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CHAPTER 20

EMERSON

I’m numb back at the apartment, as if I can’t figure out my next moves beyond kicking off my heels.

I keep repeating the word “hostile” in my mind, jarred by seeing someone else, albeit an anonymous editorial reporter, refer to my father that way. Hostile is exactly right. My entire life has been a hostile environment. I had never encountered that phrase before seeing it on Gunnar’s phone.

I always thought I was so fortunate, getting to make music (even if it wasn’t the music I wanted) and to live in such wealth. I never lacked anything.

Although, that is not true. As my unexpected hero ushers me into my room and gently unzips my dress, his hands gentle on my back as he slides the gown down my shoulders, I realize I’ve never experienced this kind of caring physical touch.

“You are so important to me,” he says, palms skating along my skin. “I can’t believe I asked you to come to New York and act gooey for me with all this crap going on in your life.”

I lean into his touch and shake my head. “It didn’t feel gross. Not when it was for you.” My lashes are wet, and my chest tightens. “I know you aren’t expecting it…that you appreciate me.”

I stand in my fancy underthings, staring at myself in the mirror above my dresser, still motionless as Gunnar hangs up the dress and grabs my G STAG jersey from where it’s folded at the foot of my bed. I let him slide that over my head and melt into him when he pulls me into his arms, kissing the top of my head. “I definitely appreciate you. What do you need, Salty? I’m here.”

He rubs my back soothingly. Instead of feeling better, I think of the contrast of my father’s harsh words when he’d come home to hear me practicing a difficult passage—or Dad’s sneer when I was seated below second chair after an audition. Gunnar’s voice is low and strong near my ear as he says, “You’re an amazing person, Emerson. You make beautiful music and always know what to say to make people feel special.”

I pull back and look up into his handsome face. He smiles down at me from his considerable height.

“Will you stay with me tonight? In here?”

Gunnar nods, smiling even wider than before. “Of course I will.”

As I stumble back toward my bed, he kicks off his tuxedo pieces, leaving them in a heap on the floor—a stark contrast to how he took such care with my things. He climbs into bed with me, wearing only a pair of tight, black underwear. At first, I’m nervous about sleeping beside him like this, but he’s so warm, and his arms around me feel so safe and strong. It’s like hugging a hot water bottle.

I know things are supposed to be pretend with him…but this feels awfully real.

I watch my hand rise and fall on his chest as he breathes, just lying there silently, holding me.

“They’re going to come looking for me,” I tell him.

“Who is?” His fingers feel nice stroking my hair.

I shrug, as much as I’m able while cocooned in his comforting nest. “The press. My family. They’ll want me to help with damage control.”

“Hey.” Gunnar lifts my chin to meet his gaze in the darkness. I can make out enough of his expression to know that he’s serious. “I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe and comfortable, Emerson Saltzer. My family can help us with anything legal, and my teammates can help create a physical fucking wall around you if that’s what you need. Got it?”

I nod, blinking back tears. “Thank you,” I whisper. And then I fall asleep to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat.

I worried things would be awkward when I woke up tangled in Gunnar’s limbs, like that first morning in Vegas. But I open my eyes to his sleepy gaze, blinking and studying me as I ease into wakefulness. “Don’t you have practice?” Gunnar usually leaves the house before it’s light outside. Granted, I have no idea what time it is currently or whether it’s daytime. My room doesn’t have a window.

He smiles. “It’s early still.”

“Mmm. It’s nice having you here. Thank you for staying with me.”

Gunnar’s eyes widen. “Are you kidding? I feel fantastic. You’re like a soft, silky bathrobe. And you smell incredible.”

I huff out a laugh. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.” He inhales a long sniff of the top of my head. “Some sort of magic potion. What is that smell, anyway?”

