Playing Knotty (12 page)

“Good.” Her face was pink. “So, are there . . . more ties you want to do?”

“No, I think it's best if we call it a night.” He still felt unsteady after his orgasm.

She nodded. “Yeah. That's probably . . . yeah.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “So . . . Saturday. And it'll be like this? I mean, like some of this. The earlier part.”

“Yes. Everything except . . . this.” He gestured to the bed, and she nodded, lips curling up slightly. “You're out at four, and the workshop's not until seven. Do you want to grab an early dinner beforehand?”

Emma hesitated. Was it the thought of dinner with him? Or maybe it was just the money—he knew her wallet was a bit tight.

“My treat,” he added. “No pressure or anything if you don't want to go.”

“Are you sure? You're already paying me for the classes. I'd feel weird having you pay for dinner, too.” She was rubbing her wrists. When she saw him noticing, she shook her head. “Oh, they don't hurt. It's just . . . I can still feel the ropes. You know? I like it.”

“Yeah. I know.” He loved that feeling, the phantom press of ropes against his skin after being untied. “I'd like to buy you dinner, Emma. As a thank-you. And because you're good company. Will you let me?”

Another moment's hesitation, and then Emma gave a half shrug and nodded. “Sure. Dinner. What the hell.”

Ian couldn't help but smile. “I'll come by the shop around five, then.”

After she'd pulled her hoodie and shoes back on and composed herself, it was hard for Ian to reconcile this Emma with the one who'd lain panting and bound in the middle of his bed only a short while earlier. She hesitated at the door, her hand on the knob, and he thought about kissing her. He could press her back against the door and slide his mouth over hers, easy as breathing, taste those soft moans she made when he tangled a hand in her hair. During his moment's hesitation, though, she said goodbye and slipped away. In her wake, he was left staring at the emptiness she left behind and wondering what the hell had gotten into him.

Chapter 14

A
lthough it wasn't
really in the budget, Emma found it difficult to say no to Alina's texted request for “dinner with the girls” on Friday night. Saying no meant either explaining that she was broke or lying and saying she had plans, which would only invite further questioning. She thought about making alternate plans so she wouldn't have to lie, but she didn't want to seem desperate by calling Ian so soon, and Bethany was scheduled to close that night. She wasn't sure which she resented more: the fact that Alina had assumed she'd be free on a Friday night with less than a day's notice, or the fact that she actually
was
free on a Friday night.

Walking up the hill from the T stop, Emma tried to look on the bright side. Sure, Le Chat probably overcharged for everything, but according to Alina, they made “Oh my God, SUCH amazing food,” and it would make a nice change from ramen and salad. Plus, she hadn't seen Alina or Margot in nearly two weeks, not since all this mess with Ian began. Fuck, was she supposed to tell them what was going on? They were her friends—weren't you supposed to share these sorts of things with friends? A small part of her reveled in the idea, surprising her. Wouldn't it be worth it just to drop that tidbit of information in their lap? “Oh, yes, I'm sorry I haven't invited you all over for tea. I'm too busy having hot sex.” She laughed, taken aback by her imaginary boldness. That was too much of a “fuck it” moment for her yet.

Emma approached the white-brick building with its European-style red awnings, following a young woman who was wearing a stylish black dress and walking arm in arm with her date. Emma worried, was her skirt and sweater ensemble fancy enough for this place? She smoothed her hands down the front, wishing she'd worn a nice necklace to bring the outfit together.

“Reservation?” The maître d' looked up expectantly as she approached the podium.

“Under Yu?” Oh, damn, that sounded really sexual. “I mean, Alina Yu?”

“Right this way, miss.” He led her to a table near the back wall. Even though she was right on time, both women were already there. How was it that she was always the last to arrive? Did they secretly meet ahead of time and invite her late so they could talk about her when she wasn't there? Wait, that was a ridiculous thought. That was the kind of thing that happened in high school, not with professionals . . . right? She had to stop watching
Sex and the City
on Netflix.

“Emma!” Alina got to her feet to half-hug Emma, grasping her by the upper arms and air-kissing near her ear. “I'm so glad you're here. Isn't this place adorable?”

“It's lovely, yes,” Emma found herself saying as Margot reached across to squeeze her hands in greeting. Whoa, when had she started using the word “lovely” in regular conversation?

