Page 44 of The Player (Close Quarters 5)

The team ribs one another good-naturedly as they pack up and head home, leaving Emery and me together. I help her flatten all the boxes from the shipments they’d received, and we work together in a way that’s comfortable and familiar. Suddenly, it feels like the tense call with my father was months ago instead of mere hours. Eventually her place is back to normal and we drop down onto her couch to take a break.

“Seems like everything is looking better with you and the team,” I say. “Did you sort your differences out?”

Emery snorts. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“What’s so funny?”

“Tina told me I needed to get laid and then maybe I’d loosen up. I guess she was right.” Emery shakes her head. “Honestly, our talk about me trusting myself really helped. I was getting so wound up about the reviews and what people were saying online that I was putting all this pressure on the team and all it did was stifle their creativity.”

I lean back and slide my arm along the back of the couch, stretching. “And yours.”

“Yeah, and mine.” She nods. “So, uh...thanks.”

“My pleasure. You know, I could have given you that advice sooner if you hadn’t been so prickly to me all this time.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry, but sometimes you come across like a bit of a douche.”

“Excuse me.” I plant a hand on my chest. “How so?”

“You always swan about in your expensive suits, with a pretty woman on your arm. You come and go at all hours of the night, always off to some party. It’s sickening, really.” She wrinkles her nose.

“That’s my job.” I snort. “But in truth...some days I hate it.”

“Really?” She cocks her head. “I never got that impression.”

“I guess it’s one of those things, just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean it’s your passion.” I can’t believe I’m saying this aloud. I’ve never toldanyonehow I really feel about my work. “I inherited the business from my mother. It was her dream. She loved art and artists, and she wanted to give them a space to thrive.”

“But you wanted tocreateart.” It’s not a question.

“I did. But I saw what art turned my father into—this selfish man who neglected his family, who put his creative process before people—and I don’t want to be that person.”

“Ah, and then you ended up putting people before art.” She scoots closer to me on the couch. “You want to keep your mother’s memory alive through the gallery and these shows, and that’s more important to you than following your own passions.”

She’s looking at me now with a clarity and sincerity I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. Like she knows me, therealme. The me underneath the layers of polish and shine. The me I’ve worked hard to bury so deep I thought I might never see him again. But she pulls the real me back to the surface. To the present.

And now it feels like I’m stuck between these two versions. Stuck between wanting the life that used to be my dream and the life I know is safe.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Emery

THISISTHEproblem with Rowan—I can’t get enough. I don’t know how to keep my hands to myself. I don’t want to. He’s helped me and... I want to help him back.

But I don’t know how. It’s like he’s letting me in, but I’m afraid to take a step. To push too far. Because what if I make a mistake and he leaves like all the other men before him? What if I make the mistake of thinking he’s different, only to be left more broken-hearted than ever before?

He’s different. You know that.

I trail a fingertip over his chest, right down to his buckle and then the zipper on his pants. His nostrils flare and I feel his cock start to harden beneath my touch, but he doesn’t move. Sex is something I can keep separate from my emotions. Frankly, I’m better at doing than talking. Maybe if I draw a line between the two, I can have it all. Maybe I can get by only giving him a piece of me, instead of it all.

I thought that would be a plus for him. A win. All the good stuff without the commitment.

But he keeps tempting me, this man. He keeps opening up and the feeling of knowing him, of learning him, is addictive.

“Are you going to run away this time?” He searches my face, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know.”

He pulls me into his lap, his large hands cupping my face and tilting me up to him. “What if I said I don’t want you to run away?”

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