Collide (Collide, #1)(66)

“Well, of course, I didn’t forget that,” she quickly twittered, flipping her hair behind her shoulder. “I was just simply saying—”

“Mother,” Dillon said with heavy emphasis. “Drop it.” He put his silverware down and rested his elbows on the table, the look in his eyes firmly stating for her to zip-a-lip.

With a gasp, Joan shifted in her seat and adjusted the collar of her tweed Chanel suit, which Emily guessed probably cost two months of her and Olivia’s rent.

Sliding his arm around the back of her chair, Henry looked over to his wife. “Yes, let’s drop it for now, shall we?”

Joan gave a curt nod and reached for her glass of red wine. “Fine.”

Over the next half hour, Emily sat mute, trying to stir up some plan to get out of there. Sudden blindness, acute respiratory distress, hell, even cardiac arrest topped her mental list of ailments to claim as an excuse to leave. The tension in the air was as thick as hot maple syrup. The actual mind-numbing, hangover-induced migraine forging its way through her skull only intensified her need to leave. She was grateful when Dillon’s father broke the silence, buffering out one of his infamous jokes involving a hooker and a chicken.

Dillon looked at Emily after the waiter cleared their plates. “Babe, you’re having dessert, right?”

She shook her head to decline.

On second thought, stuffing another piece of food into her mouth had her seriously thinking she might get out of this nightmare by upheaving all over the table. The idea held a certain amount of appeal to it.

“Actually, I will,” Emily replied.

While waiting for her tiramisu, Emily glanced over to Dillon and noticed he was starting to sweat, nearly all color draining from his face. If she wasn’t mistaken, he looked as bad as she felt.

And that was bad.

Placing her hand on his cheek, she asked, “Are you alright?”

He nodded his head, and with a shaky hand, he plucked a napkin off the table, wiping the perspiration from his brow. Emily handed him her water, and within a few gulps, he drained the entire glass. She looked over to his parents to gauge their reaction on his freakish demeanor and found both of them smiling like the Cheshire Cat in his direction.

Huh?

When her eyes traveled back to Dillon, he was rising from his seat, one hand gliding not so smoothly into the pocket of his pants. For the next few seconds, it was as if the sights and sounds played out in slow motion for Emily.

Her heart began to race like a frightened little mouse fleeing its predator.

Dillon pulled his chair away from the table.

Thump…

Dillon slowly got down on one knee.

Thump…thump…

Dillon produced a small black velvet box.

Thump….

Thump….

Flat line….

Beeeeeeeeeeep….

Somewhere in the midst of what Emily was witnessing, her now fogged brain registered the distant sound of other patrons letting out gleeful gasps as they watched what her boyfriend was about to do. A thick dryness—one that could easily mock the Sahara Desert—plagued her tongue. With blurred vision, she scanned the crowd—most of them holding wide smiles, some pointing in her direction, one man even yelling “Go for it, buddy,” ending his hoot with a whistle through his fingers.

Staring down at him kneeling in front of her, interminable anxiety had Emily stuttering most of her words. “Dillon…wha…what are you doing?” she whispered.

Pulling in a hurried breath, he lifted Emily’s hand to his mouth and planted a soft kiss on it, his voice quivering low. “I love you, Emily.” He cracked open the box, highlighting a Princess-cut engagement ring well over a carat in size. His eyes twinkled with what appeared to be tears. “You make me whole in every way imaginable. Would you please do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Still trying to process his proposal in its entirety and desperately seeking a normal pace of breathing, Emily brought her hand to his face and cupped his cheek, her voice lower than a whisper. “Dillon, can we go talk in private, please?”

Almost immediately, the smile he was wearing fell from his face, but before he could answer, his mother spoke up.

Her face contorted as if she were offended. “Surely, you’re going to say yes to my son?” she fretted.

Henry sent his wife a lethal silencing stare.

With no response, Emily bit her lip and looked down to her hands twisting in her lap.

Dillon slowly rose to his feet, offering his mother a scrutinizing glare. He reached down and gently grabbed for Emily’s hand. “Umm…okay, babe,” he said, his voice low and cracking slightly. “There’s a banquet room we could go into.”

Emily let out the air her lungs were holding hostage. She reached for Dillon’s hand, and with her head downcast in embarrassment, she followed him to the back of the restaurant. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see onlookers straightening in their chairs and quietly resuming their meals. Low whispers descending throughout the restaurant rang loudly in her ears like a high-school marching band.

Dillon closed the door to the vacant room, his unspoken question hanging in the air. The dejected look in his eyes said everything as he crossed his arms and slowly sauntered over to a window.

Emily’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it still carried across the room to where he stood, unmoving. “I just need some time, Dillon. That’s all.”