Page 20

CHAPTER 19

EMERSON

We pass through the hospital’s sliding doors into the crisp autumn night, deciding to walk home. Gunnar has taken off his tux jacket, loosened his bowtie, and rolled up the cuffs of his dress shirt, looking sinfully good with the black coat slung over one shoulder. He whistles as he places a hand on my lower back and steers me down the hill toward Butler Street.

I squeeze his arm. “That was kind of fun. Did you get to meet any of the kids?”

He nods and makes a contented sound. “The kids are great. I had no idea what to do with myself for the rest of it.” He gives my bottom a squeeze and then doesn’t move his hand away. “I was really glad you were there to talk me through it all.”

Warmth spreads in my chest at his remark. “Well, you know, I can rub elbows with the best of ‘em.”

Gunnar makes a low sound and then pauses at the corner. “I feel like I’ve put you in an awkward position, asking you to do that when you came here to get away from that kind of thing.”

My mouth drops because he’s right. And yet tonight felt different. I never once felt pressured to say anything specific or promise anything beyond a whirlwind romance with the man of the hour. “Gunnar, I…I had fun tonight. I enjoyed talking you up.”

“Yeah?” His crooked smile is adorable.

“Yes.” I nod. “Truly.”

Gunnar presses a kiss to my forehead. “You hungry, Salty? I could eat an entire cow.” He stabs the button for the crosswalk signal and glances at me, questioning.

“I could eat.”

And then he grins, his white teeth glinting under the streetlights. Does he really have to be so handsome? I could maintain boundaries and keep things chill if he didn’t look so good. It’s all well and good to have dirty sex, but if I’m going to disappear in a few months, I can’t be falling for this man emotionally. I clear my throat. “Your coach mentioned something about a shoe deal? That you’re going to shoot a commercial?”

He nods and gestures for me to turn left. We approach a bar, and he holds the door open for me. “After you, Salts. Maybe I should call you Shaker. Salt shaker. You want a burger?”

I laugh at his train of thought. “A burger sounds awesome.” I move to grab a seat at the bar, but he hesitates, and I remember that he’s famous. The bar is crowded, yet there’s a small table near the window, so I slide into a seat, and he surprises me by sitting next to me rather than across from me. “You’re feeling cozy!”

Another grin. “Can’t stand to be far from you, Shakes. Oooh, milkshake! If we’re going to wreck my meal plan, I might as well do it in style, right?”

The bar has one of those QR code ordering systems, so Gunnar pulls out his phone and orders us fries, burgers, and chocolate shakes. He turns his phone upside down on the table and turns to face me in his chair. “The shoe deal is really new, and the commercial is for the milk campaign. I was going to talk to you about that. I’ll be staying in New York a few extra days after our game there to shoot the ad.”

I take a moment to digest the fact that he’s traveling to New York. “I hadn’t stopped to think that you’d be going there. To the city.”

Gunnar nods. “Yeah. You know I have a lot of road trips coming up, actually.” He licks his lips and furrows his brow. “Brian thinks it could be really beneficial if you come with me. Make it seem like you’re visiting your family while you’re in town.”

My eyes fly wide as the bottom drops out of my stomach. I actually press a hand to my belly to calm my roiling guts at the thought of seeing my parents in person right now. “My family?”

Gunnar nods. “Yeah. Obviously, I told him I had to run that past you, especially since part of our story is how you need to maintain privacy to get away from your family…”

A server arrives with our food, and Gunnar keeps his head down, hoping to avoid being noticed, I think. I smile, thank them, and take a big gulp of my shake. “I can’t really think of a good excuse not to go see your game. It’s not like I have anything going on here in Pittsburgh.” I smash a fry into my shake and eat it in one bite.

“First, it’s freaking weird to dip a French fry into a milkshake, wife. Gross.” I stick my tongue out at him and do it again while he shakes his head. “Second, I thought you were going to help those kids who don’t have music lessons at their schools. What happened?”