As soon as she'd sat down, Alina leaned in and put her hand on Emma's. “You absolutely have to try the escargot. The garlic butter sauce is divine. I'm getting it as an appetizer for us to share, and you'll love it.”

Emma didn't like escargot, having figured that out during a two-week trip to France during her undergraduate career, but she just smiled politely. It wasn't worth it to argue with Alina. “Sounds great. Thank you.” She opened the menu that was laid across her plate, noticing that the other girls had theirs closed, so she should probably figure out what she wanted quickly. At least it was one of those places where the menu changed all the time, so she only had to choose from a handful of entrées, all of which sounded delicious.

While she scanned the options, Margot continued the story that Emma's arrival had probably interrupted, something about one of her blog entries and her obnoxious editor or something like that. Emma wasn't really listening. She'd get the coq au vin, because chicken was cheaper than anything else on the menu. The waiter came with a basket of bread and took their orders, and Alina ordered a bottle of wine for the table.

“Is that all right with you, Emma?” Her smile seemed warm, but Emma couldn't be sure if it was condescending. Why would Alina be consulting her unless she thought Emma couldn't pay for it?

“You know, I'm going to stick with water.” Emma was surprised how easily she said no, without a crisis of indecision. She thought of Ian's “fuck it” moments and smiled to herself. If she could get through a bondage workshop, she should be able to handle dinner, right?

Alina changed their order to a half-carafe instead of a full bottle before the waiter left. Emma felt a wave of relief, emboldened that she'd shared a contradictory opinion for once, even if it was for something so small. She tried to tune in as Margot finished—at last—her lengthy diatribe and Alina offered some commiserating platitudes.

“So. Emma.”

At the sound of her name, Emma looked up, startled, as Alina leaned closer and folded her hands on the table. “I haven't seen you in weeks. It feels like years. Where have you been hiding?”

Emma drank some of her water, the ice clicking cold against her teeth. She couldn't exactly tell them the truth—
oh, I've just been dabbling in bondage modeling with a hot guy I'm screwing on the side
—she wasn't ready for
that
much honesty yet. So she'd been rehearsing alternatives, stories with enough basis in fact so she wouldn't feel like she was lying. “I've picked up some freelance work lately.”

“Oh? I didn't know you were looking for more work.” Margot's brow furrowed. “I could have found you something, I'm sure.”

Emma broke a slice of bread from the basket, the crust coming off the bottom in an uneven chunk. The butter was shaped into tiny roses, and she sliced one in half with her knife, smoothing it over the bread, which was so hot that the butter melted instantly. “It sort of fell into my lap, actually. I wasn't really looking for it.” That was certainly true.

“What kind of freelancing?” Alina asked.

Emma took a bite of her bread and chewed before answering Alina. God, the bread was incredible. If all the food was this good, maybe it would be worth the expense. “Modeling.”

She didn't miss the look Alina and Margot exchanged. “Modeling. Wow.” Alina reached over and helped herself to a slice of bread as well. “If I'd known you wanted to do modeling, I could have found someone to connect you with. Fashion's my thing. It's what I do. I didn't think that was something
you
wanted to do.” She skipped the butter and ate her bread dry.

Emma rubbed her thumb over the handle of the fork, watching it gleam. “Like I said, it just kind of came up. I ran into this friend of mine from high school, and he needed help on this project and asked if I could do it. I said yes. Now he wants me to work on some other stuff.”

Margot perked up, resting her forearms on the table. “He?”

Oh, shit. Don't blush, don't blush
. If she blushed, they'd think there was something between her and Ian. There
was
something between her and Ian, even if she didn't know exactly what it was, but it was complicated and glorious and mortifying all at once, and it was
not
something she wanted to discuss with Alina and Margot. Not . . . not yet. “Yeah. He.” She made herself look up, meeting Margot's eyes, unflinching. Directness was best. “His name's Ian. We knew each other back in high school.”

Alina took a bite of bread and chewed, brows drawn together in thought. “So he's a photographer or something?”

“It's his hobby.” If they pressed this lie too much, it was all going to fall apart. Emma was a shitty liar.

“And what's he do for work, like, normally?” Margot rested her chin on her hand, beautiful slender fingers tapping at her jaw.

“He's an accountant or something.” Emma shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. Her face felt warm, but maybe they wouldn't notice.

“You're not sleeping with him, are you?” Alina grabbed her wrist. “Oh, God, Emma, tell me you're not.”

