Lust Thy Neighbor (29 page)

He’d really been something to look at eight years ago, but age (and probably a killer stylist and a brutal personal trainer) had perfected Emmett Hudson. Well, at least the exterior. Gone were the short dark curls I once raced my fingers through and the smooth chin my lips hadn’t been able to get enough of. They were replaced by longer locks—a sexy, disheveled style that reminded me of a dark version of the hammer-wielding Norse god from the Marvel superhero movies I watched too often—and a five o’clock shadow. He was dressed simply in tailored black pants and a white dress shirt where he’d rolled the sleeves up and unfastened the top two buttons. To every woman here, he probably looked dangerous and irresistible.

Not this girl,
I thought half-heartedly.

There was no point in pretending like I didn’t know him. I
knew
him all too well and besides, he was music royalty now. Even my favorite pop channel played some of his newer music, though I was quick to change the station whenever he came on the radio. I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “Hello ... Emmett.”

“Goddamn, it really is you.” He sounded surprised. Like he’d spent the last eight years searching high and low for me when I was exactly where he left me. His gaze wandered over my body. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Thank god I wasn’t eighteen anymore because hell would surely freeze over before I let a gorgeous exterior and a sexy voice peel off my black sheath dress faster than I could say “outlaw country.”

“You haven’t changed either,” I lied. I moved in the right direction, the party. Away from Emmett. “I better get back. It was good seeing you again, but I’ve got to work and—”

To my irritation, he blocked my path. “It’s damn good to see you again too.”

“Is it? What are you doing here?” I meant for it to sound conversational, but my tone was harsh and more than a little unforgiving. I raked both hands through my dark hair, releasing it a few seconds later along with a whoosh of air. “I’m sorry. What I meant was—”

“I’m here for the open bar.” His full lips stretching into a lazy grin, he tilted his head to one side. “But I promise I’m not crashing, so no need to grab security. The bride’s my third cousin.”

An image of Emmett’s sister, not the bride, oozed into my mind. I hadn’t been in the same room as Hazel Hudson since the last time her brother spoke to me—she hadn’t even shown up when I went to court for stealing her necklace—but I couldn’t handle seeing her tonight too. Not without completely losing what was left of my composure.

“Did ... is your sister here with you?”

“She couldn’t make it.” He tipped his head politely at a couple women who sauntered past us in search of the restroom trailer, waiting until they thoroughly checked him out, giggled about something involving the bulge in his jeans at one of his shows, and then pranced inside to ask me, “So you’re singing now?”

Why do you care?
“No, I gave that up a while back.”

“And what you were doing on stage
was
?”

I was a fool for even humoring him, for making small talk when there were so many things being left unsaid. I didn’t want to say any of those things. And that meant the only thing left to do was walk away.

Or, in my case, continue to babble.

“Honestly, I’m just doing a favor for a friend tonight. She’s sick. I was available.”

He frowned. “That’s a shame. That you stopped singing, that is. You were good, too good to give up.”

I shrugged, my shoulders trembling because my body was so taut from the tension clogging the air between us. “That wasn’t
my
dream.” Still, I can’t help thinking of singing
Landslide
when I was a kid with a dream of getting the hell out of Georgia. “I like what I’m doing now.”

“And what’s that? What are you getting yourself into these days?”

For a long pause, I just stared at him. What did he
think
I was getting myself into? “Besides the obvious ... I own a landscaping business with my dad.”

He cocked an eyebrow and slid his hands into the shallow front pockets of his pants. “The same
dad
you told me about that summer at my grandma’s?”

A sharp spear launched through my chest when he mentioned Mrs. H—at the exact same time registering the way he said “dad,” of all the damn words for him to skeptically mutter, made me want to kick him in his hypocritical balls.

Wanting to avoid the assault charges and bad Yelp reviews for Kat’s business, I kept my feet firmly planted in the grass. “Yes, the same
dad
I told you about the summer I met you.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you. You just caught me off guard. Hell, you didn’t exactly sing the guy’s praises back then.”

