Page 91 of Things I Overshared

“It’s fulfilling, isn’t it, to work in the family business?” William asks with a smooth smile.

It’s amazing how much I’ve learned about the Clarks in just the appetizer and salad courses. Except for bumbling Joe, every single Clark is charming. They smile, they chat, they are warm and at ease. All but Emerson. Even with his family, it’s as if words either escape him or pain him on their way out. He’s tense and quiet, and I can see it’s not just because of the situation.

The dinner is not the most fun I’ve attended, that’s for sure. Chelsea and her mother barely say a word, though both of them look at Emerson with what I’d consider unabashed longing. This marriage was the hope of three out of four parents at this table, that much is obvious.

At the far end of the table, William Sr. hunches over his plate and eats in silence. He watches us a bit but seems to fade in and out of awareness, and the fact that he is simply ignored breaks my heart. Everyone is painstakingly proper and polite, as if cameras are on us at all times. It’s super weird.

William, charmer that he may be, keeps throwing out subtle jabs, but I’m defending my temporary man like a goalie besting pucks on the ice.

“It’s fulfilling.” I consider my reply. “To . . . be a part of something bigger than myself, I guess. Something engaging and stimulating, where I feel like I’m making a difference,” I say, only half lying. My answer is more for Emerson than it is for myself, just like William’s question.

“Ah, but how hard do you have to work, really, as one of the famous Canton sisters, eh?” Haymitch jokes.

“Um . . .” I blush for a second, caught off guard.

“Are you implying she doesn’t do her job?” Emerson asks with cold precision, directing his stare in such a way, I almost pity Haymitch on the other end of it.

“Oh, I was only joking, of course.” He chokes on the words as he shifts his eyes from Emerson to William, as if Mr. Clark Sr. can save him. But Emerson is on the warpath now.

“Samantha. What’s the profit margin on the RainyDaze embossed line?” he asks, looking at Haymitch as he talks to me.

“One twenty-five per card in the US. One twenty in most overseas markets,” I say automatically.

“And the PaintedSkye planners?”

“Eight dollars and three cents in every market except France, but—”

“What about the same planners, but with gold foil?”

Emerson is on a rampage, so I keep up with him. “Seven ninety.”

“And how many units did we sell last quarter of the gold?”

“In the US or . . . ?”

“Here in the UK.”

“Twenty-one thousand, but I think they—” I try to slow his roll, but there may be actual steam coming out of Emerson’s ears at this point.

“And Bernard, who runs the East London Canton store—what’s his wife’s name?”

“Stacy.”

“And his daughter?”

“He has two, Mattie and Meredith. But I—”

“And his dog?”

“Wags.”

“Breed?”

“Pug,but I think they get your point, babe,” I add quickly with a smile as Haymitch turns from pink to red.

Emerson turns his melting stare to me, though he’s still addressing the man across the table. “As you can see, Samantha is a prodigy. She consistently outsells every single sales representative we have in the entire organization, including her superior, the vice president. Byover six percent.” He reaches his hand out and gently grips my neck under my ear, placing his thumb on my cheek. My mouth opens the slightest bit, and I have to concentrate to keep my knees from doing the same. “That even includes sales in their headquarter state, Oklahoma. I am . . . very proud of her.”

The table sits in stunned silence that I know is less about me than it is about the string of words that just poured effortlessly from the beautiful mouth I can’t stop staring at.