“What?” Emma laughed, and it sounded forced even to her own ears. “Of course not. That's ridiculous. It's just some stupid photographs.”

“Naked photographs? Did he ask you to get naked?” A line appeared between Alina's brows. Was she actually concerned?

“No, clothed. I'm wearing clothes.” Emma pulled her wrist back. “I don't see what the big deal is.”

Alina hesitated. Their half-carafe of wine arrived along with the escargot, and Alina poured out two glasses and handed one to Margot before insisting that everyone try the escargot. Emma put one of the rubbery garlic sponges on her plate but didn't eat it yet. Hopefully the arrival of the appetizer and wine would dissuade Alina from the current line of conversation, but as soon as the waiter was gone, she was right back on it.

“Emma, sometimes guys say they need photographs of a woman, but they're really only trying to sleep with her. I see it all the time in the industry. They pick the girls with low self-esteem, and they convince them that they're legitimate photographers but just get a bunch of naked pics and sell them on the Internet.” She patted Emma's hand. Her touch felt cold. “I don't want to see you get hurt.”

The blood roared in Emma's ears, drowning out the end of Alina's sentence, a mixture of embarrassment and shame and a fair bit of righteous anger. How dare Alina imply that Emma couldn't get a legitimate modeling job? Sure, she might not be modelesque in the traditional sense, but Ian had asked for her. And he hadn't even brought up sex. She was the one who had initiated it both times.

She couldn't say any of that, though, without giving away the truth of the situation, so she said the next thing that came to mind. “You know, Alina, I hate escargot.” She dumped the snail back onto the main plate.

Alina blinked twice, eyes widening. “Oh! You . . . you should have said something.”

“I just did. You and Margot can eat them.” Emma sipped her water, the burst of adrenaline making her dizzy. She imagined Ian laughing at the whole situation and felt better immediately. “But don't worry. I'm not going to go letting someone sell naked pictures of me on the Internet.”

Margot reached across the table to squeeze Emma's hand. “Don't listen to Alina. She's paranoid. I'm sure this Ian guy is very nice.”

“Yeah. It's really not a big deal.” She looked at the half-full carafe and wished she'd asked to share the wine. The alcohol would be welcome right then. “Anyway, Alina, you had a show recently, right? How was it?”

Once Alina's attention was turned back to her own professional successes, she stopped firing off questions at Emma and instead gave them a play-by-play of her most recent fashion show, escargot already forgotten. Emma loved seeing Alina discuss her work. Her usual composure gave way to passion, even exuberance, hands waving and eyes alight with joy. This was Alina as Emma remembered her from college, when her love of fashion hadn't yet brought her into high society and she was simply a well-dressed young woman with a shy smile that belied her wicked talent on the sewing machine.

Their food arrived, a sumptuous assortment of dishes. Emma had almost forgotten her hunger until the waiter set the plate in front of her. Alina had been right after all: The food was to die for. Emma tried to limit herself to delicate bites rather than wolfing down her food and fulfilling every stereotype of Plump Girl Eating. It was so unfair; people like Margot and Alina could eat huge quantities of food and no one looked at them twice, but the moment Emma got seconds at a buffet or dared to order dessert, she felt the judgmental side eye from friends and strangers alike. None of that mattered, though, when facing a plate of tender chicken in red wine sauce with delicate button mushrooms. They could all go fuck themselves, because this meal was fantastic.

Conversation from that point on was light. Alina and Margot didn't press Emma for more information about Ian and his photography-that-wasn't-really-photography, and Emma was happy to listen to the other women's stories.

It wasn't until they were mostly finished with their meals that Emma became the topic of conversation again. “So. Best of Boston.” Margot set her fork aside to blot her lips with her napkin. “Nominations are due next week, right?”

Emma nodded. “They have to be in by May seventh. I don't know if I'm going to get nominated, though.”

“I already nominated you.” Alina ate her last scallop and shrugged at Emma's surprised look. “What? You deserve it.”

Flushed with pride, Emma could only look down at her dinner. She hadn't expected Alina to nominate her. Maybe one of her regulars, a customer, or even Bethany, but not Alina or Margot. Honestly, she didn't know they cared that much about her business . . . or her. Conversation flowed back to Alina, specifically to Aaron Martinelli and whether she should keep dating him after their trip to Cancún. Well, Emma considered, Alina may have surprised her in one regard, but in some ways she was as predictable as ever.