Stepbrother Billionaire(42)

“Of course I cared,” he said fiercely, “But try to imagine being me in that moment. Having my mother bring the whole family crashing down all on her own...it was humiliating. I felt like absolute scum for being my parents’ kid. I couldn’t even look at you, I was so ashamed of who I was. And so furious that I couldn’t do anything to help or protect you.”

“Is that why you nearly killed Tucker?” I ask softly.

“I guess it is,” Emerson allows, shaking his head, “I wasn’t really thinking about it much at the time. To be honest, Abby, I don’t lose much sleep over what I did to him. In my mind, that’s what he had coming from the moment he...Anyway. I had to disappear, Ab. I couldn’t stand the idea of you being as ashamed of me as I was.”

“I was never ashamed of you,” I burst out, “Never once, Emerson. That was just some crazy idea you cooked up in your own damn mind. I never gave a shit about our families’ money and standing. You know that. Or at least you should have known.”

“You’re right,” Emerson murmurs, reaching for my hand, “I should have. And for that, again, I am truly sorry. But don’t you think for a second that I wouldn’t have come running back if you’d ever needed me.”

“How would you have known if I did?” I ask, exasperated.

“I followed you,” he says, “Online, I mean. Your social media presence was pretty remarkably unprotected when you were younger. For a while, I scoped you out on Facebook, Myspace, checked in to see how you were doing. But once you got to college, and it seemed like your whole life was just opening up in front of you...I knew you’d be OK. I knew you didn’t need me anymore.”

“That’s not true,” I whisper, my eyes stinging with unexpected tears. “I did need you, Emerson. So much...”

“I needed you too,” he replies, rubbing his thumb against my hand, “But we couldn’t be in each others’ lives then. Not with everything that had happened. But look. We seem to have found a way back in again.”

“So it would seem,” I smile softly.

“I’ve spent the past eight years wondering what I would say to you, if I ever saw you again,” Emerson murmurs, his voice dipping low. I know that dip, know what it means. Between that and the gleam in his eye, his intentions are pretty clear. And despite every ounce of logic I possess, I can feel myself responding to his lead.

“What do you want to say, then?” I ask, my own voice soft and husky. My heart feels like a kick drum as Emerson moves closer to me. Our sides brush against each other as he moves his hand up my arm, pulling me in.

“It turns out, I don’t want to say anything,” he says, his words gravelly and ardent. His lips move ever closer to mine, and I can feel my mouth lifting to his, as if of its own accord. Emerson goes on, his mouth nearly on mine, “I’d rather show you...”

“Hey Emerson!” someone says from across the room.

I jerk away from Emerson as a trio of familiar faces make their way across the room. I recognize the two men and woman as some of the young people manning the communal desk at Bastian. My new coworkers, as it were. And they’ve just happened upon me about to suck face with my superior. I stare at Emerson, my mind scrambling to figure out what my heart wants. He just looks back at me with frustrated desire, forcing a smile as his colleagues come over.

“How’s it going, Bradley?” Emerson asks, as the stylish threesome comes to a stop before us, “Tyler, Emily—Do you guys all know Abby?”

“You’re the new recruit, right?” the man called Bradley asks. He’s doing the whole trendy-pseudo-rustic look, full beard and all. And from the barely-concealed amusement on his face, I know he’s hip to what was about to happen between me and Emerson. They all are.

“That’s me,” I say faintly. Looking up at them, then across the table at Emerson, I feel like we’re back in our hometown diner—that night Emerson’s lax bros nearly gave me a heart attack. I feel the panic beginning to rise inside of me at the mere thought of it.

“You guys mind if we join you?” asks Emily, the chic hipster with bright violet hair.

“I was actually just going to head out,” I say, grabbing my purse and rising quickly to my feet. “I’ll have to catch a drink with you guys some other time!”

“Abby,” Emerson says, his smile tightening. “You don’t have to go already—”

“I really do,” I shoot back firmly.

“What about your drink?” he presses, as our coworkers drink in the tense drama.

With my eyes locked on Emerson, I raise my martini glass and knock back the rest, chugging the insanely expensive and delicious liquor just to spite him. He holds my gaze, his expression hardening into that unreadable mask I know so well.

“See you guys later,” I say to Emerson and our three flabbergasted coworkers. “You have a lovely evening.”

Without another word, I turn on my heel and dash out of the bar. I’ve barely made it back onto the busy street before the tears come. I should have known that this—being alone with Emerson—would be too much for me all at once. There’s too much history there, too much pain, for some breezy birthday drinks to be possible. I hurry back toward the subway, cursing myself for being such a damn idiot.