Freedom (25 page)

He is so formal that I can’t believe this is my Dylan.
My Dylan
. I am nuts.

“I want to unpack my clothes, and I do want to change. I’m not wearing a suit for the cocktail party. This was for the arrival.” I do my best spokes model imitation and sweep my hands down my sides. I don’t have Armani or any high-end clothing from Madison Avenue, however I do have some nice dresses I got at the designer outlet in Neptune, New Jersey. I am a Jersey girl after all.

“Take your time.” He keeps a noticeable distance between us, either out of respect for my earlier demands or something else is bothering him.

I leave the living area and head back into the bedroom to unpack my clothes and hang my dresses. I have a black, clingy, sleeveless one for tonight’s gathering, which is about me getting to know the big players from Mercer. For tomorrow night’s party, I am going all out in my bright red, camisole dress. It is shorter and bares so much more skin, even though both are quite skimpy and sexy.

As I take a quick rinse in the shower, I think of Dylan waiting for me on the other side of door and wonder what has gotten him down so suddenly. I am ambivalent about us
—
too quick, too soon, and too much crappy baggage for both of us. Still, I am torn between wanting to be with him and fearing we may be better apart.

When I say these sentiments out loud to myself, it’s much less jarring than seeing it reflected in his demeanor. The first week in Hera gave me a glimpse of his tough exterior before it disappeared all together and we started playing house. Quiet and brooding is the side of Dylan I haven’t seen.

I slip on the black dress, apply fresh make-up, and let my hair out of the French twist. I finger my hair so it falls in waves of glossy locks down to the middle of my back. The neckline scoops to the top of my breasts, and I turn to check out my rump. Not bad. On a good day, I give myself an eight out of ten. I suppose I would be more generous if I didn’t get sick of looking at my own face and questioning where I fit in on the pretty scale.

It’s never mattered in my father’s company where most of the men are over forty and sport flabby bellies and balding heads, yet Carson’s company has opened a new door to a business that is more artistic and sexy in terms of product and clients. I want to look like I fit the image. He has even mentioned that my role in the furniture part of his business could expand into the eco-home development business he’s started. It sure beats tire rims and mufflers. So I am an eight. All I have to do is change the scale from one to eight and that makes me
awesome. That a girl.

When I come out of the bathroom, Dylan is in the bedroom slipping off his shirt and replacing it with a charcoal gray, fitted one. He looks deliciously handsome. I bite my lip while he pauses and checks me out. His mouth parts into an appreciative
oh
.

“Emma, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you. I hope I pass muster with this group. I know I’m a bit younger than all of their reps. Carson told me to act like I own the place. I suppose a little Blackard swagger wouldn’t hurt me.”

Dylan barely smiles as he shrugs on his new shirt.

“Yeah, that’s Carson. Listen to him. He seems tough and confident, but he hates these things. They make him very uncomfortable. He likes being a homebody, and he’s really glad to have you doing this instead of him.”

“He’s had you doing this for a while, too.”

“I can’t pull off that sexy little number you’re wearing, though.”

“So I got this job because of the way I look?”

“No. Carson hires people who have talent or potential. You have both. I’ve listened to you on the phone with some of our biggest jerks. I would have told them to fuck off, and I have in the past. You, on the other hand, are very diplomatic. Our clients like you. Our customer retention is going to go up with you on board.”

“That’s nice of you to say. Thanks.”

I watch him tuck the shirt in his pants and put his suit coat back on without a tie. He is definitely gorgeous. Dylan is complete masculine virility. His scars are subtle enough that they don’t distract from his face, yet they are interesting enough to add a bit of rugged, mysterious character.

“I am your biggest fan,” he says, straightening his cuffs and collar.

That makes my heart pound against my ribs. I slide my hands up my bare arms as a sudden chill gives me goose
bumps and my nipples harden against the black fabric banded snugly across my chest. I cross my arms and look for my evening bag.

“Do you need a sweater?” Dylan gives me his first real, broad smile of the evening.

“No, that will ruin the line of the dress.”

“That would be a tragedy. I say no sweater and let’s get to the bar. It will be warmer there.”

