The mother scoffs again, adding to the shame heating my cheeks.
Emerson remains quiet.
With the magazine stuffed under her arm, the teen lifts her iPhone to document our exchange. No one believes anything these days unless you have proof, and although this isn’t the shoot I was preparing to undertake today, I’d rather mollify the teen with a handful of snaps than see the details of my escapade splashed over the covers of magazines tomorrow morning.
A fan will defend its idol to the end of time—ifthe idol remembers they’d be nothing without their fans.
Emerson twists in enough time to miss the blinding flash of multiple images being snapped in quick succession, and then her hands shoot up to protect her eyes from further damage.
Well, that’s what my heart is telling my head.
My head believes her motives are more sinister, like she’s embarrassed to be photographed with me. And its beliefs worsen when she offers to be the photographer for the teenager.
The blonde eagerly nods before punching a hole in Emerson’s plan. “You should get in a handful of images, too. We can take selfies.”
“No, it’s fine.” Emerson brushes off her offer with a wave of her hand before she snatches the iPhone from her grasp and switches places with her.
She pretends she’s not knowledgeable about how iPhones operate, her ruse long enough to remove any unwanted photos from the teen’s album before she snaps a handful of images of us.
The teen’s excitement is infectious. Even the mother gets in a handful of photographs toward the end of our mini shoot. Her sourpuss expression never alters, but she takes part—unlike Emerson. Not once does she accept their numerous offers to be photographed with me.
Her constant denials nosedive my mood and have me grimacing in the last handful of snaps instead of smiling.
Chapter 21
Emerson
Our kiss and grind-up was everything I could have hoped for, but as I lead our walk away from a gleaming teen and a middle-aged lady with a “Vote 1 Dokovic” pin fastened to her water bottle, I can’t shake the feeling of sadness weaving between the lust still thickening my veins.
Mikhail has never been good at masking his feelings, though he tries his best now. The way his eyes never fully meet mine while instructing me to be careful while scaling over another grime-soaked boulder announces he is attempting to re-erect the walls our kiss lowered.
When he holds out his hand in offering at the opening of the trail, I try to convince myself that he’s more concerned about me slipping again than other matters, but uncertainty about everything lingers during our trek back to his bike.
Unlike our climb, our descent is done in silence. We walk back to the semi-isolated lot, the sound of the waterfall cresting behind us fading as rapidly as my hope that I’ll make it out of this arrangement in one piece.
Old feelings have been bubbling at the surface since the will reading, but they’ve reached the boiling point now. Our make-out session at the crest of the waterfall was too hot for them not to bubble over.
“Here. Put this on. I don’t want you getting sick.” Mikhail removes his leather jacket before draping it over my shoulders and pulling my hair out of the collar.
After stuffing my arms into the openings, I pull his coat in, loving that it smells like us, before asking, “What about you? Won’t you be cold?”
He smiles like his eyes aren’t gauging the honesty of my fretful tone before he murmurs, “I’ll be fine.”
After hooking his leg over his bike, he assists me onto the back. Since I’m wearing his coat, he can’t warm my hands in its pockets this time, so he tucks them under his shirt instead. The bumps on his abs and a handful of felonious hairs tickle my fingertips when he kicks over his bike and revs the engine. It switches some of my worries back to lust, but only a smidge.
“Ready?” I feel Mikhail’s question more than I hear it. That’s how close our bodies are. It is like we’re back at the crest of the waterfall, but Mikhail is the wrong way around.
Our eyes align in the side mirror when I jerk up my chin.
The roaring of Mikhail’s engine fills the ride to the bustling metropolis with adrenaline. But my thoughts are elsewhere. I wonder if our make-out session meant as much to Mikhail as it did to me or if the memories were too potent for him to move past without trying to rehash them?
I’d like to think it is the former. Our contract encourages public displays of affection, but no one else was with us at the waterfall before we were interrupted. It was just us and memories I’m praying never become haunted.
The wind rushing past us ensures my cheeks are dry by the time Mikhail parks his custom bike in front of a fancy boutique. The town, a hundred miles from Zelenolsk Manor, is bustling and extremely high-end.
Only the wealthy live in this part of the country, and the locals’ faces show it when Mikhail dismounts his bike to help me. His snatch-and-pluck maneuver saved me from a life-ending fall, but his jeans weren’t so lucky to escape the carnage. They’re stained in the back, as murky as he made the front of my jeans when he kissed me senselessly while fondling my breasts.
The reminder of the chemistry brewing between us during our make-out session assures me it wasn’t an act. You can’t manufacture electricity like that on a whim. It takes months to inspire and years to perfect.
