Stepbrother Billionaire Page 4

  “What a charming attitude,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Thanks Sis,” Emerson winks, holding the door open for me like a real gentleman. Or so I think, until he lets it fall in my face at the last possible second.

  Yeah. Maybe all this lovey-dovey nonsense is just in my head after all.

  We walk across the crowded dining car, over to a red vinyl booth in the back corner. One of the regular waitresses, a woman in her forties with heavy blue eye shadow and a perm, plunks a couple of menus down onto the table. We don’t even have to look at them, of course. We’ve both lived in this town long enough to know exactly what we want. It’s said that you can tell a lot about a person by their usual Crystal Dawn order.

  “What’re you having?” I ask Emerson with a playfully grave tone.

  He wiggles his eyebrows conspiratorially, perfectly aware of the weight of the question.

  “Bacon burger. Medium rare. Chipotle mayo.”

  “Of course you’re a raging carnivore,” I groan, shaking my head.

  “Well, what are you getting?” he shoots back.

  “Broccoli and cheese soup in a bread bowl,” I smile.

  “Wait,” he replies, laying his hands on the table. “You’re not...a vegetarian, are you?”

  “I sure am,” I reply with a chipper smile.

  “Of fucking course,” he grumbles, looking downright appalled.

  “You know factory farming is destroying our planet, right?” I tease him, putting on my best goodie-two-shoes voice.

  “You know that tofu is a sin against humanity, right?” he shoots back.

  That one takes me by surprise, drawing a real laugh out of me for once. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t start being a vegetarian for the environment’s sake,” I tell him. “I wish I was that noble. But the real reason is way stupider.”

  “Well. Why did you start?” he asks, halfway interested. That’s still halfway more than usual, at least.

  “When I was eight, my dad let me watch Jurassic Park with him,” I reply. “You know that scene where the goat gets eaten by the T-Rex, and its leg flies up and sticks to the window?”

  “Yeah, obviously,” Emerson replies. “Shit was groady.”

  “Yep. That’s what did it,” I admit. “I haven’t eaten meat since watching that movie. My mom was so pissed at my dad for turning me off chicken nuggets, I don’t think she spoke to him for days. They kept waiting for me to grow out of it, but I never did. And so, here we are.”

  “That’s hilarious,” Emerson says, smiling genuinely for perhaps the first time I’ve known him. It’s not like his usual, sarcastic grin. It’s something warmer, more honest. And it just about does me in.

  Luckily, the waitress comes back for our orders right at that moment, so I don’t end up throwing myself at him right then and there. We lapse into silence again as we wait for our food to arrive. He agreed to talk to me about what’s been going on between us, since the night of the party. But now that the moment has arrived, I can’t think of how to begin.

  “So. Are you and Courtney a thing or what?” I blurt out.

  Smooth, Abby, I grumble internally.

  “Courtney? Nah,” Emerson shrugs, “A little too high maintenance for me. And crazy as shit, too. Plus she’s always got show tunes on...Who listens to show tunes for fun?”

  “I’m sure she’s...nice. When you get to know her,” I reply. The last thing I want to do is go shitting on other girls just because they happen to have sucked face with Emerson. If I did that, just about every pretty girl in our school would be on my shit list. Girl on girl hate is something I try and avoid altogether, if I can help it.

  “I’m not really that interested in ‘nice’, is the thing,” Emerson scoffs, picking at a bit of loose paint on the table.

  “What...are you interested in?” I ask, my voice going soft on me.

  Emerson lifts his eyes to mine, the gold specks reflecting in the dying spring light outside the diner window. I swallow hard, waiting for him to go on.

  “I’m interested in someone who can teach me things. Show me things,” he says.

  I’m totally taken aback by his direct answer. “Oh?” I say meekly.

  “I could hang out with hot girls who don’t give a damn about me as a person, or look for someone who seems interested in something other than my fantastic body,” he continues, “I’m gonna go with the latter.”

  Of course, he can’t let a serious phrase go by without turning into a joke. Is that a defense mechanism or what?