I cram another fry into my mouth and sigh. “I can’t even volunteer there because I don’t have the necessary legal clearances or whatever they’re called. I need some sort of background check, and I have no idea where to start. They don’t teach you this kind of thing in frou-frou music college.”

I slouch down in my chair and pick up the burger, relishing the salty, savory flavor. The tiny appetizers on trays at the fundraiser were lovely, but this food truly hits the spot, and I’m so grateful Gunnar suggested stopping here. I moan in delight, and his brows shoot up.

He clears his throat and adjusts his posture. “Salty, I want to get back to your disgusting fry habits in a minute. But I can probably help with the clearances. We have to have them to work at kid clinics and charity stuff like tonight. Brian has people who handle that for me. I’ll just have him handle it for you.”

I shake my head. “Oh no, I don’t want to bother him with that. He’s out there trying to secure your image or what?—”

Gunnar holds up his phone, showing me a text exchange in which he asked Brian to get me clearances, and Brian responded with

Consider it done.

“Now.” Gunnar puts the phone in his pocket this time. “Why on earth are you contaminating your milkshake with fried potatoes?”

Helping me and getting other people to help me, is just like breathing for him. He doesn’t even seem to think twice about the effort involved in getting me what I need. I’m uncertain what to make of it, so I roll with his decision to switch topics to fries. “You clearly haven't tried it, or you wouldn’t be dissing it.” I dip another fry and hold it toward him. He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Come on, husband. You know you want to.” I dab at his lip, catching a small drop of milkshake on the corner of his mouth, causing me to think about licking it off.

From the flash in Gunnar’s eyes, I sense he’s thinking the same thing, but it passes quickly as he opens his lips, accepts the fry, and considers it. He chews a few times and shrugs. “Not bad.”

I bump him with my shoulder. “Is that all you have to say? After giving me so much grief about it? I think you owe me a proper apology.”

The air in the room goes silent, or at least it feels that way when Gunnar meets my eyes. His blue gaze turns dark, his jaw set. A muscle or tendon or something twitches in his neck. “How would you like me to make things up to you, wife?”

I bring a hand to my mouth, wondering what to say and how to respond. My heart pounds in my chest at the thought of him doing something sexier than I ever dared to imagine, and at the thought of me loving every second.

Both our phones vibrate, interrupting the moment. I frown, not wanting to check mine in the pocket of my dress, but Gunnar slides his hand into his. I half hope the messages are from Brian, informing us know there’s a problem with the clearances, but Gunnar growls when looking at his screen.

I peer over his broad shoulder to catch a headline alert from an online tabloid.

Maestro Makes Musicians Miserable

Renowned conductor Charles Saltzer of the New York Symphony is facing mounting allegations of creating a hostile work environment for female musicians in the orchestra. Multiple sources report that Saltzer routinely dismissed qualified female candidates, made demanding comments about their performance and capabilities, and enforced archaic policies specifically targeting women.

The allegations come on the heels of his daughter, Emerson Saltzer— Juilliard graduate and accomplished violinist—abruptly leaving the classical music scene. Maestro Saltzer claimed that the young musician was addressing mental health concerns.

This publication wonders if a respite from the senior Saltzer was in itself an improvement to the younger Saltzer’s well-being.

This is a developing story.

I stare at the article, reeling. I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for something awful to come out in the news about me. I’ve always been led to believe I was the problem- the diva, the difficult musician basically making my parents’ lives harder.

This article is junk journalism, to be sure. But it’s not about me.

I don’t know how to feel about other people giving voice to these suspicions I’ve had that my father is a jerk. That my father is the problem. I start sweating and breathing heavily as my reality is shattered.

“Hey.” Gunnar’s hand is gentle on my thigh, squeezing. “You want to go home?”

I nod rapidly and take a final gulp of my milkshake. He sets a bunch of cash on the table, wraps his tux jacket around my shoulders, and ushers me out the door toward our apartment.