Page 87 of Things I Overshared

He thinks for a second. “Charming.”

“Charming. Okay, easy, we’ll be fast friends. And your brother, Byron, his wife?”

“Layla is . . . well-mannered.”

I start laughing. “Well-mannered?Well-mannered? Is she a goldendoodle? What does that even mean! Just lay it out for me. Who will be the hardest to win over?”

“You don’t need to win them over.”

I try not to let the comment sting. “Okay, maybe a better way to ask that is: Whose probing, annoying spotlight do you want to keep off you and onto me, or onto others at the table?”

“My father, I suppose.” He is grimacing as he says it.

“What about the wild cards—any of the cousins that are trouble?” I push, but he shakes his head. His arms are crossed so tight, it must be painful, and his pale face looks almost sick. “Hey, relax, it’s one evening with your family.” He lets out an exhale. “Close your eyes for a second.” He glares at me almost menacingly. “You trust me enough to take me to meet your entire family. Now close your dadgum eyes, Frosty.”

“I don’t care for that nickname,” he mutters as he closes his eyes.

“Noted,” I mutter back as I unbuckle and move over to the middle seat of the car. A thrill runs up from my toes as the side of my leg meets the side of his, and it continues to my fingers when I reach over and slowly uncross his arms. I grab each of his hands one at a time and set them flat on his legs, resisting the painful urge to squeeze and stroke each one. “I guess you’d probably prefer your half of the playlist,” I say softly as I grab my phone to turn down the volume and scroll to the songs he’s added to my playlist, starting with “Blackbird” by the Beatles.

I get back to my task, reaching my shaky right hand up to Emerson’s glorious neck. I know I am good at this, and I know he needs it. I pinch my thumb and pointer finger on his warm skin, starting at the end of his hair and pulling down. After a few minutes, I can see his face start to relax.

Since he hasn’t so much as grunted an objection, I turn my body and push closer into him. My chest is pushed up against his left arm now, and though his face doesn’t change at the contact, I catch him inhale with surprise. Or maybe, hopefully, more than just surprise.

The new angle allows me to reach both of his shoulders, which I massage, as best as I can from the side. After a minute or maybe two, I feel him finally let go of some of the tension under my fingers. I take in a deep breath of his clean, manly scent while trying not to be obvious that I’m inhaling him.

I probably fail.

I would massage him for the entire hour, without even thinking, but Emerson lets out an audible groan. At the surprising noise, his neck stiffens again and his shoulders rush up to his ears. His hands go from relaxed to clenched fists on his thighs. His face is so hard to read. Is he embarrassed? Disgusted? Irritated?

“Uh, um, wow, right. Thank you.” He fumbles as he pulls away.

“Sure.” I force myself to return to my side of the seat. The resulting chill without his left side along my right is almost painful. “But . . .” I smile as I look over at him. “You’re almost right back to where we started. You are familiar with the concept of relaxing?”

“Vaguely.”

I scoff. “I won’t talk to you anymore, and neither will Charlie, chatty as he is, whew!” I joke. “So, lean your head back and close your eyes and chill. I’m sure this will be a draining evening for you, so just sit there, power all the way down, and charge up your internal batteries.”

“I’m not a robot.”

“Ehhh?” I say as if I’m unsure.

“You ruled it out already. Next on the list was vampire.”

“No more talking! With every word, you look worse!” I tease before he can continue.

He leans his head back, and I gulp. He really remembers every single thing I say, and I really have thrown a lot of insults his way. But he deserved them! Didn’t he? He did. And really, I was only teasing. Surely he can take it. Still, I’m wrecked by the idea that maybe I pierced his tough armor and actually hurt his feelings, which the hot half kisses in the hallway proved he does, in fact, have.

I add softly, “Also, I’ve seen you in direct sunlight, and you didn’t melt or sparkle like Edward inTwilight. So. Not a vampire.” I think I see the hint of a smile on his stunning face.

________

“Holy Toledo Batman and Robin and Catwoman and all their friends,” I say involuntarily as we pull up, after a significant driveafterentering the private gate to the Clark mansion. It’s a sprawling all-white Edwardian masterpiece, with a dozen columns and a million windows, and who knows what other details I can’t see from way down at the end of the driveway.

“Sorry, sir, I can’t get any closer.”

“No problem, Charlie, thank you,” Emerson replies absently, and both Charlie and I smile at the use of the nickname. I wave goodbye to him with a wink and join Emerson on the smooth pavement that seems much nicer than normal cement.

“Shall we?” He motions toward the ominous white structure.