Page 66 of Things I Overshared

“From Damian?” I look up at him, my forehead pinched. I don’t think I was in any real danger beyond being very uncomfortable or maybe having to make a bit of a scene to break free of him. Not that a scene doesn’t hold some danger when you’re me. It could’ve been filmed and posted on social media before I’d even gotten his hands off my hips. I shudder.

“From yourself.” Emerson’s hands are fists at his sides, and his face looks almost distraught.

I search his eyes. “What do you m—”

“Youaretoo trusting. Too optimistic, too good. You let people into your orbit, boys, idiots, twat arseholes who don’t deserve to be there.” He swallows. “But you’re not a screwup.”

I shake my head in frustration and wipe my tears. This is so embarrassing. The fact that he just said he has to save me from myself confirms every theory I just confessed.

“Ugh! Just forget it. I have got to quit babbling to you! Telling all my deepest, darkest secrets to Mr. Perfect Genius. It’s like you have some superpower to make me open my mouth, and then embarrassing crap falls out. I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

He scoffs. “I am not perfect.”

“Oh, okay,” I mumble, sounding sarcastic and childish.

“I actuallyamthe disappointment in my family.”

“Please, Emerson. Don’t lie to make me feel better. You’re taking this from bad to worse.”

“It’s not a lie. You picked up on the fact I’m not keen on seeing them while I’m here.”

“How could they be disappointed in you?” I’m genuinely upset by this idea, especially as I see a flash of my own shame in his beautiful eyes. “I remember everyone freaking out in the office because you weren’t even thirty-five andThe Financial Timesput you on the cover and literally crowned you the King of Manhattan!”

He gives a small, sad smile. “Ah, but Manhattan isn’t London.”

“Seriously? Manhattan isn’t good enough? Who the heck are these people, your family?”

He crosses his arms and brings a hand to his chin, looking like a portrait staring back at me. “You really don’t know much about me, do you?”

“Emerson. No one knows much about you,” I deadpan. He gives a small laugh. “So? Who are they? And where do they live so I can pop on over there and give them a good ole Oklahoma what for, because they’re pissing me off.” That earns me a real smile—it’s not wide, but it reaches his eyes. My chest explodes with bubbles of one million different emotions, bursting all at once.

“A story for another night.” He dips his head and uncrosses his arms to turn and go back to his room.

“Wait.” I grab his arm, desperate to keep him near me, to keep his mouth talking and his eyes fixed on my own. His arm tenses again, just like on the plane, firm as a rod. “We have a pretty open day tomorrow. I have to get Sadie and Nicole from the airport and swing by the convention center at some point. Do you want to join me?”

“I am seeing my brothers tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Okay.” I search his face. “Will it be at least a little bit fun?”

He gives a small shrug. “Maybe.”

“Well, thank you again, for saving me. Twice.”

I don’t think—I just do what I need to do. What I have to do. I rush forward and wrap my arms around him. He is hard, tense, strong—everything he was in the water earlier, except dry and warm. He stands frozen, shocked, for what feels like minutes but can only be a couple seconds.

I can’t tell if he’s disgusted or angry or uncomfortable or what, but instead of letting him off the hook, I squeeze him tighter, close my eyes, and bury my head in between the two bulges of his chest. I may never have the excuse to hold Emerson Clark ever again, and I’m not letting go easily.

When I squeeze, life sparks in his limbs and he finally, tentatively wraps his arms around me in return. His hands barely touch my shoulders at first, like he thinks I might break. Then I feel him inhale, and suddenly he is hugging me.

No, holding me.

He splays his hands and moves his arms as if to touch as much of me as he can, but somehow he remembers the bruise along my side that even I’d forgotten in the moment. He rests his jaw on my head. We stand that way for a few glorious seconds.

“You’re welcome,” he says softly, and then he pulls away. He turns quickly and goes into his room. Once more, I’m left alone in the kitchen, soaking in the aftermath of an emotional storm that just erupted between us.

I have no idea where I stand with him, but I know it’s a lot closer to friendship than it was at the beginning of this trip, and maybe even past friendship into something else. I feel the hope in my gut, for that something else. I close my eyes and take a breath. Because hoping has never gone well for me. Ever.

What if I’m seeing things that aren’t there again? Am I making Emerson sweeter, softer, better in my head? I truly don’t think so. I think Operation Thaw just took longer than I thought, and finally, blissfully, I have worn down the frozen edges of that CFO façade to reveal a truly stunning man underneath.