  “Have you ever met someone like that?” I dare to ask him, “Someone you could be interested in for more than a weekend?”

  He lets me writhe under his gaze, taking his sweet time to formulate an answer to my question. I can feel my cheeks growing hotter by the second before he finally says one word:

  “Maybe.”

  The rest of the restaurant seems to fall away around us as Emerson trains his eyes on me. I have to choose my response very, very carefully here. This one little moment could be a turning point. A transformation. With my heart in my throat, I let my hand rest on the table, only a couple of inches away from his. Those mere inches of space spark with electricity, searing my already frayed nerves. I wish I could tell him that I want the same thing from a relationship—to be with someone who challenges me, like he does. Someone who’s not interested in being nice or normal, like he is. Someone who could show me a life I’d never be able to dream up on my own.

  Like he very well could.

  “Emerson,” I say softly, letting my hand drift slowly toward his, “I—”

  The front door of the diner flies open, slamming against the wall with a loud clatter. Emerson turns to look over his shoulder at the sound, and just like that, the spell is broken. Shit. I glance up, annoyed, to see who’s disrupted our near-perfect moment. But when I recognize the group that’s just sauntered inside, I feel myself going numb.

  “Goddamn it,” I whisper, “Not now.” I quickly hiding my hands under the table, not wanting Emerson to see how they’ve begun to shake. I pretend to be very interested in something out the window as I hear the boisterous voices of three guys from my school fill the enclosed space, one of whom I’m very intimately, and very unfortunately, acquainted with.

  To my horror, I watch from the corner of my eye as Emerson waves at the trio. Of course. They’re his lacrosse teammates. He has no idea why flagging them down is the worst thing he could possibly do to me right now. Against my silent prayers to any god that’s listening, the three boys stroll over to our table. Emerson swings his body around to greet them.

  “Hey guys,” he says to his three teammates.

  “Hey Tank,” says one of the guys, a blonde junior named Steve, using Emerson’s lacrosse nickname. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. As usual,” Emerson laughs, “What’s happening tonight?”

  “Some people will be over at my place,” says Roger, a lanky senior. “Got a couple of dime bags, if you want in.”

  “You know I do,” Emerson replies.

  “We interrupting you?” Steve asks. I feel their three sets of eyes fall on my face like laser beams. Shit. I was hoping I’d get out of this without having to say a word to them.

  “Just grabbing some food,” Emerson says, “Right Abby?”

  With great reluctance, I raise my eyes to the four boys before me. I try to keep my gaze trained on Emerson, or even Steve and Roger, but my eyes can’t help themselves. They flick masochistically up to the third boy standing next to our table. He’s as tall as Emerson, with jet black hair slicked away from his hard jaw, his full lips. His own dark eyes skirt away from mine the second we make eye contact. He hasn’t looked at me in years. I like to believe it’s because he can’t bear to, that the guilt and shame are too much for him to deal with. But in reality, it’s probably just cold indifference that repels his gaze from me.

  His name is Tucker Jacoby. He very nearly derailed my entire life, back when we were fifteen. And it’s
abundantly clear that Emerson has no idea.

  “Yeah...” I finally manage to say, my voice barely audible. “Just getting some food.”

  “You guys know Abby, right?” Emerson says to the trio. I can feel my skin starting to crawl with every passing moment they...he lingers beside me.

  “Sure. Yeah,” Steve nods, “You do all those cartoons in the school newspaper, right?”

  “Right,” I say shortly, my hands shaking violently under the table. “That’s me.”

  “I liked the one with the duck,” Roger puts in, “Didn’t really get the joke, but—”

  “I’m starving,” Tucker cuts in. The sound of his voice is like an ice pick to my composure. “Let’s get a table. See you, Tank.”

  He turns away without acknowledging me, just as he’s done for the past couple of years. Emerson raises an eyebrow at his retreating back before glancing over at me. He freezes as he catches a glimpse of my upset expression, taken off guard by the extremity of my discomfort.

