“Listen.” He parks the car in the garage of our apartment block, resting his arm on the back of my chair. “I know things have been tense between us, but it’ll all die down soon. Maybe we need a trip away? A quick romantic getaway where I can fuck you all weekend long.”
I smile softly. “You’re a jerk. That’s the problem. Less jerk, more fucking.”
Burying his face in my neck, he runs his tongue along my skin as I close my eyes. The sound of the leather seat squeaks when he shifts closer to me. I miss him already and wish he’d beg me to come on this trip. Throw all caution to the wind and be more spontaneous.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs. “Remember that.”
Here we go again. I humor him and then attempt to rile some sort of reaction.
“I’ll try to remember that and let my other boyfriend know.” I chuckle.
His smirk fades, brows furrowing. “You know I don’t like that joke. There’s a million guys lining up for you.”
“Name one?”
“I could name a dozen. You never know, Em. There’s probably that one guy out there completely obsessed with you. Would do anything to make you his.”
“Tell him I said hello when you find him,” I say, deadpan.
“Funny. Now shut up. You’ve wasted enough time. Get your ass out of this car and in our bed so I can fuck you till my flight leaves.”
I let out a giggle, ignoring our fight as we both laugh and race up the stairs to our apartment.
He throws me over his shoulder, opening the door with a youthful laugh until he stops and yells, “Fuck!”
Dropping me to the floor, I turn around swiftly and see only one thing—George.
With a mouthful of Wes’ expensive shoes.
Without saying a single word, Wes’ face foretells our future.
No one is getting laid tonight.
Chapter Two
“Home is where the heart is.
And memories you forgot existed.”
~ Emerson Chase
There’s nothing more satisfying than walking through the airport doors and smelling fresh air. Especially when that ai
r is home.
Even with my shades on, fans notice and beg for autographs and selfies. It doesn’t bother me since it only takes a few minutes, and they aren’t as ruthless as the paparazzi. I smile—happy to oblige—then worm my way out of the small circle that has begun to grow and draw attention.
Dad meets me at the terminal, parked outside in his fancy Mercedes. The one Mom calls a mid-life crisis. It’s a nice car—sleek, black, and shiny. For someone in his mid-fifties, Dad scrubs up well. He hasn’t aged much over the years, still styling his silver-gray hair to the side with a thin beard to match. His piercing blue eyes mirror mine and my brother’s, though his are surrounded with slight wrinkles when he smiles.
“I missed you, Emmy.” He smiles, placing his arm around me after he loads my suitcase into the trunk.
“Miss you, too, Daddy-O. Bet you miss Ash more.”
He releases a short grunt, quick to voice his opinion. “I don’t know what your brother is up to by coming home, but it doesn’t sound good. Especially when they have an important game next week.”
“C’mon Dad, it’s not like he’s going to quit soccer. He lives and breathes that shit.”
We both hop into the car, mindful of the parking attendant yelling at everyone delaying the traffic. In a quick second, Dad speeds off, and we’re on the freeway driving home.