“How noble of you, looking out for my welfare,” I say wryly.

“I am looking out for you, Emma.”

I believe him when he says that, too.

Twenty-one

Dylan

We walk into the bar and all thirty-two reps and executives from Mercer Group are already here, drinking and mingling. Heads turn to acknowledge me, and all of them give Emma the once over. My arm possessively wraps around her waist as she gives me a wary side-glance.

I have to introduce her to Steve Mercer, the CEO, first. He is a flashy, thirty-five-year-old who gets a lot of press coverage for his appearances on television shows as a design expert. He is cocky and good-looking so he latches on to Emma as I’ve expected. She is demure when needed and witty when they least expect it. She speaks vaguely about her background with her father’s business and concentrates on driving the conversation with her knowledge of latest trends and changes in the industry. I am impressed.

Reluctantly, I let one of the reps, Trish, pull me over to her loud group of sales representatives that I worked with in Los Angeles. I keep glancing over at Steve and Emma. She is being served the hotel specialty, some vodka cocktail, and she hasn’t eaten anything.
Damn
. I should have made her order room service earlier.

As the evening wears on, Steve is the one that walks Emma around the bar and introduces her to his sales reps from the West and East Coasts. I was planning on being her host and introducing her to people. However, she looks perfectly at ease with Steve, and I suppose that comes from working with men in her father’s business.

As Trish drinks too much and clings to my arm for several hours, I am basically keeping her upright. I like talking to the sales people
—
they represent our strongest sales group
—
however, knowing Emma is hiding somewhere in the bar with Steve Mercer makes me anxious to find her.

Finally, when I locate her, I lean against the bar and watch her from a distance. I hope Steve isn’t getting any ideas that he has found his new girlfriend and he will fly her back to his San Francisco home. I have no intention of letting Emma get swept up by any of these smooth-talking, sharp-dressed men. There are quite a few of them, and they remind me of her ex, Robert
—
always shopping for another woman.

As I sip my seltzer and contemplate how the next two days will go, I’m so caught up in thinking about Emma, I almost forget about the phone call earlier from Dr. Wang. Actually, I want to forget it. His news was upsetting, although not surprising. Months ago, I assumed I would be prepared if I ever received a phone call like that. Nothing prepares you, and it makes you feel weak, agonizingly sad and angry. I think about never telling Emma, another omission that would surly resurface and damage us further.

As if on cue, Emma looks over at me from across the room. That’s enough of that.

I cruise through the crowded bar and reach her as Steve is leaning down to whisper something in her ear.

I cup her elbow. ”Hey, ready to call it a night? We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

Emma looks up at me, her big brown eyes a little tired from all the drinks Steve has been plying her with.

“Oh, you’re not going to take the lovely Emma away from me now. I thought I’d take her out for a late night dinner,” Steve says. “What do you say, Emma?”

“No. I really need to get some sleep.”

After a few more sloppy goodbyes from Steve and a some of the other men who gravitate towards Emma, I escort her out of the bar and head to the elevator banks. We get in a car with a couple locked in a tight embrace, kissing without any notice of us. I shake my head and put myself between them and Emma as she suppresses a giggle. I look down at her and can’t help smiling at her girlish behavior.

When we get to the room, she kicks off her shoes and runs to the bed, throwing herself on it.

“I love this bed!” she shouts then flips over and watches me as I remove my jacket. “Thanks for getting me out of there. I liked meeting everyone, but Steve was awfully close to asking me up to his room.”

“What?” I stalk across the room and throw my arms down on the bed on either side of her. “Did he actually ask you to come to his room?”

“Relax. I didn’t go, did I? He kept suggesting we go some place to be alone.”

“That asshole.” To think I let him handle her all night. I am furious.

Emma looks up at me. I have her in my clutches, almost, and I am paralyzed with wanting to kiss her. She brings her bare feet up and puts them flat against my chest and gently pushes me away.

“I need food. I didn’t eat anything down there.” She stands up and makes her way to the bathroom.

“I knew it. I’m calling room service.”

“Please do,” she responds as she goes into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, she comes out with damp hair, wearing a clingy t-shirt and lounge pants. I grab my sweatpants from my suitcase then go shower and change. When I come out, the food has arrived and the server is setting up a dining table with white linens and flowers for us in the living area in front of our city view.

