Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(77)

“Why don’t chicks do that for us?” Trent asks, handing me a pork sandwich from the tent just to the left of him. I bite into it, talking through my full mouth, wiping the small dab of sauce that starts to slip down my chin.

“They don’t scream for you? Wow, I mean, I make girls scream all the time…I just figured you did too—”

“You make girls scream, hmmm?” Her voice cuts in, and I choke on my bite while Trent grins. Fucker saw her coming.

“I’m Emma, by the way. I don’t think we’ve ever formally met,” she says, shaking Trent’s hand. He looks at me as he does, his tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth with his eyebrows raised. By some miracle, he keeps his mouth shut, but he knows I’m gone when it comes to her. He probably knew the second he put the who and where together over the driver’s license I lifted at the bar.

“Emma, nice to meet you. I’ve heard…” I cough to interrupt him, a warning that he doesn’t break the man code—we don’t talk about when we talk about chicks. It doesn’t work. “I’ve heard way too much about you.”

Asshole.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as Trent excuses himself to grab more of the handouts. I open one eye to the vision of Emma sucking in her bottom lip, her cheeks red. I nod slowly, shrugging to admit my guilt.

“Yeah, Trent’s my Lindsey,” I say with instant regret. Her face falls as she takes a step away; she thinks we’re too close now that I’ve uttered Lindsey’s name. Unlike Trent, Lindsey doesn’t know the details. They’re really nothing alike at all. God, I wish I thought before I spoke. I wish I thought before I acted!

Fuck, I wish I thought before I thought!

Emma’s wearing a dark gray hoodie and tight jeans tucked into boots at her feet, nothing remarkable, yet instantly memorable to me. Her hair is down in waves, the shorter layers up front blowing over her face as she pulls them away, tucking strands behind her ear.

“You know how I first recognized you?” I ask in my haze from looking at her. I’m definitely not thinking now. No…now, I’m feeling.

She shakes her head in tiny movements, her cheeks rounding with a slight smile, her lips closed tight as she works to hold in the effects of my attention. I love her blush. “It was your eyes.”

Her lashes lift as her eyes widen when I say this, the silver shining.

“I was obsessed with those eyes when I was sixteen,” I say. “I could never forget them.”

God, that felt good to say!

We stare at each other for a long moment, and Emma relents to the small giggle building in her chest before looking down at her feet. “Thank you,” she says, her voice meek and beautiful. That’s the same, too—the timber, the inflections…all of it.

I kick at her toe with my shoe. She kicks back.

“I always liked your shoes,” she says, her face falling to the side, her hand coming up to hide her embarrassed look.

My head falls forward, and I stare at my feet, my black Chucks, the same shoes I’ve owned for years, just a newer pair. Maybe a little bigger.

“They really are my best attribute,” I nod, joking. She laughs, her voice a little raspy, maybe sleepy, too, and swings her arm at me, brushing against mine.

“No,” she says. I look up at her. I want to kiss her. Her smile fades from a playful one to a serious one—an honest one. “That’s not your best attribute,” she says, her eyes looking as if they’re about to cry.

I ache to reach for her, to touch her cheek to stop the sadness from taking over that space around her eyes, when she takes a sharp step back, lengthening the distance between us.

“Graham. Hi,” she says nervously.

Just a guy is here.

“Hey, I was looking for you,” he says, his eyes making a dominant glance in my direction. I laugh and roll mine.

“We were just checking out the free food,” she says, squinting her eyes closed and shaking her head when he looks away. She does this move sometimes when she’s uncomfortable—like she’s a genie trying to wish the situation away.

“Were you?” he chuckles. This smug ass wipe thinks I’m intimidated by him.

“Yeah,” I answer, surprising Emma, her eyes widening fast, caution lights firing behind them. I’m going to ignore that sign. “It’s nice…you know…to be able to just take what you want?”

The moment that passes between Emma’s friend and me is short, but it’s filled with threats and lots and lots of f*ck yous.

“Emma?” He’s talking to her, but looking at me. I hate this just some guy. “There’s this dinner my mom’s hosting, her chief of staff and a bunch of other surgeon-types are going to be there. She’s fairly insistent that I go, but it won’t be any fun on my own. I thought maybe you’d like to join me?”

This guy is so f*cking arrogant. He’s flaunting his credentials like a peacock. No way Emma falls for this.

“I’d love to,” she answers, slicing through the middle of my thoughts, cutting off my immediate assumption that just some guy is in fact nobody. She’s just made him somebody.

“Great,” he grins, pushing his hands in his pockets and pivoting on the heels of his shoes in my direction, just to make sure I get a glimpse at his triumphant smile. All I notice are his shoes, though. Shoes that are so irritatingly preppy—all I can visualize is the way they would look underneath the pressure of my Chucks, scuff marks left behind in the shapes of honeycombs.