Page 48 of Best In Class (Savannah's Best #7)

Ransom

I haven’t seen her for two years.

I’m not the one who’s been doing the avoidance dance—that’s all Ember. She built the distance and kept it there, brick by careful brick.

I don’t blame her. I know that our affair hurt her, which was why I had ended it when I did. In all honesty, it had gone on longer than I thought it would. I’d just gotten divorced and knew that physical attraction would not turn into anything more, ever .

She was twenty-five, then. Fifteen years my junior.

Smart. Tenacious. Intelligent.

The more time I spent with her, the more we enjoyed each other, the more convinced I became that I had to end it.

In the long term, this wouldn’t work out, and it was unfair to her. She was building her life—doing her master’s, while I was living mine, post-divorce, absolutely certain that I’d never marry again.

Saying that the divorce was nasty was an understatement—but then it followed the course of my six-year marriage, which was also hell.

Two doctors with massive egos. Two people with boundless ambition. Two very competitive physicians.

I should’ve seen it. Olivia, at least, should have, since she was the psychiatrist in the relationship.

After my divorce, I had women, fucked them, spent time with them, kept it simple.

That’s what I thought it would be like with Ember.

I didn’t expect that we’d be together for a year.

I didn’t expect that we’d be all but living together in my house in Los Gatos.

I didn’t expect to find her as intriguing as I did.

I didn’t expect a relationship to be peaceful.

Hell, I’d never been with a woman as long as I’d been with Ember without ever fighting.

Sure, we argued, but it was always somehow positive. The credit went to her. I could get vicious, my ex-wife had told me that often enough, but not Ember. She cajoled. She got her point across without ever raising her voice. She used humor.

All these years, she’d been on the periphery—Freja and Aksel’s sister, Margot and Jean’s daughter—not a real person. Then, all of a sudden, she became tangible and precious.

I knew the family well—hell, I was family in so many ways—that everyone finding out about Ember and me would cause some trouble, but all in all, it wouldn’t be a catastrophe.

Regardless, I knew that I had to let her go. She was too young, too immature. I’d never dated a woman who wasn’t my age ever, so I didn’t know what to expect.

From friends who’d divorced their first wives for a newer model, as the cliché went, the sex was off the charts, they’d say, the tantrums worse, but worth it.

I experienced the former but not the latter.

Besides her age, Ember wasn’t really my type. She was nerdy. She was quiet, living in her own world.

The women I spent time with were usually extroverts. They knew how to be the life of the party and definitely were aware of which side of a mascara wand was up.

But she doesn’t need makeup, does she? Five years and, she still looks like she did, dewy-skinned, fresh, perfect.

The year we were together was a strange one for me.

We didn’t advertise our relationship, mostly because I didn’t need the Stanford community, prone to gossip, to blow an affair between an older man and a younger student out of proportion, which could hurt her.

That year, I didn’t attend parties as I had in the past. I didn’t go to restaurants much, either. We stayed home. Cooked.

There were times she thought she was my dirty secret.

She never said it out loud, but I could see it in her eyes.

I tried to show her otherwise—tried to prove it in every way except the one that mattered.

The truth was, she wasn’t my dirty secret.

She was my precious one. The part of my life I wanted to protect, to keep untouched by the noise of friends, family, and everything else that could taint something so good.

When I look back, that year with Em had been the first time since my divorce that my mind had cleared—and I’d begun to breathe again.

I felt guilty, still do, because I’d used Ember’s youth to heal my wounds, and in return had hurt her.

But now it was pretty clear that she’d put all of that in the past. The woman who smiled at me and talked to me didn’t carry that bruised look in her eyes, when I’d seen her the few times since we broke up.

So, then, why do I feel so bereft at the idea that she’s moved on?

When Margot suggested I spend Christmas and New Year with them.

It seemed like a good option since my parents were on their way to Antarctica.

And my brother was spending his holiday with his wife’s family in Florida—people I worried I may injure my surgeon hands on if I had to hear them talk about how global warming was just God telling us we were heathens.

I have no idea how he tolerates them, but then I also have no idea how he tolerated his wife.

But they have a child, and he’s going to stick it out.

Marchand men do not leave their wives when they have children, which is why I’m glad that Olivia and I never procreated, no collateral damage to what a fucking war of magnificent proportions our marriage was.

