Then again, neither did I. But that’s because I don’t know what to say. And because, if she’s pissed off, the last thing I want to do is bring her ire down on my head. I may face a hostile defensive line bent on tearing me limb from limb every Sunday on the football field without breaking a sweat, but the idea of trying to untangle the anger of the woman I’m hoping to get into bed tonight is enough to turn me cold.
After checking in at home, and making sure that Marta is still okay with spending the night with Heather and the kids, I quickly pull on my Tom Ford tux. Another quick check-in with Lucy and Brent—who are in the kitchen making chocolate chip cookies with Marta while Heather dozes on the couch—and I’m out the door.
I hate that I don’t know what to expect when I get to Emerson’s place, hate that I don’t know if she’s angry or insulted or…what? And if she is, I don’t know why. Maybe I jumped the gun a little bit with the presents as tonight is our first official date, but I was only trying to help out. And, I admit, wow her a little. Most of the women I’ve dated would have loved to get presents like that and the fact that she didn’t throws me for a loop. As does my inability to decide if she was rejecting just the presents when she sent them back, or if she was rejecting me, too.
I’m in her parking lot soon enough, and I’ve got to say, the place looks even worse when it’s light out than it does at night. Her beat-up Corolla is in the same place it was in last night and I’m once again overwhelmed with the need to take care of it. To either buy her a new car or to make sure this one is as safe and secure as I can make it. But if she rejected a dress, I can only imagine what her reaction to me trying to do something with the car will be.
I take the stairs three at a time and knock on her door, waiting impatiently for her to open. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since I’ve seen her face and I’m anxious to remedy that fact. Anxious to pull her into my arms and kiss away whatever problem has crept up between us since I left her last night.
But when she opens the door, she doesn’t look mad. She looks gorgeous. Absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous. The dress isn’t couture and the shoes aren’t designer, but I don’t give a damn. How can I when her black bandage dress molds her curves like it was made for her? When her glorious hair is studded with real flowers and her eyes are highlighted by some kind of smoky blue stuff that makes them shine like sapphires.
“You look…beautiful,” I tell her as I struggle to put my tongue back in my mouth. Belatedly I remember to hold out the flowers I brought for her.
She looks amused as she glances between the big bouquet of daisies and my face.
“Daisies?” she asks after a second. “Not orchids or some other crazy expensive flower?”
I wince. “In my defense, Tanner is the one who suggested the Louboutins.”
“It wasn’t the Louboutins that got you into trouble,” she says with a roll of her eyes, and I’m absurdly happy that she seems to have a sense of humor about my misstep.
“So what was it?” I ask as she buries her head in the flowers, her eyes closed in pleasure as she breathes them in.
She steps back from the door. “Come on in, let me put these in water before we go.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me?” I ask as I step inside her place. And then promptly forget everything as I get my first good look at her living room.
The whole room is covered with canvases in various stages of completion. On the walls, lined up against the walls three and four deep, stacked on easels in the four corners of the room. And in the center of the room, under a dingy little skylight, is what must be her current work in progress. A huge, bright, watercolor of a woman. The lines are a little blurry, the drawing just a tiny bit abstract, but the energy of the piece is hard to miss. As is my belief that—even though the woman has no face as of yet—this is a self-portrait. The energy radiating from the painting, from the woman, is too much like the energy I feel every time I get close to Emerson.
“You’re a painter,” I say, unable to keep the awe out of my voice as I cross to the far side of the room, where painting after painting is stacked against the long wall.
“I am,” she says, holding up her hands. For the first time, I notice the myriad paint stains around a couple of her fingernails, as if she’d scrubbed but couldn’t quite get the remnants off.
“How did I not know this?” I ask, crouching down to get a better look at a picture of a field of wildflowers.
“Because we’ve only known each other two days—”
“Three.”
She laughs as she breaks one of the daisies off its stem and tucks it into her hair. “Fine, because we’ve only known each other three days and my art isn’t something I wear on my sleeve.”
“You should,” I say, even as I grin at her obvious pun. “It’s amazing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I actually have a thing for art and—”
“Artists?” she interrupts with a wicked look that goes straight to my dick.
“One artist, certainly.” I cross to her, pull her in close, until her body is flush with mine. She’s wearing high heels tonight, so we fit together a little better than we usually do and I relish the feel of being pressed up against all her best spots. “But, seriously. You’re really good.”
“So are you.” She tilts her head up for a kiss I’m more than happy to indulge her in. “And I love the daisies, in case I forgot to say it. They’re perfect.”
I kiss her again, this time taking my time. I do a leisurely sweep of her mouth with my tongue, pulling her lower lip between my teeth and biting down softly. She moans a little, slides her hands up to my hair and tugs a little.
The heat of it makes my dick go rock hard in an instant and I’m tempted to stay right here for the rest of the night, doing every wicked, wonderful thing to her that I can imagine.
If we didn’t have anything else planned, I’d do it. I’d say to hell with whatever we’re supposed to do and stay here all night, looking at Emerson’s paintings and getting my mouth on as much of her as I possibly can.