Between the Pages: A Novel (10 page)

“Finley?” he asks, knocking again. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I reply, crouching and managing to exit the tub without falling. I try to give myself a drunk high-five, but I end up smacking my hand against the sink instead. “Ow, fuck!” I cry out.

I shuffle to the door and throw it open. Emerson is standing there with a flashlight, and he takes in my wet, towel-clad body. When I’m drunk my body does
all
of the talking, so I get a thrill from the way his eyes languorously check me out. No brain needed here.

“Oh, sorry. Were you in the shower?” he asks, a hint of a smile tugging on his lips.

“Mmm-hmm, yep,” I say, unsteady. I reach out for the doorframe. “Dark showers kind of freak me out. Which is weird, because that’s totally not something I thought I’d ever say. Like, who would know if they like dark showers unless they got caught in a power outage?” I giggle maniacally.

“You are drunk,” Emerson accuses, and my body warms. His small smile grows larger, the left corner of his lips tugging up farther than the right. God, that lopsided smile will be the end of me.

“Aren’t you?” I whisper, studying his face—his sharp, distinguished nose, his messy hair that’s falling over his left eye. He looks almost dangerous—a devilish gleam appears in his eyes.

“Yes. And I blame you, Finley Matthews.”

I cry out. “It’s not my fault you drank five beers,” I say, smirking.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” he asks, leaning close to me. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me because he’s so close. His breath smells potently like beer and spearmint. It’s an intoxicating mix. I look at his lips, and I feel myself uncontrollably falling forward. Luckily, he’s quick and catches me before I fall forward. “Whoa there.”

“S-sorry,” I stutter, blushing. “Too many drinks. I’m losing my footing. What were you saying?” But I have no idea what he says because his hands are on my shoulders. Hands. On. My. Shoulders.

He stares at me for a beat, making my knees weak and my heart pound wildly in my chest. “We should light some candles and play a board game,” he says confidently.

I scoff. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

“Okay,” he says, grinning. “But without the power, it means you won’t be able to plug in your Winnie-the-Pooh nightlight. You sure you can fall asleep in the pitch dark?”

My head begins to spin. “Wait, how did you know about Pooh?”

He chuckles. “I have my ways.”

I gasp. “Do you have cameras in here?” I look around, and my cheeks burn. God, that would be such a violation—the things he would’ve seen me do . . .

“No cameras.” He walks over to Pooh and flicks the switch. Nothing happens. “You have it on the automatic setting. It came on one night last weekend.”

“Oh,” I say, shaking my head.

“So? Are you ready for a game of Scrabble?” he asks, spreading his arms and placing both of them against the parallel doorframes. I like the way he looks in my door, like maybe he’ll stay and come to bed with me.

Ugh. 
I know this is a bad idea. Intrinsically, my brain is screaming, 
No, no, no! 
But I have no reasoning skills right now. They’re numb. 
I’m 
numb.

“Okay, fine,” I acquiesce. 

“Meet me downstairs in five,” he says playfully. “Here, take this.” He hands the flashlight to me, and I close the door when he leaves.

I quickly change into lace shorts and a cropped sweatshirt. It shows my stomach, but I figure it’s dark, so it won’t really matter. I shake my wet hair out but leave it down. Lastly, I smear some ChapStick on my lips and lotion on my face, then walk downstairs. It’s a little tricky with the stairs wobbling. Or is that me?

Emerson has several candles lit around the living room and a Scrabble board rests on the old steamer trunk he uses as a coffee table. A bottle of whiskey sits off to the side, and I raise my eyebrows.

“Whiskey? Really? Are you trying to send me to the hospital?”

Emerson laughs and gestures for me to sit on the floor. His eyes land on my bare stomach and stay there for a little too long. “I just thought it would heighten the fun,” he growls. His words drive themselves somewhere deep in my abdomen, making my stomach tighten.

