Page 89 of Things I Overshared

“I can give you a tour!” Ben says with a wink as he bounds to greet us. I instinctively link my fingers through Emerson’s again. His brother catches the movement right away. “Ah, that’s why you didn’t want me to ask her out, you old wanker! You could’ve just said, you know.”

Emerson just coughs, so I change the subject. “We brought this, but it may need to be chilled for a bit.” I dig into my bag for a bottle of wine I grabbed from the hotel fridge. I don’t know if Emerson bought it or the hotel put it there, but I googled it and it’s crazy expensive.

“Oh, how lovely! Thank you, dear.” Her reply seems genuine as a member of the house staff—I’m assuming, since she’s wearing a black polo with black pants and black boat shoes that are only worn by kitchen workers or on actual boats—appears from nowhere to take the wine. The servant also offers to take my bag as she slinks away.

It’s then that I can look up at Emerson for the first time since the porch, and while his face still looks a bit too surprised, I definitely see some relief and something else—maybe awe? I give him a wide smile and do the bicep-grip-hand-slide move again.

“Emerson!” a man who must be Mr. Clark calls out as he joins us in the entryway. He’s in a perfectly fitted suit, with his son’s light brown Ken doll hair that shows only the slightest bit of gray at his temples.

“Dad.” Emerson sounds tight as he gives him a firm handshake. “This is Samantha Canton.” He turns his body into me, right as his father’s eyes look my way.

“Mr. Clark, wonderful to finally meet you!” I say as I stretch out my right hand, keeping my left firmly in Emerson’s grasp.

“William. And my, a Canton in the flesh. What an unexpected honor,” he says with a wide smile. The words are nice, but the tone is a bit prickly. He’s one to watch, for sure.

“Well, come on then, or are we going to stand in the vestibule all night?” Ben teases.

“Quite right.” William opens his arms for us to move into the house.

We step through the entry into a surprisingly modern sunken living room space with a giant hearth, low-profile leather chairs, bright white couches, and a full bar—complete with a black polo–clad bartender—off to one side. Past the living area are massive glass doors all along the exterior wall that reveal a manicured garden and sparkling pool in the yard. I can see a glimpse of the kitchen off to one far corner and a walkway in the other, from which Byron and his wife cautiously emerge.

“Hi, I’m Layla.” She extends a demure hand that matches her tasteful wine-colored dress. The dark red works wonders for her brown eyes and chestnut curls.

“Layla! Yes! Nice to meet you. I’ve heard great things.” I gush as we shake hands.

“Oh?” She looks to Emerson as Byron gives him a manly hug-slap.

“Yes, you know, his favorite sister and all,” I joke.

“Where’s the star of the show?” Emerson looks around the room.

“With my mum. We wanted a grown-up night out. But we’ll make sure she sees you before you fly out,” Layla answers, I assume referring to his niece. A few more people emerge out of the walkway past the wet bar. I go in for Emerson’s hand again, but this time, he wraps his arm around my waist and tucks me in close to his side.

I die.

I love it so much, I absolutely die for at least two seconds.

“Heyo! A Canton, eh? So, you’re boinking the boss then, Emerson?” a chubby man jeers loudly as he approaches.

“Joseph,” Emerson warns coldly to a shorter, darker version of himself.

“Oh no, I’m not his boss. Technically he’s one of my bosses, actually. Hi, I’m Samantha.” I reach out a hand and smile.

“Joe, favorite cousin.”

“Please excuse my brother,” slender cross between Emerson and Joe says as he greets us. “I’m Peter.”

“Samantha, nice to meet you.”

Behind Joe and Peter, I see Chelsea timidly approach with an older couple. I put my right hand on Emerson’s chest for a beat. “Babe, you didn’t tell me we’d have such a welcome party. I hope I can remember everyone’s names!”

“Sorry, Angel,” he says softly, squeezing me ever so slightly around the waist.This is not real. The nickname Angel is just an act. He did the same thing at the bar with Damian. Not. Real!

“This is one of my partners, Haymitch Wittington, and his wife, Deborah. Lifelong friends of ours,” Emerson’s dad explains as the last little group reaches us.

“Miss Canton, a pleasure.” He greets me briefly before immediately beaming at Emerson. “So good to have you back home, son!” Emerson lets go of me to shake his extended hand. Deborah shakes my hand wordlessly, and then leans in to hug Emerson. She’s clearly the shyest one here.

“And this is their daughter Chelsea.” William clears his throat as she approaches.