“Hey.” He gave me a long, lingering kiss.
It left me breathless, and all my self-consciousness vanished.
“Are you busy?” he asked, holding up the bag, which smelled amazing. “I brought food.”
As if to respond, my stomach growled. We both laughed.
“I guess that answers my question,” he said.
I stepped aside to let him in, admiring the way his jeans cupped his butt as he sauntered into my apartment, putting the food down on my coffee table.
“We got a new chef,” he told me, unpacking what looked like an amazing spread of bar food. Burgers, fries, wings . . .
“How’s their grilled cheese?” I teased, coming to sit next to him on the couch.
“Not as good as mine.” He poked my arm. “But I’d love to get your opinion on the menu. Good thing you’re hungry.”
I was. I was starving. Even though we were supposed to get time off for lunch, I usually ate at my desk and ended up working at the same time, so I never got the chance to really eat a meal—and I definitely didn’t get the chance to enjoy it.
This meal I was going to enjoy. Not just because it smelled amazing, but because the effort that Emerson had taken to bring it to me meant the world to me. He was so thoughtful and considerate. None of the guys I had dated had ever been half as kind.
We ate with gusto—the food was even better than it looked.
“Yum,” I said, digging in. “Your chef is amazing.”
“Yeah, I think it was a good choice,” he told me. “I mean, she’s no Phoebe Sullivan, but I can wait.”
“You’re still hoping she’ll leave that other place for you guys?” I wanted to know, licking my fingers as I finished a salty, spicy chicken wing.
Emerson’s eyes were fixated on my mouth as I did this, and I couldn’t help but torture him a little bit, taking my time with my last two fingers, drawing them slowly out of my mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he said, blinking. “What did you say?”
I laughed. “You’re easily distracted.”
“Just around you,” he told me, leaning in to kiss me. “Mmm, delicious.”
I blushed.
“And no, I don’t really think that we can tempt a chef from a big restaurant to a bar like this. But a guy can dream, can’t he?” he asked with a wink.
“At least this one is fantastic,” I reminded him, taking another chicken wing. “People are going to be lining up around the block to eat at Rascals.”
“They already are,” Emerson said, the pride evident on his face. “Only a few days in and it’s looking like we’re going to be a hit.”
I threw my arms around him. “That’s wonderful,” I told him. “Congrats.”
“Thanks.” He hugged me tightly. “It feels good. Making something of myself, you know? Maybe one day the Hayes name will mean more than just my father and his father before him.”
My mind went back to what Arthur and Lucinda had said that afternoon. About Emerson’s father and connections and how important both were. For a brief moment, I thought about asking Emerson about it, but that thought was quickly dismissed. We were having a good time, there wasn’t any point in ruining it.
“We should celebrate your success,” I told him.
He grinned. “You name the time and place. I’ll be there.”
A different kind of celebrating popped into my head. A private, sexy kind of celebration. One that we could do right here. Right now.
“How about I just celebrate you,” I said, putting aside the plates and taking Emerson’s beer out of his hand.
His eyebrows went up, but he said nothing as I took a long swig of his beer. Then, I got off the couch and knelt on the floor in front of him, making room for myself between his legs. His eyebrows went even higher as I put my hands on his knees and slid them upward.
He was already hard. I could feel him through his jeans as I unbuckled his belt, and then unbuttoned his pants.
“Holy shit,” he murmured, his head falling back as I dragged his zipper down.
His hands were on the couch next to him, but I saw them curl into fists as I took him into my hand. And then into my mouth.
I was going to celebrate him. I was going to celebrate him but good.
16
Alex
The next evening, I didn’t even question my instinct to go to Rascals. Even though we still hadn’t really talked about “us,” after the night Emerson and I had shared, and the way I had rocked his world—his words, not mine—it was pretty clear that he wanted me there, too.
When I headed into the bar after work, I found several familiar faces at the bar. Not just Emerson, but Hayley as well. They were talking to an older woman who was clearly related to both of them. Hayley shared her heart-shaped face, but Emerson had gotten his eyes from her. They were a dark brown, intelligent and clever, taking everything in. She didn’t miss my arrival, nor the way that Emerson straightened when he saw me, or the smile that spread across Hayley’s face.
“Alex!” Emerson’s sister greeted me with a hug. “I haven’t seen you since the night of the opening. How are you?”