I wanted to be respectful of Ember and discreetly enquired if she’d be joining the family.

Previously, she’d missed the Chamonix trip because she had a doctoral deadline, and both Freja and Aksel thought that Ember wouldn’t join them this year, either, because she was knee-deep in research, which was why I accepted Margot’s invitation.

I’d worried when I first saw her that it would be uncomfortable for her to have me around, especially with Calypso.

She seems to be handling it just fine, Ransom. Em hasn’t even given you or Calypso a look beyond the perfunctory.

And for some reason, it’s bothering me.

I sigh inwardly. Not for some reason. I know why. It hurts my ego that she’s over me so completely, while I still think about her, still remember our time together.

Even now, she’s hard to look away from.

Something unfurls inside me to see her, smell her, watch her eyes light up when she smiles, see how she rubs her fingers together when she’s unsettled, how she pushes her soft black hair behind her ears when she’s listening to someone keenly, how she?—

“Your daughter seems very sensitive,” Calypso tells Margot after both Freja and Ember have left.

“Ember is very perceptive and feels things deeply,” Margot seems to agree and then smiles as she adds, “She thinks makeup is the enemy.”

“She’s just young, she’ll learn,” Calypso murmurs helpfully.

I don’t like her insinuation that Ember is somehow immature because of her youth. It’s hypocritical for me to feel that way.

Hadn’t I said something just as cruel to Ember that night at Chapeau in San Francisco? Called her immature?

I told myself I’d chosen the restaurant because it was far from Palo Alto, away from the usual crowd—neutral territory.

But that wasn’t the truth.

I’d picked Chapeau because I anticipated a scene. I didn’t want anyone I knew to see it happen, to witness me ending something real. I thought she might cry, argue, make it messy.

But she didn’t comply.

She didn’t give me the drama I braced for.

She gave me dignity.

Hell, she’d said goodbye with a flourish and left me standing with my car keys in hand, not even letting me give her a ride, saying she didn’t think that was any longer appropriate.

She’d done it like it was a joke, with a smile, but I’d caught the tremble in her eyes.

I didn’t argue. She was going to cry. She wanted to be alone. I did as well.

I remember the first time I asked her out to dinner; she was surprised that it'd been a date. She couldn’t imagine I found her attractive.

I still do.

There’s something about her honesty, lack of artifice, that is so na?ve that it makes her stand out in a roomful of people. I doubt she knows that.

“Isn’t she dating someone?” Bob, Tanya’s husband, muses.

The fuck? Ember is dating! Who? Did she find another man who finds her as captivating as I did…do?

“Who is dating?” Jean raises his eyes to meet Bob’s. He’s reading something on his iPad and ignoring everyone around him. He does that a lot. But the minute you mention his kids, even if he seems like he’s not paying attention, he is.

“Ember has a boyfriend?” Calypso’s tone is overly curious, her brows lifting with interest.

There’s something too pointed about the question. Like she’s picked up on the way I’ve been watching Ember—how my gaze lingers when it shouldn’t—and now she’s trying to read the subtext.

She’s clocked it. And now she wants to know exactly who Ember Rousseau is and what she means to me.

“ No , that ended, and he wasn’t appropriate ,” Margot assures everyone.

“Why?” Calypso probes.

“ Well , he wasn’t very nice to her.” There’s distaste written all over Margot’s face.

What did she mean? What did he do? The son of a bitch.

“He was a musician, a bass player in a band,” Tanya adds, as if that’s a cardinal sin. “ And he had a flexible zipper. Pig .”

“That asshole wasn’t worthy of my daughter,” Jean announces and goes right back to his iPad.

I take a sip of my champagne, wanting to get up and leave, not enjoying this continued discussion about Ember and her life.

“Margot, I could talk to Ember and…you know, help out with makeup and things ,” Calypso offers politely.

Jesus Fucking Christ!

“That’s an idea,” Margot says. She appears thoughtful, but she’s brushing Calypso off.

Jean snaps out of his reading again. “Who needs help with makeup?”

Ember doesn’t! She looks amazing first thing in the morning, fresh as dew.

“Ember,” Tanya says.

“Give it a rest, Tanya.” I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice.

“Well, I’d better check on dinner and Chef.” Margot rises, kisses Jean’s cheek, and sashays toward the kitchen like she’s on a runway. It’s her way of ending the discussion around her daughter.

Welcome, join the club!