That was the strangest dinner I’ve ever had to sit through. And now I’m here. Alone. As both my own grandmother and Emily have scrambled off.
“You look like you could use a dessert yourself.”
I don’t eat dessert, but instead of stating that, I just nod. “Whatever you think is the best. I’ll have one of those.”
“Definitely the chocolate cake. It’s my favorite. Always cheers me up when I’m in a bad mood. Not that it’s stress eating. It’s good at any time. But it’s the best when, you know, you need to eat a few feelings.”
Well prickly pears, am I that obvious? “Thanks. That’s great.”
After, when I’m truly alone, I sit there and fold the receipt into tiny little squares. I don’t even like chocolate. Cherry cheesecake would have been a much better choice, but that’s alright. If it’s good for eating the feelings, then I’ll eat it.
Feelings.
I don’t exactly know what to do with those.
I can’t say I’ve ever really had to think about it very hard before. Or fight. I haven’t fought for anyone. Ever. All I had in the past were interludes with women who were equally not looking for something serious or women whose only interests were on my bank account. Generally speaking, I’ve never even wanted more in life.
It’s hard for me to remember why I did not try harder. Why everything was so superfluous. In fact, it’s hard for me to remember anything at all. Because when I try, I just picture Emily.
I guess I need that chocolate cake even more than I already thought.
CHAPTER 16
Emily
I know where I went wrong. It was that first minute where I thought I could hold out against Asher. Because if I had just caved and said I was sorry for kissing him, then kissed my ass goodbye, quit my job, sold my house, and I don’t know, lived as a hermit or something in the middle of nowhere or maybe took up residence in my parents’ nasty old basement right beside the mouse colonies and infestation of fist-waving spiders, I never would have had to risk getting attached.
Even after a week and several granny warnings, which I’m not entirely sure actually apply after last night’s dinner, there’s a kernel of something there which I’m pretty sure is—holy craptacular crap—the fact that I think I like Asher despite everything, or maybe because of everything, for real.
And now there’s a heck of a lot of dust in my eyes.
I need to call someone—a friend, my parents, or my brothers. I need to talk, and I need to figure this out. The thing Asher’s granny forced into my hand last night? It was a cheque. Also, there is a heck of a lot of desserts clogging up my fridge that need to be eaten, and it’s not like I can load them up and donate them down the street to the people sitting there the way I did with Byron’s laptop and my engagement ring.
Yeah, I really gave the laptop away as well. A person who takes an ax to a table and sets it on fire doesn’t kid about that kind of stuff.
I’m busy with my phone—scrolling through contacts and calculating the odds of finding someone at home on a Sunday afternoon—when my doorbell rings.
I actually cringe. Lately, the doorbell hasn’t been a very good thing, but I relax, knowing it’s not ninja granny out there because she would just walk right in. And if the door were locked, she’d jerry-rig it and get it open in no time. There doesn’t seem to be anything Julie Louise Paris can’t do, including making me like her.
I think she even kind of felt bad about what she said about Asher. She probably had her spies report that we spent the night together, freaked out, and flew all the way from Paris. However, that would have taken a considerable amount of time, which possibly means she never left St. Louis after the first time she paid me a visit. And as such, it could mean that maybe she’s the spy.
The idea of a tiny, pink-haired old lady dressed all in black and using a set of binoculars to look through my window makes me want to laugh, but it also unnerves me. I wouldn’t put anything past her since she’s astoundingly spry for her age. She could still kick some serious ass.
When I think about my own grandmothers compared with Asher’s, it makes me smile. One of them is thoroughly attached to her fuzzy pink slippers, and she wears band t-shirts all day long, while the other’s perm has always given her an extra six or so odd inches of height because she backcombs her backcomb on top of the curly perm. There’s no messing with Grandma Paige’s perms. Don’t get between her and her hairdressing appointments, or watch out! Anyway, neither of them is very spry, and neither would resort to blackmail. Also, neither of them would try to charm me into going to Paris on their private jet because neither of them has a private jet. But even if they did…