“Fine. Pour me a shot,” I say, plopping down and watching him through narrowed eyes. I give him a quick smile, and he pours the amber liquid into a shot glass. I pick it up, and he pours one for himself. “Cheers,” I say, clinking glasses with him. “To losing our minds.”

“To losing our minds,” he echoes, watching me intently.

I throw the shot back. It burns, but it’s nice whiskey so it goes down easily. Instantly, I begin to feel more intoxicated.

“Scrabble is the kind of game you play with your grandmother,” I whine, staring at the board. “When you’re drinking whiskey, you have to play poker.”

Emerson smiles slyly. “Oh, really? I’ve only ever played strip poker,” he adds, challenging me.

His words make me feel dizzy, and suddenly I feel very hot. And then it hits me.
Are we flirting?

“Hold on,” I say loudly, holding my hand up for emphasis. “I don’t think . . .” I trail off and look at him. I don’t think
what
? That this is a good idea? It’s definitely not a good idea, but maybe there’s an opportunity here that would otherwise not present itself. I know that’s the alcohol talking, but we’re both consenting adults.

“You don’t think what, Finley?” Emerson asks, his voice strong and defiant. His heated glance makes me squirm, and I study him for a second before responding.

“I don’t know how to play poker,” I say quietly, succumbing fully. If there was a time to stop this from progressing, now would be it.

But, fuck it.

Emerson grins. “Well, let’s start with Texas Hold ’Em.” He jumps up and jogs upstairs. I nervously bite my thumbnail and curse myself. I can’t tell if I’m taking advantage of him, or if he’s taking advantage of me. I don’t know which one is worse. He comes down the stairs, looking forlorn. “I can’t find my deck of cards. But,” he says, excitedly, “I found some temporary tattoos.” He holds up some paper. “Because when you’re drunk, you get tattoos that you’ll regret. This way, they’ll wash off in the morning.”

I laugh. “Where did you get those?”

He shrugs and stares at them, confused. “I don’t remember. They’re pretty awful.” He passes one to me, and I stare at the Chinese symbol before responding.

“What does this one even mean?” I ask, waving it around. “I don’t want to be temporarily stamping myself with the Chinese version of cunt or something.”

“No idea.” He laughs. He hands the rest of the tattoo papers to me, and quickly walks to the kitchen. When he returns, he’s carrying a glass of water and two washcloths. “You ready to get inked?” he asks, his timbre frisky.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Right now, I’d probably let you give me a real tattoo if you knew how—give you a needle and have at it.”

Emerson freezes and looks at me. His eyes are piercing and dark, and they’re focused on my lips. “Really?” he demands, the smile vanishing from his face.

“I trust you,” I say without thinking. I bite my lower lip and look away.

“I trust you, too,” he says, his voice hoarse.

I can feel the heat radiating off his body. “You choose the first one,” I say, bringing my knees up into my chest.

He leafs through the selections, finally choosing something I can’t see from here. “Okay,” he says, taking my hand and placing the thick paper on my left inner wrist. The feeling of his hand on mine is exquisite. I swallow hard and look at him as he dips one of the washcloths in water and begins to gently pat my sensitive skin where the paper is. I swear I see a small smirk on his face as I gasp quietly. After a few intense seconds, he starts to slowly peel the paper off. “Done,” he whispers. Underneath, a small eagle appears.

“I love it.” I smile. “Thank you.” I reach over for the papers and pick something out for him. “Your turn.” I position myself cross-legged in front of him. I gently place the paper tattoo side down on one of his wrists, and dip one of the washcloths in water, patting him lightly. I can’t believe how much it pleases me to be touching him this intimately. I’m not sure if I’ve ever wanted anything more. I study the soft, smooth, white skin around the tattoo—his pale skin really is beautiful. He looks as if he’s from a different time. “Finished,” I whisper. I peel the paper off and Emerson laughs when the tattoo reveals itself. 

