Page 140 of Things I Overshared
“I’m so sorry,” he says again.
“Emerson, I already forgave you.” I turn into him, my head up on my elbow.
He looks up at me, still as serious as ever. “I know, but I’ll spend my life making it up to you, Angel.”
“Your life?” I smile my giddy doofus smile.
“Every minute, till death.” He pulls me down into his chest. “I am never letting go of you again.”
EPILOGUE
Three Months Later
“Angel? Sunshine? It’s time, sweetheart,” I hear Emerson calling to me across his sprawling penthouse apartment. I smile at the nicknames I still can’t believe he uses, along with the tenderness in his voice that grows deeper each day. I can tell he’s crossing his airy living room and kitchen, which is bright from the plethora of viewless windows. My stomach lurches down into my toes when I hear him drawing toward his bathroom door.
I avoided him yesterday and today in preparation for this moment. It’s my first big gala for my job, and he agreed, actually insisted, he would go with me. I know he hates these things, so the dress I’m wearing tonight is a little gift for him. Normally, I’d go with something slimming and dark, but I saw this and knew he would love it.
To pull off a tight mermaid gown in a shimmery sunshine yellow, however, I had to get myself spray tanned and schedule a moisturizing purple rinse on my golden hair. I’ve pulled it back into a sleek, low ponytail that shows off the sparkling amethyst studs Emerson gave me. The color combination, which I’ve refrained from wearing over the last few weeks in anticipation of tonight, is the same as my first day at the office, now known as the day my Emerson fell for me. I turn toward the sound of his voice just in time.
“Samantha? We are already running—” He freezes in the door frame. He closes his mouth and works his jaw, inhaling a clipped breath. I notice his eyes mist up slightly for just a second. It’s even better than I imagined, this reaction.
He probably won’t say anything, and I don’t need him to. He’s overcome, and when his emotions run high, his voice leaves him. It has happened often in the last few months of heaven we’ve shared. I love it. I love that I can totally melttheEmerson Clark with just a look. I walk up to him and reach on my tiptoes to give him a quick kiss. I sink back down with a victorious smile.
“Wow,” he whispers.
“Help me get these on?” I reach out to hold on to him for support as I slip on my strappy purple heels. I falter getting the first one on. “Crap on a cracker. I’m so nervous!”
“You’ve no reason to be.” He squeezes my elbow where he’s supporting me.
“You’re biased. This is the first big gala for St. Jude’s—what if I get the names wrong, or the numbers? Last week on a big call, I said one thousand when I meant onehundredthousand!”
“Angel, you’ve already broken the records of your last two predecessor’s quarterly fundraising numbers by over four percent. Tonight isn’t even work. You seal your big corporate donations in boardrooms, not ballrooms.” He says one of my catch phrases back to me.
I tilt my head and give him a glare. I still have every reason to be nervous, even though I am, in fact, crushing my new job. It’s medicine and children and the competitive thrill of hitting targets, all combined into one. And thankfully they have an NYC office, so transferring my new job from Dallas to Manhattan was no problem. And I love it. I love it almost as much as the man in front of me. Okay, actually that’s not even remotely accurate. But I do feel like maybe I’ve found my very own opus.
“You want to say your mantra a few times,” he says with a smirk.
“I do.”
“And you still insist I leave the room, even though I know what you say and how you say it, since you do so in your sleep, regularly?”
“Correct,” I say, blushing. It’s such a silly thing, but it’s mine, and I still just need the ritual sometimes.
“Okay,Bob,” he teases lovingly. He turns to go but then twists back to me, placing his hands on either side of my neck to cradle my head. “I am so proud of you.”
“Out! You’re going to make my mascara run!” I say, smiling wide and squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t start crying. He slips out, and I say the words to myself in the mirror. With a nod, I step out to meet my handsome date, ready to woo a room of very wealthy people into increasing their yearly pledges to help fund treatments for sick children.
_________
“You were a rock star tonight,” I say to an unusually twitchy Emerson as we settle into the back of the town car. I expected him to be pale and spent after a night of socializing, but he’s actually looking almost wired. Maybe it’s this dress?
He squeezes my hand and thinks for a moment before answering, but he doesn’t look at me as he says it. “I was, more accurately, a groupie tonight. You did all the starring.”
“You made two jokes! You spoke French! Don’t rain on my parade. You were the perfect wingman.” I shove into him. He harrumphs in reply, still not looking down at me. He seems a bit off, but I can’t tell why. “It’s a good thing too, because I have another surprise for you under this dress. Luckily, you’ve earned it.” His head snaps back to look at me so fast, he had to have pulled a muscle in his neck. His hooded eyes flash down to my cleavage for a moment, then to the ceiling. He sighs an irritated sigh and mutters something. “Em? What is it?”
He considers his words once more. “I planned a celebratory stop for us. But on the other hand . . .”
“You planned a surprise?!” I squeak out, cutting him off. I don’t hide my feelings or temper my excitement with him anymore, and it feels so freaking amazing. He smiles wide out the window in response to my own bare glee.
