Page 89 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
“You do know him.”
“I do? Oh. Isn’t he Dean’s dad?”
“Dean?”
“Dean from Mrs. Gellar’s class.”
Her hand stutters in motion as she lifts her coffee cup to her lips. The quick aversion of her eyes tells me she doesn’t like this topic.
I push anyway.
“I don’t think so.” Her voice is soft as she sets the cup down, picks it back up, and then straightens the sheets some.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, hating that the simple mention of Mrs. Gellar’s class puts her visibly on edge. “You’re right. Dean’s last name was Meyers.”
I wait to see a reaction from her, but her expression remains stone cold. “Yes, that was it.”
Silence falls between us as we both stare into our coffees, but questions nag me more than ever before since running into Emerson. It’s her dig about not trusting me that she played off as one thing when she really meant another. It’s her need to stay detached even though we’re clearly sleeping together.
“About that day . . .” Fucking Christ. I’m so goddamn distracted by her incredible body sitting half-naked before me that I blurted out my thoughts.
“No,” she snaps as she shoves up off the bed.
“We need to talk about it at some point, Em.”
“Actually, no, we don’t.” She turns her back to me and walks toward the windows.
“Em—”
“Stop!” she shouts. “I’ve dealt with it. I don’t need you bringing it up, so don’t talk about it again. Now, get out before you break another rule because you’re walking a fine line with me, Grant. The spending the night was a mistake. You bringing that up, wasn’t cool . . . so, play time’s over. The benefits have been used up for now. I have to get to work.”
I study her for a moment—a silhouette against the morning light beyond—the curve of her waist, the shape of her legs, her strawberry hair falling down her bare back in tangles. There’s so much shit I want to say, but the defensiveness in her posture tells me she won’t hear a damn word of it.
In time.
In silence and with gritted teeth, I rise from the bed and pull on my jeans and shirt. All the while, she stares out the window, ignoring the tension settling into place.
With my keys in my hand, I walk toward where she stands. “Your past sure as fuck doesn’t define the woman you are . . . and it isn’t my business, regardless of how much I care about you and want to make sure you’re okay. Em, I was there, and I feel like you hold it against me—”
“Or maybe I’m just this hostile with all men,” she whispers, never turning to face me, but I can hear the pain in her voice and hate that I put it there.
I take the final step to her and hear her breath catch as I press my lips to the back of her shoulder. “Nah, I think it’s particular to me.” She nods but doesn’t step away from me. “Can we somehow wipe the slate clean?”
“How, though?” Confusion laces her voice, and her willingness to even ask that question is telling. It doesn’t matter how much I think I know about her past, I don’t have a goddamn clue about the demons she still battles. And battle she does. Even now, she’s fighting them with loud declarations of denial and softly whispered pleas for help.
“From here on out, we forget the memories and just chase the moments,” I say with another press of my lips to her skin before walking out the door.
“If I had a secret, could I tell you and would you promise not to tell anyone in the whole wide world?”
“Huh? Yeah. Sure.” I’m at the good part in my RL Stine book and don’t want to stop.
“I’m serious.”
; She is serious. When I look up from my book, I realize she’s been crying. Like red-eyes crying. But she’s wearing her favorite purple dress with sparkly black shoes—the one she calls her “pop star” outfit.
“What’s wrong?” She doesn’t move other than to look over her shoulder toward where her house is and then back to me. “Emmy?”