“A snake?” he asks incredulously. 

“You’re Slytherin,” I say, giggling. “Obviously I’m Ravenclaw.” I hold up the eagle as proof.

He watches me and cocks his head to one side, giving me a lopsided grin. His alluring gaze dips to my exposed collarbone, and he licks his lips. 

“The fact that you just quoted Harry Potter is a total turn-on.”

I smile victoriously and hold my other wrist out. “There’s more where that came from,” I reply, my throaty voice surprising me. “I could talk Harry Potter all night. Next.”
I’m giving you permission to touch me more, Emerson
, I think.
I want you to touch me.

He doesn’t say anything as he picks out another tattoo from the pile. I look away as he begins, trying to concentrate on something other than the electricity pulsating through our hands. The feeling goes directly to the pit of my stomach, and after a few seconds, I realize I’m breathing heavily. I look up at him as he removes the paper exceedingly slowly, and then he blows on the tender skin. I watch with heavy eyes as the wolf tattoo dries, and our eyes meet. 

“A wolf,” I say, my voice quiet and unsure. 

He doesn’t answer. He just dips his eyes back down to my wrist, which is still in his hand, and begins to trace the outline of the grey animal. A whimper escapes my throat, and for a second I don’t think he hears me. But then he tugs on my arm ever so softly, pulling me forward. He looks at me uncertainly, as if waiting for permission. Permission for what? The possibilities thrill me. His eyes dart from my eyes to my lips to my nose to my chest, and finally, to the hand he’s holding. He’s drinking me up. His eyes dart back up to mine—oh, those penetrating eyes.

He’s going to kiss me.

Except he doesn’t. Instead, he picks up another tattoo and scoots closer to me with a damp washcloth. My eyes flutter closed as he brushes the hair off my shoulder, exposing the side of my neck. The touch of his fingers brushing my skin in such a sensitive area as well as the sensation of his breath against me is enough to make me utter some sort of guttural sound from the back of my throat. I don’t even care what the hell he’s tattooing on my neck—a place I’d
never
get tatted.

My God, I’d let Emerson do just about anything to me at this point.

I’m not thinking of Emerson, my
boss.
Right now, I’m having a moment with Emerson the
man.
The man who is starting to drive me crazy with desire. The man I’m slowly getting to know—like layers of an onion, week by week, revealing more of his crazy life to me via his outlines. This is a man I want to get to know
more.
The handsome, perplexing writer who complements me in the best way possible. Who becomes possessive when his best friend flirts with me.

Emerson slowly peels the paper off, and with one final nail in the coffin, begins to gently blow on the tattoo. This time I groan—loudly.

“Finley,” he warns, and I don’t need to hear the rest of his sentence. My eyes fly open, and we stare at each other. With only two syllables, he has somehow conveyed what he wants. His voice is a mix of gravel and velvet—wanting and apprehensive at the same time. It says exactly what I’m feeling.

I want this, but we shouldn’t.

“What’s this one?” I ask quietly, clearing my throat and exposing more of my neck by brushing all my hair to the other side.

“A book,” he says, his voice husky. “Because it’s a book that brought us together, and it’s a book that will tear us apart.”

Wait,
what?

I don’t have time to decipher his cryptic message, because the way he’s looking at me right now sends frissons of electricity down every limb. My resistance is waning—or maybe, it was never there. The barriers are down. The walls have fallen. That’s what his furtive look conveys. There’s no need for a verbal confirmation. We both know what he wants.

Don’t do it,
I think, as he grabs onto my sweatshirt and pulls me forward.
I won’t be able to stop you.

“Finley,” he rasps, desperation apparent on his face. “Stop me.”

I shake my head twice. “I can’t, sorry,” I whisper. I’m being pulled closer to him. I can smell his punchy whiskey breath, and it’s so fucking intoxicating. I’m weak, and my heart is pounding. He reaches out and places both hands on my face. Just before his lips connect with mine, the lights come on and the house phone rings.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Emerson

So I guess that means the power is back on.