  “See ya, Tank,” Roger says, turning toward the table that Tucker’s claimed for them. “Think you’ll swing by my place tonight?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get back to you on that,” Emerson says, his eyes still fixed on my troubled face. The sudden concern clouding his handsome face is enough to make my own eyes prickle with hot tears.

  Roger and Steve trundle away after Tucker, leaving Emerson and I alone again at last. Our food has yet to arrive, but I’ve lost any trace of my appetite. The air in the Crystal Dawn feels poisonous now. Contaminated. I’m finding it harder to breathe with every shallow gulp of air I can manage to force down.

  “Abby, are you OK?” Emerson asks, reaching for me across the table.

  “I. I need...” I gasp, struggling to form the simplest words. “Can we go? Please?”

  “Of course we can,” Emerson says, his voice soft but firm. He rises to his feet and offers me a hand as I stand, shakily. I feel the comforting weight of his arm as he drapes it over my shoulders, holding me snugly against his muscled side. Usually, I’d be all butterflies and giddiness to be this close to him. But in the midst of my anxiety attack, all I can feel is icy panic. I can’t help but glance over at Tucker as Emerson leads me out of the diner. I should be used to the uncaring expression he saves just for me by now. I shouldn’t let the mere sight of him unravel me like this.

  But I’m just not strong enough to not give a shit. I never have been.

  After what feels like a decade, I settle into the passenger seat of Emerson’s Chevy. As he rounds the car, sinks into the driver’s seat, and slams the door shut behind him, the bubble of my fear and apprehension bursts. Shame and relief crash simultaneously over me, rendering me speechless as Emerson turns to take me in. His look, infused with compassion, undoes me completely. Fat tears roll down my cheeks as I stare straight ahead, wishing that I could actually be as small as Tucker makes me feel. If I was, it would be easy enough to slip through the cracks and disappear forever.

  “Abby,” Emerson says quietly, “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  I draw in a deep, ragged breath, trying to muster the strength for words. “I’m sorry,” I finally manage to whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says, his brow furrowing. “Abby, is it OK if I hold your hand?”

  His simple request acts as a life preserver, saving me from going under in this rush of emotion. I look over at him and nod silently. Without pause, Emerson reaches for the hand that is currently gripping my thigh, uncurls my fingers, and laces them with his own. I cling onto him like a drowning woman, amazed that he took the time to ask me if I wanted to be touched. I remember, through my thick fog of misery, that he must have plenty of practice being the comforter. How many times has he sat with Deb as she descended into a depressive stupor?

  “Thank you,” I manage to tell him through my tears.

  “Any time,” he replies, giving my hand a squeeze. “Are you with me now?”

  “I am. I’m here,” I gasp. His simple touch was enough to drag me through the thick of my panic. I can feel the world coming back into focus around me.

  “If you want to talk about what just happened back there,” Emerson says, rubbing his thumb against my still-trembling hand, “We can.”

  I look over at him, leaning toward me from the passenger seat. I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s calm. Gentle. Caring. And all for me. I desperately want to explain myself, to tell him why I had to get out of that diner the second Tucker walked in. But letting him in on my shameful secret...what if it wiped that compassionate look right off his face? What if he was never able to look at me the same way again? We’re so close to figuring out how to talk to each other, how to spend time together despite everything. I don’t want to ruin that. Not for anything.

  “Would you mind if we just...went home?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain steady.

  “Sure,” Emerson says, “Yeah. We can go home, Abby.”

  He holds my gaze for a long moment before turning back to the wheel. Delicately, he extricates his fingers from mine to start the car. But the second we’re in motion, I reach for it again. His hand is my anchor in this moment. I need it. I need him.

  We ride home in utter silence. The radio stays off, the windows stay closed. I gaze out the window at the darkening landscape, the familiar contours of the town I’ve called home all my life. The incident at the diner only makes me want to speed up the days until I finally get to leave this place behind, go somewhere where nobody knows me at all. But how can I wish these days away knowing that my flight from here will mean being separated from Emerson?

