you miss it? Riding?”
He hesitates. “Not really.”
“And the headaches?”
His hand finds mine on the table. “Much better in recent years. It’s not every night, and rarely migraines anymore . . . my mother exaggerates.”
“I like your mom,” I say.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, when you were out there saying who knows what to the wannabe duchess, she told me not to worry. It was nice of her, and pretty surprising, honestly, since your dad and her dad are clearly desperate for you two to get married and have lots of little Clark Industries babies.” He just stares at me, because he knows I’m not saying what I want to say. So, I do. “C’mon! What did you say to her! I’m dying here. She straight-up told me she made a mistake and wanted you back, so did she profess her undying love to you? Did she flash you? Was she down on her knees at any point?”
Finally, he reacts, with a laugh.
“We weren’t outside that long.”
“Long enough!” I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it in place.
“It was nothing. Well . . . nothing to me. She did say she made a mistake and wanted to reconcile.” He sips his wine with his free hand, trying to be done with this conversation.
“And you told her you were head over heels for your fake girlfriend and to back the hell off?”
“More or less.”
“Emerson!” I do tug my hand free this time.
“It’s a bit fun to seeyoujealous for a change.”
My cheeks pink because I am jealous, definitely, but he’s also admitted to his own jealousy, which thrills me.
“See how fun it is when I go make out with the waiter because you won’t answer my question.”
He grabs my thigh under the table, hard. I lift my eyebrows and cock my head.
“I told her I wasn’t sure I’d ever loved her, or that she’d ever really loved me.” He looks away, thinking. He releases my thigh and goes back to holding my hand. But he doesn’t elaborate, of freaking course.
I lean in, almost desperate for him to share more with me. “But you were hurt, when she ended it, right? I mean, you left for the States, so it must’ve been a pretty bad breakup.”
“I was, but it was bigger than just she and I. I was still working in the business, and our fathers . . . everything . . . imploded. I left for distance, but not distance from her.” It’s clear that he doesn’t enjoy talking about this, but he’s not frustrated or angry. I keep the ball rolling, in case I don’t get this open feeling—ha! Open relative to a frozen, locked vault hidden in an underground bunker under the sea—from him again anytime soon.
“And Miranda? Since we’re on the subject.”
He sighs with a grin, as if he knew that’s what I was going to say.
“I already told you about that . . . arrangement.”
“Friends with benefits, but she is probably in love with you.”
He drops his chin to glare at me. “Yousaid that bit. I never led her on. She and I were friends and she saw how shit I was with people, including women. She enjoyed going to the galas and parties.”