I reluctantly pull away, and Finley watches me with hooded eyes. God, those lustful eyes are going to be the death of me. The shrill ring does seem to wake me from my stupor though, because I’m able to stand and
not
immediately fall over. I’m sobering up.
Please God don’t let her see my hard-on . . .

Being in such close proximity to her was like being an astronaut in orbit—I felt
pulled in
, like she was compelling my gravity or something. Not to mention that her skin is the softest skin I’ve ever felt. And that says a lot, since I’m not exactly a saint, and I’ve felt a lot of skin. Finley is destroying me, one second at a time. I am unraveling my rules because of her, even though my mind is screaming not to. This is bad. This could end poorly. In fact, it probably
will
end poorly. But right now I don’t care.

Seeing Isaac pursue her decimated me, and it detonated something inside me to mark her as mine.
Mine.
I’ve been avoiding that first meeting because I knew Isaac would want his paws all over her. How could he not? She is beautiful, sweet, smart, and so incredibly sexy. I’m right, and I’m not proud of the possessiveness I felt toward her when it happened. Seeing her clad in only a towel earlier tonight didn’t help. How was I supposed to resist her?

I walk to the kitchen to retrieve the phone, double checking the number. It’s not my mom, but it is an unfamiliar name and number.

“Hey, the name says Hannah Burrows.” I glance at Finley from across the house. She jumps up and runs to the phone, answering it immediately.

“Hannah?” she says, panicked. Her eyes shoot to mine, and the moment we were about to share completely dissipates with the next words. “Oh my God.” She moves her hand to her mouth and nods. “Yeah, and?”

I can hear Hannah talking animatedly on the other line—I can’t tell if she’s happy or upset. It just sounds like chipmunk talk. I gauge Finley’s face for a reaction. Is this a gossip call, or something worse?

“I’m
so
sorry. My phone is dead, and the power was out until just now.” She looks up at me. “I, um . . . I’ve been drinking so I can’t drive over,” she says, her voice terse.

“I’ll call a cab,” I say automatically, reaching into my jeans pocket for my cell phone.

“Hold on one sec,” she says to Hannah, and then she glares at me. “A cab? Are you crazy? Do you know how expensive it would be for me to go to New York City in a taxi?”

I smile. “Finley, I’m paying. I’m also coming with you.”

“What? Why?”

I shrug. I’m beginning to feel warm again, and my eyeballs feel dry. So maybe I’m not sobering up. She starts speaking to Hannah again.

“Sweetie, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She nods. “Yeah. Oh, and Emerson is coming too,” she adds, looking at me with big eyes. I give her a thumbs up. “Yep. Two hours.” She sighs and hangs up the phone. I watch her expectantly. She paces toward the sliding doors and then back to me, all the while mumbling,
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“She caught Geoff in bed with another woman,” she explains, puffing her cheeks out and releasing a loud breath of air. “In
their
bed. It’s bad.”

“That rat bastard,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve heard all about Hannah and Geoff. In fact, even though I’ve never met Hannah, I feel like I know everything about her, and I automatically know I’ll like her. Also, Geoff is a dead man. “Well, grab your things and let’s go. Uber will be here in three minutes,” I say, pointing to the app open on my phone.

She begins to say something, emotion flooding her already-flushed face. Instead, she nods and quickly walks to the stairs. I follow her and head to my bedroom, slipping on a pair of Vans and grabbing a light zip-up hoodie. I put my keys, cell phone charger, and wallet into my back pocket, and meet Finley downstairs. To my delight, she’s still wearing the light pink sweatshirt that shows off her sexy-as-sin stomach, and those damn white lace shorts.

Shit
. I shake my head. I’m a fucking pervert.

“Ready?” I ask, turning the lights off and opening the front door.