  Anger floods in to replace my fear and shame. Tucker has already taken so much from me. Caused me so much pain. Now my long-awaited conversation with Emerson about where we stand has been ruined, thanks to him. If he proves to be the thing that keeps Emerson and I from every truly getting a chance at being close, I’ll never forgive him. Then again, I never plan on forgiving him anyway. There are some things that no amount of time or patience can mend.

  I know that from experience.

  Chapter Four

  Despite Emerson’s offer to listen if I want to talk about the “diner incident”, we don’t get into it upon arriving home. Dad and Deborah have gone out for dinner, as they do most nights when Emerson and I aren’t around. The house feels cavernous and cold tonight. This place hasn’t felt like home since Mom passed away, but after what just happened with Tucker, the entire town feels uninhabitable to me. I feel like I’m fifteen years old again. Scared, confused, and so, so lonely. Only now, there’s actually someone here to help me through it.

  “We still need to rustle up some grub,” Emerson says, moving ahead of me into the kitchen. He doesn’t seem to mind my radio silence about what just went down at the restaurant, but there’s definitely been a shift in his demeanor. His usual grin has been replaced by a comforting smile, and his entire attitude toward me seems gentler. Nicer. It isn’t that he’s pitying me, thank god. It’s almost as if he’s recognized something of himself in me. Go figure—I’m sure he has more pain hidden inside of him than anyone should be made to live with.

  “Well, I’m a terrible cook,” I tell him, leaning my elbows on the kitchen island. “Couldn’t even boil water if I tried.”

  “Huh. Lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent chef,” Emerson says seriously, opening up the kitchen cupboard.

  “Wait. Really?” I ask, surprised.

  “Really,” he replies, “I had to cook for Mom most of the time growing up. Letting a wasted person near sharp knives and open flames is a terrible idea.”

  “That follows,” I reply. “So, what do you have in mind, master chef?”

  “Well,” he says, plucking a few items down off the cupboard shelf. “How do you feel about risotto?”

  “Are you kidding?” I blurt. That’s one of my all-time favorite foods. I used to ask my mom to make it every year for my birthday. But there’s n
o way he could have known that.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘fuck yeah’,” Emerson smiles, plunking a container of Arborio rice down onto the counter. “Why don’t you find us a movie on demand to watch or something? I’ll get this thing whipped up in no time.”

  I follow his suggestion and head for the living room. Stealing a glance at Emerson over my shoulder, I feel my heart warm up a few degrees. His face is composed, free from the scowl that usually rests there. With Dad and Deb out for the night, I can almost imagine that this is our place—mine and Emerson’s alone. We’ve never once spent time like this together. He hardly ever stays in for a night, and I’m mostly preoccupied with extracurriculars and long study sessions at the library. After our disastrous outing before, this evening is suddenly looking up. Maybe we’ll even get around to discussing this sudden shift in our relationship. He’s cooking me dinner, after all. Clearly, miracles do happen.

  I scroll through dozens upon dozens of movies as Emerson cooks. The savory fragrance of his recipe makes my stomach growl in eager anticipation.

  “Jesus. Was that you?” he calls from the kitchen. “Not very ladylike, Sis.”

  “What do you want from me?” I grin back. “Your gourmet masterpiece is taking forever. I’m starving in here.”

  “I could always just scrap it and make you some Easy Mac instead,” he teases.

  “You’re not that inhumane,” I shoot back.

  “That is true,” he chuckles, filling two bowls with the steamy, decadent meal he’s prepared. “Besides, this looks too good to waste.”

  Emerson walks over to the deep sectional couch where I’ve made myself a nest of pillows and blankets. I let out a low moan as I smell the garlicky, mushroomy goodness of the food. Emerson hands me a heaping bowl topped with a mound of parmesan cheese and plops down onto the couch beside me, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. Almost reverently, I scoop a bite of risotto onto my gigantic silver spoon and raise it to my mouth. Emerson watches expectantly out of the corner of his eye as I sample his cooking.