“I’m just a genius,” she sighs, as we turn toward home, “NBD.”
My grandparents are swinging by the apartment to check up on the place and have drinks before we go out to dinner, but that won’t be until early this evening. I have the whole lazy late afternoon to myself. Which would be fine and dandy if I could do anything but lay around thinking about Emerson. I need to check in with him about last night and explain my freak out. But every time I reach for my cell, something stops me.
“Come on, Miss 26-year-old,” I mutter sternly, staring down at my phone, “Put on your big girl panties and give him a—”
I let out a very undignified yelp as the phone begins to vibrate in my hands. Dropping the device onto my bed in surprise, I peer down at it and feel my stomach flip. There’s a text on my screen that simply reads:
Hey Abby, it’s Emerson.
I grab up the phone and text back before I lose my nerve.
Me: Hey, I was just about to call you. I want to talk.
Him: So do I. How do you feel about doing it in person?
Me: Oh, I don’t think I have time to come all the way back downtown before my plans tonight.
Him: You don’t have to come downtown.
Me: No?
I jump a foot in the air as my apartment buzzer rings. Another text arrives in its wake:
Him: Nope.
“Are you expecting a package?” Riley calls from the living room.
“No, Ri, it’s him!” I gasp, yanking open my bedroom door.
“Emerson is here? At our apartment?!” she breathes excitedly, “Well, what are you waiting for? Buzz him up!”
“But. I. What if—” I stammer, biting my lip.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Riley groans. She marches across the room and pushes the “door” button on the buzzer, granting Emerson access to our building. “You’re welcome,” she grins, marching toward her room, “I’ll be in my boudoir. Call if you need any further intervention, yeah?”
“Thanks,” I say weakly, paralyzed as I stare at the front door.
At least I made an effort to look presentable today. I’ve got my favorite pair of skinny jeans on, a slouchy white tee with a charcoal cardigan, and some eclectic pieces of jewelry I’ve picked up at the Brooklyn flea market. My blonde hair hangs in loose, easy waves, and my favorite red matte lipstick finishes off the look. Still, even knowing that I look my millennial-chic best, my heart nearly bursts out of my chest as I hear a knock on the door.
He’s here.
“Answer it or I will!” Riley trills from the other room.
“Ugh. Fine,” I mutter, going to the door. “Quit crackin’ the whip, would you?”
“What’s that about whips?” Emerson grins, as I swing the door open.
“Oh,” I stammer, taken aback by his perfect appearance yet again.
He’s wearing a black v-neck and gray jeans, and the smattering of stubble on his jaw is as sexy as ever. The glasses are nowhere to be seen, which means his vibrant blue eyes are on full, gorgeous display. The tee shirt cuts off just above his bulging, perfect biceps. I spot a few new tattoos on his arms, too. Guess there’s still a bad boy mixed in with that tech billionaire.
“No literal whips on hand, sorry to disappoint you,” I laugh, moving aside to let him in.
“What a shame,” he sighs, taking a look around the apartment. I’m suddenly self-conscious of the ornate, elegant decor. I know Emerson has money now and everything, but the decadence of my grandparents’ apartment still has me feeling very uncool.
“I know, this place is a bit much,” I say nervously, watching his blue eyes rove around the space. “But, you know, it’s my grandparents’. They’re not exactly hip to the whole minimalism, eco-friendly movement. Actually, they’re stopping by soon for a little birthday celebration.”
“Frank and Jillian?” Emerson asks, laying on a parody of his most proper, upper-class voice. “What a delight!”
“Yeah. Not my idea of a good time, but they’re family. And they’ve also been supporting me my entire life. So I can handle a bit of WASPy tension once in a while,” I reply.
“I’ll be sure to get out of here before they show up,” Emerson says, “Wouldn’t want anyone to have a heart attack on your birthday.”
“I’m sure they’d be happy to see you,” I offer.
We look at each other for a moment before busting out laughing. Emerson is the last person on the planet my grandparents would want to run into, billionaire or no.
“I doubt they’d be impressed by something as gauche as ‘new money’,” Emerson chortles, settling down on the couch.
“Yes, how dare you be successful in this economy, young man,” I reply, doing my best Frank Rowan impression as I settle down beside Emerson.
We sit next to each other and lapse into silence. I guess this is the moment where we’re supposed to address what went down last night, but it’s always hard to start.
“I hope you don’t mind my swinging by,” Emerson begins, “I know it’s an uninvited visit, but I wanted to talk to you before we got back into the office on Monday.”
“Right,” I laugh, “Yeah, that might have been awkward.”
“I also didn’t want to let the day pass without wishing you a happy birthday,” he goes on, training those gorgeous eyes on me.
“Oh,” I breathe, very aware of the slender space between us. “Thanks, Emerson.”
“Has it been a good one so far?” he asks softly.
“It just got a lot better, to tell you the truth,” I reply, my voice low and quiet. I feel that panicked resistance rising in me the more my want of him grows, but I force myself to get through it. Deal with it. I won’t let my own fears fuck this moment up.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Emerson smiles, “And I hope this isn’t too forward, but I also wanted to make sure to give you your birthday present before the day was out.”
“What?” I laugh, turning to face him on the couch. “What do you mean, present? We only just ran into each other two days ago. How did you already—?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been holding onto it for a while,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. “About eight years, as a matter of fact.”