“I’m great, it’s good to see you.”
“This is our mother, Portia,” Hayley introduced us. “And this is Emerson’s . . . friend, Alex.”
“Nice to meet you.” Portia shook my hand, glancing between me and Emerson.
“Likewise,” I said, noting at how beautiful and elegant she was—from her perfectly styled hair to her impeccable manicure.
Even though I was wearing my best suit and silk blouse, I felt almost shabby standing next to her.
“I’m here to try to convince my son to join us for dinner tonight,” Portia told me, sharing a look with Hayley. “Maybe you could help us with that? Or, if you’re not busy, we’d love to have you as well.”
“Mom—” Emerson tried to interject, but both his mother and sister ignored him.
“You have to come,” Hayley pleaded with me. “I’ve barely gotten to spend any time with you at all.”
I could see Emerson roll his eyes behind his sister’s back, but he still wore a tense expression on his face, as if all of this was par for the course. I didn’t know how to respond. After what Arthur had said yesterday, it would be foolish of me to turn down an invitation from the Hayes family. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in learning more about Emerson’s life.
“I’d love to join,” I finally said. “If Emerson doesn’t mind.”
Hayley practically jumped for joy. “He doesn’t,” she said, sticking her tongue out at her older brother.
He sighed. “I guess we can go,” he agreed reluctantly.
“Wonderful,” Portia said, rising from her seat. “We’ll see you in an hour then.”
She practically glided out of the bar, Hayley following behind, wiggling her fingers at us before she disappeared.
Emerson ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I can call them and cancel, if you don’t want to go. They can be a bit pushy.”
“I don’t mind,” I told him honestly. “Your mom seems nice.”
“She is,” he said.
“Do I need to wear anything special?” I asked, looking down at my suit.
“I think you look great,” he told me. “But my parents tend to be a little more . . . formal.”
I understood what he was saying. “Give me ten minutes.” I leaned over the bar and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
He turned his head and caught my lips with his. He kissed me for a while, until I forgot exactly what I was supposed to be doing.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to cancel?” he asked when we broke apart. “Because I’d much rather order takeout and do more of that, alone.”
I wanted that too. But I was also curious, and in that instance, it was my curiosity that won out.
“Ten minutes,” I promised, and hurried upstairs.
We were soon on the road, me in my trusty black wrap dress and Emerson wearing a jacket over his dark jeans and button up shirt. I had styled myself much like I would for a work function, fake diamond earrings in my ears, simple black pumps and a matching purse.
I was nervous, and only got more nervous the closer we got to River West, where his parents lived. It was the most expensive neighborhood in Chicago, and it showed. Each house we passed was more beautiful than the next, and I was beginning to feel way out of my league by the time we pulled up to a house where several cars were already parked.
“Dammit,” Emerson groaned as we pulled up in front of the house, where a valet was waiting for us.
A valet. At a private residence.
“I thought this was a family dinner,” I said with a gulp.
“My mom clearly forgot to mention they’re having one of their dinner parties,” Emerson sighed as we got out of the car. “I’m guessing it’s just the family—and a few dozen of Dad’s closest friends and business acquaintances.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “Don’t worry,” he told me. “It’s just like your work party, only more boring.”
I stifled a laugh, though I really wanted to throw up. I was completely out of my league with people like this—it was bad enough when I thought it was just going to be the Hayes family, but a party? The whole thing was nerve-wracking.
Thankfully, Emerson didn’t let go of my hand as we walked into the gorgeous old building. I was grateful for the support—both emotional and physical—because if I felt out of my league before, this was like showing up to the community pool and finding Michael Phelps swimming laps.
Emerson’s parents’ home was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was like a magazine spread, walls covered in extraordinary pieces of art, the furniture ornate, and everything perfectly lit by the enormous chandeliers that extended from the ceilings. There were Persian rugs on the floor, Fabergé eggs on tables, and delicate crystal centerpieces filled with flowers on every other available surface. But more than all the expensive furniture was the attention to detail. The way things matched and contrasted – how someone had poured effort into making this a beautiful, welcoming space. This was a home, the kind I’d grown up dreaming about: somewhere safe and sturdy, not like the cheap apartments I’d shuffled between where someone was always banging on the walls to keep the noise down and the hot water ran out before nine a.m. Here, there were plush carpets and an amazing sense of calm, even with the buzz of activity from the party.