Stepbrother Billionaire(43)

“I’d love to not make this running-after-you thing a habit,” I hear Emerson’s terse voice say from over my shoulder.

“There’s an easy fix for that,” I snap back, “Stop running after me.”

I draw myself up short as Emerson places his staggering, perfect body in my path.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he tells me, “I shouldn’t have pushed you. It’s just...I can’t pretend that I don’t still want you, Abby. That I don’t still care—”

“Goddammit Emerson,” I exclaim, wrapping my arms around my waist, “Haven’t you ever heard of subtlety?”

“Tried it once. Not a fan,” he shrugs.

“This isn’t going to work,” I tell him, shaking my head, “We can’t just pick up right where we left off after that night at the beach.”

“Why not?” he insists, taking my hands in his.

“Because you took a sledgehammer to my heart, you *!” I say, tearing away from his grasp. “I’ve loved you for the better part of a decade, but we’re not kids anymore, Emerson. We can’t just throw caution to the wind, you live in Europe, and—”

“We’re twenty-five!” he laughs, incredulously, “We can do whatever we like.”

“You’re twenty-six,” I remind him, “And I’ve spent the last eight years picking up the pieces of my life on my own. I’m not about to let you shatter them again.”

“Is that what you think I’d do, if you gave me another chance?” he asks, his voice hard.

“No,” I reply, feeling my bottom lip begin to tremble, “I know it’s what you’d do.”

His eyes flash with wounded sorrow as I barrel past him. This time, he lets me go. I charge away, back up to my haven on the Upper West Side, struggling to hold it together.

I manage to make it all the way home before my own grief spills over. By the time I glance at my bedside clock, I see that it’s after midnight. It’s officially my own twenty-sixth birthday. And would you look at that? I’m lying here alone, miserable as ever.

“See, this is why I hate birthdays,” I mutter to myself, surrendering to sleep at last.





Chapter Fourteen





It seems that Emerson has taken the hint. There aren’t a thousand voicemails and texts waiting on my phone in the morning, and he doesn’t appear out of thin air all day during my birthday. Riley, unable to contain herself, wakes me up with a wonderful breakfast spread to start the day off right. One look at my face and she doesn’t press for details about the night before. She’s a saint, that woman. We take our time waking up, head out for a hot yoga class, and take a nice long walk along the Hudson River together. Eventually, I fill her in on what went down at drinks last night. She listens pensively as I give her the scoop.

“You may not want to hear this,” she begins, glancing at me as we stroll by the water.

“That probably means I need to hear it though, right?” I sigh, “Go ahead. Shoot.”

“It sounds like you’re scared by how much you still care about him,” Riley says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “And you’re terrified of history repeating itself.”

“I do still care about him,” I admit, surprised by the knot in my throat. “I never stopped caring about him.”

“I know,” Riley smiles sadly, “I’ve been with you these last eight years since he disappeared from your life. But Abby...you have to remember that there’s one huge difference between then and now.”

“His pecs?” I offer. “You should see them, Ri—”

“Not what I meant,” she laughs. “I was going to say, you were kids when everything went wrong before. You had to answer to your horrible, selfish parents. Now, you have no one to answer to but yourselves.”

“Maybe that’s what’s freaking me out,” I say softly, “There’s no one to blame if things go wrong again. If we mess it up this time...it’s because we’re not actually right for each other.”

“Being a grownup sucks, don’t it?” Riley laughs, shaking her head. “But you know what else sucks? Squandering a wonderful relationship with someone you’re nuts about, just because you’re scared.”

“How can you always know the right thing to say?” I ask her, amazed.

“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.