I purse my lips, trying to think. “Well, I use a lavender chamomile shampoo …”

“I want to bathe in it. You have to wear a hat all day, and then let me put the hat in my locker. Oh my god, that’s it.” He sits up. “That’s going to be my ‘thing’ this season. Salty Hats.”

“Your thing?” I sit up, stretching my spine, fingering the sleeve of the jersey.

Gunnar grins as he stoops to pick up his crumpled tux. His back is long, lined, and muscular, and his backside is thick, round, and at eye level…“You know hockey guys are superstitious, right? You have to know that.”

I shake my head, drunk on thoughts of his butt. “You know I’ve spent my whole life in an orchestra pit, right?”

He laughs. “Well. Salty. I need a ritual and now that I’m getting some ice time, I really need a ritual. It’ll keep me focused.”

“Do your brothers do these things? Locker hats?” I stand and stretch, walking to my dresser for a pair of pants I can tug on.

Gunnar walks down the hall toward the bathroom, yelling over his shoulder, “You’ll have to ask them. They’re pretty gross. You might not want to hear the answer.”

I smile, appreciating how lighthearted and fun he can be while also taking his sport and career seriously. Gunnar has shared that he feels he didn’t earn his spot on this team…that he got there based on his father’s reputation. Those sorts of thoughts sometimes flitted through my mind, especially during my time at Juilliard, but I also know that I’m an excellent musician. In some ways, I think we excel in our fields because of our parents—these sorts of proclivities tend to be inherited. However, Gunnar and I have both worked extremely hard to refine our craft.

I’m vaguely aware of him getting ready for practice as I comb my hair, wash my face, and attempt to carry on with the normal parts of my day, even though I can tell I’m too upset to make music today. My phone rings, and I answer it out of habit, stumbling when I hear my brother’s voice.

“Emerson, we need to talk.”

Edwin is stern and cold like always. An attorney, he’s used to people doing as he asks.

Frustrated, I snap, “Nice to hear from you, too, Ed. Thank you for the lovely card you sent after I got married.”

“I most certainly did not send a card acknowledging that farce.”

I roll my eyes at his inability to comprehend sarcasm. “What do you want?”

“You know that I’m calling about the news article. Mom is apoplectic.”

I walk into the kitchen and yank open the fridge, unsure of what I’m searching for. “Mom is always apoplectic. Why is this different?” I realize I feel bold today, that I’m standing up for myself with my brother. My time with Gunnar has already changed me, and I let the lightness of that realization lift me up a bit more.

His voice is a hiss. “There’s going to be an inquiry. From the board.”

Locating a bottle of cranberry juice, I grab it and pour myself a glass, not bothering to mop up the red splash on the counter. “Well, I imagine they will discover some things, Ed.”

He growls. “Emerson, do you really want our family dragged through the press over some angry outbursts? Conductors are perfectionists. It’s pretty universal.”

As I listen to him defend my father and talk about all the ways men will be boys, I realize quite clearly how immersed I’ve been in that mindset, too. Running away on that train feels less and less like a mistake with every day that I spend with the Stag family. I truly escaped something awful.

“Edwin.” I interrupt my brother, possibly for the first time in his life. His sharp intake of breath indicates his surprise at my doing so. “That behavior is universal among mean men who can’t accept that the world is changing. If women feel uncomfortable in the symphony, we should listen to them and act differently.”

He starts to sputter something about orchestras sounding just fine without women, and I see red. “Do you really think you’re helping to convince me to defend Dad? Are you seriously dismissing women’s contributions to professional symphonies?” My brother is just like my parents, viewing me as a pawn or something put on this earth to uplift my father and his precious reputation. I can’t listen to him another second. I snap, “Find someone else to listen to your crap.”

I hang up on my brother, slam my phone down on the counter, and chug the rest of the juice, wiping my mouth with the back of my wrist. I turn to see Gunnar leaning against the hallway wall, watching me with a smile on his face.

“Nice take down, Salty.” He winks. “Grab your coat. I’m buying you breakfast.”