Page 43 of Unexpectedly Mine

“That was genius,” Emma says, now wiping at tears, as well as frosting. “I’ll admit, at first, I was annoyed, but when I realized your plan, it made so much sense.”

“I’m glad you were quick to understand.”

“Thank you for helping us escape.” Emma reaches up, swipes a finger through the frosting on my cheek, then places it in her mouth. “Mmm. It is good cake, though.”

She swipes again, but before she can lick her finger, I grab her hand and sink it into my mouth.

The cake is good. I tasted it on her lips a minute ago, but being playful with Emma is even better.

Her eyes widen as my tongue swirls around her finger. “It’s good, right?” she asks.

“It’s delicious.”

“Well looking at the size of it, we might be eating it for the next three weeks.”

“Your parents went all out. When I saw the size of that cake, I thought for sure someone was going to jump out of it.”

“That’s the burden of being an only child. All the focus is on you. Good or bad. Whether you want it or not.”

I know Emma was feeling overwhelmed out there, surrounded by friends and family, but she’s lucky to have them. If the situation were reversed, there wouldn’t be a room full of people for me to celebrate with. Only a handful of people I’ve learned to trust over the years.

She must see the look on my face.

“I’m sorry. I know you and Sophie have been on your own for a long time. I’m grateful for my family. I just didn’t expect everyone to be here tonight.”

“I get it. Your dad is pretty intense.”

“He’s an artist. He feels everything. My mom’s a ray of sunshine. She balances out his moodiness.”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

I take in the room we’ve entered. It’s dark, except the glow from the lamp on the bedside table. She guides me past a four-poster bed with pink bedding, and an insane number of pillows, all in various shapes, sizes and colors. There doesn’t appear to be a theme.

It could be a guest room, but there’s a desk on the far wall, between two large windows framed in gauzy pink curtains that has a bulletin board filled with pictures. Shelves above the desk have trophies and plaques on it, ribbons hanging from hooks under the shelf. I move in for a closer look, but Emma pulls me toward a door.

“Bathroom is in here,” she says, kicking off her heels as she moves us into the ensuite bathroom.

She flips on the light, revealing a white marble bathroom with gold accents. When I take in the double vanity, I think about Sophie and her constant complaint about our lack of bathroom counter space at home.

Using the cotton hand towel I was given, I lean toward the mirror to wipe a clump of buttercream off my cheek.

I watch as Emma dabs at the remnants of frosting and cake crumbs. She rinses her face and pats it dry before hopping up on the counter between the two sinks, her dress inching up her thighs while her legs dangle over the counter.

“Do you think they expect us back?” I ask.

“We’re newlyweds. They probably think we’re sucking each other’s faces off.”

“In this case, it would be licking.”

“Exactly,” she says. “So, let’s get our story straight. What should we tell everyone?”

She reaches for a bottle on the counter and pumps it against her hand before rubbing her palms together, then patting down her face.

“The truth,” I say, solemnly, knowing that the only way to get Emma to relax is to show her I’m relaxed. And to tease her a little.

Her eyes bug out. “If I wanted to tell them the truth, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Okay, let me think.”

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