Page 51 of The One Timer

Uvi comes into the room to tell us dinner is served and asks if she should add another place.

“Yes, two more places. Emery and Sheryl will be staying. Emery’s agreed to stay and help me with my dress tonight.”

Uvi looks surprised, flicking me a glance and then shifting her gaze to Sheryl. Sheryl shrugs, and we all stand and leave the room.

At dinner, which Uvi cooked tonight—her specialty, beef stroganoff—I sit across from Chase with Mrs. W between us at the head of the table. Sheryl sits next to him, and I try not to think about that and not to let even a speck of jealousy in.

Most of the long dining room table is empty, but with the four of us in one corner, it feels more intimate than I would have imagined. And a far cry from my family of four at home, cramped at the small table in the dining area of the small apartment. Not that the four of us sit down together very often.

“I appreciate you doing me this favor tonight, Emery. Our family foundation’s benefit gala means a great deal to me. We’ve held it every year on New Year’s Eve for thirty-one years now, and we’ve never had less than a hundred guests and have raised hundreds of thousands of dollars each year.”

“Wow, you must have some special guest list.” I can’t help being impressed and awed all over again by how wealthy the Whittier family is. I’ve been lulled a little bit into thinking of them as ordinary people by their down-to-earth decency.

“Yes. But it would be so much better if you were there. It would mean so much if you would come with me to the gala and enjoy yourself—and keep me company, of course.”

I laugh as if it’s a big joke because it may as well be. “I’m sure there are so many others who would be better company, donors with a lot to more offer to your cause and who would be better off with a seat than me.”

“Oh, pooh. You have more to offer than you give yourself credit for.”

“Hilda won’t be coming,” Sheryl says as if she’s making room for me. “She’s staying home with the baby.” She aims a pleasant smile at me as she sits cuddled up next to Chase.

I look for the condescension, but it’s not there.

“Will your parents be there?” Chase asks.

Sheryl rolls her eyes. “Of course. That’s why I can never have fun at these events.” Then, she gives Chase a look designed to melt him. One that would make me blush if I were him. But since I blush far too often, that’s not a high bar. It’s a curse I inherited from my mother, who was far sweeter than I am, so it made sense for her. On me, blushing seems almost insincere.

I inherited too much of the irreverence my dad was known for to be considered sweet, but I always try to at least be kind.

So what’s wrong with me now, not giving Sheryl, a perfectly nice person, the benefit of the doubt, and instead even wishing to find a flaw or something to dislike in her?

Jealousy. Duh.

“Excuse me a moment. I’ll get the dessert.”

No one offers to help when I leave, but after a few minutes in the powder room, while I run the water and stare at myself in the mirror, there’s a knock on the door.

“Em, you okay?” It’s Chase.

I open the door.

Mistake.

Chapter Eighteen

EMERY

Chase takes the open door as an invitation for him to come inside, and worse, he closes the door behind him and flips the lock. Shit. It doesn’t take one blink of my eyes to feel the space close around us like a blanket, to imagine the lights become dim—though I think that’s my eyelids half closing like I’m anticipating…something I forbid myself to think about.

But his energy is like a forcefield taking over my senses more than anything, more than the sight of him or the assault of his scent or his sexy damn voice.

“What are you doing?” His voice rumbles, vibrating through me better than the actual vibrator Merry gave me for my birthday last year.

I snort in answer.

He steps close to me, staring at my eyes, and the power of his essence, his heat, and whatever the hell chemicals or hormones he’s giving off, do me in, turning me into a mass of quivering nerves.

I shut off the water so I don’t flood the place or accidentally drown myself when I swoon—because I feel like swooning—whatever that feels like.