“Yeah,” she says reluctantly, walking ahead of me toward the black Prius waiting at the curb. She turns and faces me for a second. “Hey, thank you for doing this,” she says quietly, wrapping her arms around her chest. I jump forward and wrap the hoodie around her shoulders.

“It’s not a problem. Are you going to be warm enough?” I ask, eyeing her itty-bitty outfit and flip-flops.

“I’ll be fine. I just want to get there.” She smiles weakly.

I reach out and open one of the back doors for her. “Then let’s go,” I say, smiling back and directing her in. It might be past midnight by the time we get there, but I like being spontaneous with Finley. Life hasn’t felt this exhilarating in a long time.

The car jerks forward. The driver—a young guy with dreads—looks at the destination and back at us. Twice.

“Yo, we really going to the city?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.

I nod. “Yep. But if you want to make a fuck-load of money tonight, you won’t complain, because we also need a ride back.”

He stares at me. “For real?” His eyes flick between Finley and me. “Okay, let’s get going then.” He puts on some ambient music and offers us water and gum. I take both for Finley, but she’s just staring out of the window.

“I can’t believe Geoff cheated,” she says quietly, facing away. “Hannah is so in love with him. This is going to devastate her.” She sighs and puts her face in her hands.

“Hannah seems like a strong person. I think she’ll get through it. And if she doesn’t, well, then she has you.”

“Emerson, I don’t think I should come back here tonight. I should stay with Hannah. She needs me.” She turns to face me, and her eyes are puffy and bloodshot from holding back tears. In that moment, I can see just how selfless Finley really is. She would sacrifice anything for Hannah. She would sacrifice anything for anyone. She’s a nurturer. All those times she’s brought me coffee to my study—the times she makes her awful but edible dinners. Or even the times she folds my laundry when Brady forgets to. I’ve never asked her to do it—she just does it, all with a smile on her face.

The advice she doles out on a daily basis. The kind looks, the affirming words . . . it’s all because she’s a giver.

And that makes me want to envelop her in a tight hug, because someone needs to take care of
her
.

“I was thinking,” I say slowly as we merge onto the highway, “that she could come stay with us for a couple weeks.” I look at Finley and her mouth drops open. I hold up a finger. “She can’t know
what
kind of work you’re doing for me—that’s confidential—but I will pay her rent through the month so she doesn’t have to worry about money on top of everything else.”

“Emerson,” she says with thin lips and wild eyes, “umm . . .” She looks like she’s seconds away from bursting out laughing.

I sigh because her face gives everything away. “She already knows, doesn’t she?” I should be furious because it’s a huge violation of the contract, but I can’t help but laugh. “Note to self: Finley Matthews can’t keep secrets.”

She cackles and throws her head back. “I’m sorry. My best friend is immune to liability, I guess.” I love it when she laughs like that. It’s so uninhibited and free. I wish she laughed like that more often. She looks at me and shrugs. I casually put my arm around the back of her seat, and she surprises me by nuzzling her head into the crook of my shoulder. “I drank too much,” she whines, closing her eyes and sighing.

“You gonna hurl?” the driver asks, eyeing us in the rearview mirror with a panicked look.

“No,” Finley says. “Everything’s just a little . . . dizzy.”

“’Kay,” the driver answers suspiciously.

“Why don’t you take a nap?” I suggest, and she nods slowly.

“Yeah . . .” she trails off. “Isaac is nice, by the way.” I tense. She must notice because she sits up and stares at me curiously.

“Yeah. He’s a nice guy,” I answer as impassively as possible.

“Is he single?” she asks.

I grit my teeth together. “Yep.” It’s the truth, but I hate that it’s the truth.

“Hmm.” She leans back into my arm. I turn my head slightly and smell her hair. Coconut. “If you don’t want me to date him, just say so,” she says quietly.

I formulate an answer before responding. “He’s just kind of a slut. I don’t want you to get hurt. It might . . . complicate things.”

