Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(19)

Charlie





“I was only trying to protect you,” he mumbles quietly on the drive home.

“What?”

I can’t stop picking at the chipped black polish on my nails since that incident in the throne room. I hate how naive I feel. I hate how controlling Emerson is and how small I am in his presence when he tells me what to do. And dammit, I want him to acknowledge that.

“You have to be careful around those guys, especially Drake.” His eyes glance over to my body, and I realize he’s referring to my scandalous outfit.

“Is he bad?” I ask, knowing full well I have no interest in him. He was handsome beyond words, but he just didn’t feel like my type. Of course, after Beau, I’m not quite sure I know what my type is.

“Drake isn’t bad at all. He’s a good friend, but he’ll fuck anything that moves and you’re too young, Charlotte.”

I clench my jaw and turn away. “If you’re going to keep treating me like a child, then you really shouldn’t have hired me.”

I spot the muscles of his jaw clench in unison with mine. We stay silent for the rest of the drive. After he pulls into the garage, he climbs out and turns toward me.

“Have you spoken to Beau lately?”

I catch his expression over the top of the car, and I see a hint of desperation on his face. “I saw him at the mall yesterday.”

His eyebrows lift, and his spine straightens. “How was he?”

I consider my answer for a moment. Should I sugarcoat it and tell him Beau is great and not the overgrown man-child without direction that he is? Would that make him feel better? I settle on cutting to the chase instead. “He wants his half of the security deposit. He was pretty mad at me for not getting it for him.”

Emerson’s brow flinches at my words. “Mad at you?”

“Yeah, in Beau’s eyes, I’m nothing but a fuck-up. A loser and an idiot.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, the words just seem to pour out of my mouth.

His expression hardens from confusion to anger. “He does not think that.”

“Yes, he does.”

I circle around the car, meeting him near the trunk. He’s silent, as if he’s deliberating. And I’m sure he’s thinking of ways of getting Beau here to get his half of the check. It’s really a great piece of bait if he wants to see his son.

I’m a little surprised by his next words. “You’re none of those things, Charlotte.”

I scoff. “You barely know me.”

His hand grips me tenderly just above my elbow, drawing my attention to his face. “Stop it,” he commands me, his voice deep and jarring as I nearly stumble backward, his grip on my arm keeping me upright.

Somehow I’m closer to him, nearly pressed against his chest and staring up at him. Did he pull me closer?

“You are not a loser or a fuck-up or an idiot, do you understand me?” He seems almost angry, and if his words weren’t so complimentary, I’d be frightened.

“Okay,” I mutter.

“I’m sorry he made you feel that way.”

“It’s okay,” I reply. The neurons in my brain have stopped firing as I’m overwhelmed by his nearness. His breath is on my face, warm and masculine, and if I were any other woman, I’d want him to kiss me. I think he would.

But I’m not any other woman, I’m Charlie. Too naive. Too clumsy and immature and insignificant.

“And I’m sorry for reprimanding you today at the club. Garrett and Drake were out of line. That wasn’t your fault.”

What happened to Mr. Bossy Asshole? He was easier to deal with than Mr. Compliments and Apologies. I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I back away, pulling my arm from his grasp. “I understand. Yes. Thank you,” I stammer.

“If Beau wants his money, he can come get it himself,” Emerson adds with a bite to each syllable as he marches into the house. I follow after him, feeling a little shaken.

Somewhere between the garage and the kitchen, where Emerson shows me the coffee maker and the water and where I can find everything I need, I think about my own father.

Emerson probably hasn’t spoken to Beau in four months. I haven’t spoken to mine in almost five times as long. He doesn’t call or text or hire my exes to try and get me back. He’s never forcibly made me accept that I wasn’t a screwup.

And later, as I’m filing paperwork, I let my gaze linger on Emerson as he works. And I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Does he really see a girl young enough to be his daughter?

Then I mentally try on what it would feel like to have a man like Emerson Grant look at me as a woman good enough for him. Warmth floods my lower belly as I think about him in that way, to be his woman. To feel his hands on my body, his lips on my skin. To walk into a building on his arm and know that no matter who is in that building, I am the most important one to him. And everything shifts in my brain from seeing him as a father to seeing him as a man.





After work, I’m pulling up to the curb next to a blue-haired teenager who is so engrossed in her book, she doesn’t even see me coming.

“Get in, punk.”

My sister turns, her blue hair flying in her face from the harsh winter breeze as she walks home from school. I usually start work around this time and can never pick her up, so it’s nice to be able to surprise her during her mile-long hike.