I could’ve told Emmett how my dad came back into my life five years ago, after my mother had a heart attack and I tracked him down in South Carolina where he was living with some woman he met at his AA meetings. I could’ve mentioned that my dad’s discovery of just how significantly my life had changed since I last saw him—when I was still in high school—along with the scary reality that Mom could’ve died had driven him to come back to Georgia to make things work with his family. But I hugged my arms around myself, dipping my gaze to the contrast between the grass and my strappy silver heels.

I still wanted to kick him.

“Eight years can bring about a world of change,” I whispered. “Both bad and good.”

He moved even closer and my senses were overwhelmed with the smell of his cologne. In the years since Emmett left the picture, I dated other men. Still, there was something about this man’s woodsy scent that could still creep beneath my skin and haunt me. It was a tragedy I had hoped to avoid the second I laid eyes on him tonight.

“Guess I lied before.” His voice was low, almost a murmur.

“What?”

“About you not changing.” He closed the rest of the space between us. “You were blonde back then.”

Yes, blonde and stupid. So damn stupid for you.
“I should get back to the party before they miss me.”

“And after you’re done here, you’re—”

My head popped up and I stared at him in absolute horror. “No!” Hell no. He had the nerve to ask me what I was doing later tonight when there were so many other important things to say. “What I meant to say is that I’m going home,” I continued sharply. “Where I belong.”

“Are you seeing somebody? Is that what it is?”

“No.” My heart clenched. “But I don’t need much of a reason to say no to you, do I?”

“Ahh, hell, McKinsey.” He brought his hand to his face, massaging the bridge of his straight nose between two fingers, and I held my breath in the hope that, when he looked at me again, he’d acknowledge the one thing I wanted to hear him say.

He quickly disappointed me.

“I know things ended like shit, but it’s been eight goddamn years. It had to mean something to you.” The muscles in his shoulders tightened beneath his partially unbuttoned white shirt. “Let me at least take you to dinner. Just to talk. You can give me that much.”

Anger flashed through my veins. “I can’t give you anything, Emmett,” I stated as evenly as possible, starting to turn away from him, desperate to escape before the weight of disappointment crushed me. Without warning, he reached out to stop me. His long fingers spread over my forearm. His touch was still potent, still a shock of electricity to every inch of my body.

“I’m only in Atlanta for the next couple days,” he told me.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Snatching away from him, I took a couple steps back. I was furious. Furious that he followed me out here and even more angry that he hadn’t had the balls to bring up the only
real
reason I had for still standing in front of him.

Matthew.

My sweet boy.

The one thing about me Emmett apparently wasn’t interested in and the one link that remained between us.

“Look, I don’t really care why you’re in Atlanta or where you’re going after you leave or where your music will take you next week.” I slid a long brunette lock behind my ear, then trailed my fingers from my hair to my necklace. “We haven’t spoken in years, and if we hadn’t seen each other tonight, chances are we would’ve never talked again. I made my peace with that a long time ago. We’re not two old friends reconnecting. Obviously, we’re not ...
anything
.”

“Then why are you so nervous?” He nodded to my hand on my neck, and I dropped my necklace. “If you really don’t care, that is.”

I was never one for violence, but for the second time tonight, I wanted to inflict injury to Emmett Hudson’s tall, gorgeous body—this time in the form of my jeweled necklace key in one of his dreamy green eyes.

“You think I’m nervous.” I laughed in spite of the anxiety corroding my airway.

He moved his face closer to mine. “I sure as hell do.”

“Not nervous,” I countered, twisting my hands together until my fingers turned red. “Just disappointed.” Without giving him a chance to respond, I turned and headed back toward the wedding reception. His low drawl ricocheting through my body like a bullet stopped me in my tracks.

“Seeing you again made me think of that summer.” He paused. I stopped breathing, waiting for him to finish, needing for
this
to finish. “And for the record, we were
everything
back then.”