Emma seems more excited about this than the cocktail party. Maybe it is as romantic to her as it is to me. I won’t get my hopes up, though. Regardless, I put on some Wynton Marsalis jazz selection that comes with the hotel iPod system. As the music fills the whole suite, I turn it down so it doesn’t look like I am overdoing it.

“This looks good, Dylan,” she says, sitting at the candlelit table.

“I ordered whatever I thought you’d like.” I uncover the silver domes to reveal roasted asparagus and cheese sandwiches, truffle French fries, artichoke macaroni and cheese, and a chocolate torte.

We dig in and she eats heartily, moaning over every dish. A wave of contentment rolls over me as I take in this perfect situation. I am sitting across from the most beautiful woman who fires up my soul like no one else, and with the subtleness of the candle light in the dark room showcasing the impressive New York skyline, it gives me pleasure that I can do this for her.

Emma shoves three fries in her mouth and then takes a forkful of chocolate and laughs. “It’s so good, I can’t eat one thing at a time,” she says.

“There are no rules. Take what you want.”

I eat more than my share of everything, enjoying it as much as her. I am not allowed to touch her, but she can’t stop me from looking. I take in everything about her from the wisps of hair that fall out of her ponytail and frame her face to the single tiny, dark freckle on her left breast exposed by the neckline of her t-shirt.

When she wipes her mouth on her napkin and drinks two glasses of water, I pour more for her. I would like to punch Steve Mercer for trying to get her drunk.

“How did your accident happen? Would you tell me?”

Her question surprises me. I’ve assumed Lauren has told her everything about that. The details of my truck accident last fall aren’t very interesting.

“Sure.” I put down my fork and take a gulp of water, figuring out how I will explain what happened
—
not so much the incident itself, but rather where my head was at.

“I was driving the company truck to Carson’s house to deliver some paperwork to him. I can’t remember why I didn’t have my Jeep at the office.” I shake my head, trying to remember that day. “Anyway, I was coming across that little wooden bridge that enters onto his property, driving too fast, probably listening to music or distracted by something.”

“That’s when you saw Jess driving away from Carson’s, right? She had crossed the same bridge,” Emma adds.

“Right.” I wonder where she is leading with this if she already knows the particulars. “I saw her and then I got to the bridge. I think I remember sliding down the ravine or it could be something I remember from a dream. I wasn’t wearing the seatbelt, and I gave the steering wheel a good beating with my head. The rest isn’t clear to me. The state patrol came in and an ambulance took me to the hospital. I woke up a few hours later, pretty sedated, and my stitches were done. They kept me for observations, though.”

“No, I meant, would you tell me what you were thinking about on that day when you were driving right before the accident happened?”

“Oh. That’s when I was in a really terrible place. I wouldn’t say that I had a single day of clear thinking. I was very distracted by every negative thought in my head because I was pretty—”

“Depressed?”

“Yeah. I was in a downward swing at the time, and I can’t explain to you why that happened. Emma, this isn’t easy for me to talk about, especially since I don’t have any concrete answers. For years, doctors and therapists have used words like bipolar, manic, mood swings, chemical imbalance and depression—every popular term to describe me. It didn’t matter what they called it, though, since no one could fix it.”

“I can see that it’s not easy to tell me this, but please try. Please.”

She’s right. I can’t tell myself I am in love with her if I won’t even talk to her about the worst part of me.

“I was more than depressed. I was thinking about my parents a lot, and nothing Carson did could get me out of that funk. I had been obsessing about my dad more than anyone then because I knew I was like him, and it scared the shit out of me. I inherited this illness from his family. I’ve refused help in the past, or when I did accept it, I didn’t put in my best effort. I always assumed I could handle all of my problems myself. So, that day on the bridge, I was in my own head, depressed and angry over my father as well as angry at myself. I was so sick of being me. I felt so dark and empty inside. I didn’t feel love for anyone or anything… not myself, not my life. Basically, I was damn hopeless and didn’t give a shit what would happen to me. Then I woke up in the hospital.”