At first I think she’s fallen asleep, because she’s quiet for what seems like several minutes. Then she sits up once more and smirks.

“Emerson,
he
won’t complicate things. We might, though.”

I study her face, hoping it will reveal how she feels about her statement, but she seems impressively neutral. She’s right—we almost did something stupid tonight. There’s no point in denying it anymore, but we can work together to prevent it from happening again. The first thing that has to go are those lacy shorts.

“Yeah.” My voice is hoarse. I look away. “I think we should stay sober around each other from now on,” I suggest, and I feel her nod against my arm. I take a deep breath, relishing in the feeling of her against me. It may be the last time.

“I agree,” she whispers sleepily. Soon, she’s fast asleep.

I watch the other cars drive past us. I study the shore until it disappears, replaced with industrial buildings, and as we get closer to the city, lights and traffic. I haven’t been back to the city since the day I had breakfast with Finley at the diner. I tend to find the vibrant
go go go
of New York far too distracting to write. I need silence—I need the ocean. Though I do miss my one-bedroom in the East Village, I prefer the house at the beach most of the time.

When we get to Finley’s apartment, I wake her gently by nudging her. She sits up and looks around, confused.

“That was fast,” she slurs. “Oh my God, I’m still drunk.”

I laugh. “You were asleep most of the drive. And yeah, you are still drunk.” I look at the driver. “We’ll be back in a bit. Please keep the meter running.”

“Right on,” is all he says, turning his emergency lights on and pulling a book out of the glove compartment. I glance at the cover and I can’t help but laugh.

“Do you like the book so far?” I ask him, and Finley glances over my shoulder. Her eyes go wide.

“Eh. It started out slow, and now I don’t really know what’s happening.”

I frown. “Well, Kate is depressed. That’s pretty clear from the get go. You see, you have to understand how it—”

“Let’s go,” Finley interrupts. She pulls me out behind her as we trek up the steps of her apartment building. “You can’t get defensive about your work. He bought your book. Just be glad he’s reading it.”

I pull my head back in surprise. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

“Please tell me you’re not one of those authors who read all of their bad reviews,” she groans, and we walk to the elevator. I stay ashamedly quiet, and she giggles. “Focus on the positive, Emerson. Don’t worry if someone doesn’t like your book. Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. The world remains beautiful and diverse because of that.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” We step into the elevator, and without thinking, I push the number three.

Finley stiffens next to me, and her eyes slowly travel up to mine. “Emerson, how do you know what floor I’m on?”

Shit.

“Uh . . . you mentioned it once. Number 304, right? I assumed it was the third floor,” I say quickly, shrugging nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” she answers skeptically.

She crosses her arms and when we get to the third floor, we step out. I see her reach into her purse and pull out her keys. Before she turns the lock, she pulls back. “Shh.” She places her ear against the door. She listens for a few seconds. “Geoff is in there!” she hisses.

I take initiative and throw open the door, startling Finley and the two people on the other side of the door. We step in and Hannah is sitting on the couch with her legs pulled into her chest. She’s crying, and a young guy with a poorly executed man bun is threateningly standing over her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Finley asks, directing her anger at Geoff. I’m not going to lie, seeing her like an angry momma bear is a huge turn-on. Hannah jumps up and walks over to Finley, who envelops her into a tight hug.

“You have weird tattoos on your body,” she blubbers. “Please tell me the one on your neck is fake.”

Finley laughs and squeezes her tighter. I look over at Geoff and glare at him.

“Hannah, this is Emerson,” Finley says, introducing us. Hannah pulls away and shakes my hand.

“Hi. God, I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she says, tears streaming down her face. She’s beautiful despite the crying.

“Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you,” I add, shaking her hand.

“What’s going on with Geoff?” Finley whispers, and I turn my head in his direction with what I hope is my best menacing stare. He looks away nervously and puts his hands in his pockets.