I fisted my hands until my fingernails, that I kept short and unpainted for work purposes, dug four crescents into each of my palms. It hurt, but not as much as having him remind me just how stupid I was the month he played a starring role in my life.

“Low blow, Hudson.”

“It’s the truth, Brock.”

Because I wasn’t stupid, and I could easily imagine how many women had sashayed into his life during the last eight years, there was a part of me that was shocked he even remembered my last name. “Well, I’m glad that after eight summers, your memory was finally triggered by the sight of the fool you met before you made it big.” Looking over my shoulder, I smiled. It was an expression that broke me into dozens of pieces because handing this guy even a bitter smile was a painful event. And I was sick and tired of recovering from Emmett Hudson.

“
But
I have a good reason to take my ass straight home after I’m done here,” I said. “So I’ll pass on that dinner invitation because I. Fucking. Can’t.”

I
t was fifteen minutes after midnight when I finally pulled into the quiet starter home Cul-de-Sac, driving five under the neighborhood speed limit so I wouldn’t accidentally run over one of the bikes left too close to the street. I parked in my driveway behind the twenty-year-old truck I used for work. Then, for a long time, I half-listened to the radio and stared numbly at a metallic-painted seashell on the wreath hanging on my front door.

Matt had picked out the wreath at a Memorial Day festival in Atlanta last month, all the while reminding me that I’d left our Christmas decor up five months too long. Recalling the sardonic grin on his face—a grin that, even missing a couple teeth, reminded me far too much of the man I walked away from tonight—a dull ache rattled my ribcage.

What the hell just happened?

There was no point lying. For longer than I should have, I held on to the fantasy that Emmett would saunter back into my life and give me some ridiculous storybook ending. I gave up on the hope of that actually happening
years
ago. He was the last person I ever expected to see face-to-face again, much less receive a dinner invitation from, and to further solidify what a giant d-bag I’d been naive enough to fall for, he hadn't mentioned Matt.

Not a single damn time.

My gaze still zeroed in on the wreath’s seashell, I filtered in a harsh breath through my nose, releasing it once my lungs felt like they were close to exploding from the pressure. Out of the hundreds of thoughts streaming through my head, one in particular shoved its way in front of the fray: If Emmett had simply acknowledged Matt, our son, would I be somewhere with him right now?

Would I be showing him seven point three years of photos on my phone? Sharing memories he hadn’t cared enough about until tonight? That he might
still
not give a damn about?

I wanted to say the answer was no, that I would have moved along after I politely answered any question he might’ve had, but the twinge in my heart told me otherwise.

Once a sucker, always a sucker. I was ashamed to admit that.

The front porch light flickered on and the door swung open, ending my staring contest with the glittery seashell on the wreath. My dad poked his head outside and squinted in my direction. I turned off my headlights. Slinking down in my seat, I flipped down the sun visor to check my face in the mirror.

I held myself together for the rest of the Wolfe wedding. I performed like I didn't have a care in the world, crooning about the everlasting power of true love. The drive from Atlanta to Lawrenceville was another story. There was too much silence and not an ounce of peace. I filled the void with tears, the kind that left my chest hurting, my throat raw, and my eyes swollen.

Grabbing a small tube of moisturizer from the center compartment, I smoothed a few drops over my salty cheeks and beneath my eyes. I had to get over seeing Emmett and fast. Leaving my car, I promised not to let the what-ifs haunt me tonight because there was one thing that was always certain about the past—it was set in stone.

My dad stood in the doorway of the red brick ranch, letting pesky little bugs fly inside as I approached him. He tapped his watch and moved his balding head from side to side. Minus the missing hair, my father still
looked
the same as he did when I was a kid—tall and lanky and clean shaven, with a gleaming, lady-killer smile and midnight blue eyes that had driven my jealous mother crazy. Everything else about Richard Brock, from the reliability that used to be nonexistent to the newfound work ethic to his divorce from my mom last year, was a complete one eighty to what I grew up around.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was there. He was trying.