When Emerson says, “It was never about the money, Mikhail,” my theories are resolved. “It was always about us.” She wipes at her cheeks like they’re wet before veering the coin toward the slot in the jukebox. “And a reimagination so worthy of the record books the producers ofTheShawshank Redemptionare paying close attention.”
Not speaking another word, she slips the coin into the jukebox, selects the corniest song on offer, and then asks the man who will never stop loving her, no matter how furious the storm, to dance.
Chapter 34
Mikhail
As the last call for drinks bellows over Ember’s packed floor, I glance over at Emerson. She’s mixing a cocktail, her skills still as apparent now as they were when I first laid eyes on her. The shock of her unexpected confession last night has worn off, and now it feels like no time has passed since we eagerly waited for the final call to be issued.
We move in sync, passing bottles and glasses back and forth, our hands brushing occasionally but with purpose. Each touch sends a spark through me, and I can’t help but smile like a simp.
“Nice pour,” I say, leaning in close enough to catch a whiff of her perfume that’s barely noticeable through our combined scents. “Have you done this before?”
Emerson grins, her eyes sparking with mischief. “Once or twice.” She hands a patron a frothy drink before twisting to face me. “You’re not too bad at mixing cocktails yourself… for a stiff who sits behind a desk all day.”
I scoff, but there’s no real disdain behind it. I have a hands-on approach with all my establishments, preferring to serve alcohol than order it. Not even counting profits comes close tothe joy of working behind the bar and the friendship each shift creates.
It is easy banter, and it’s comforting to fall back into it with Emerson.
The bar is a constant buzz over the next hour, but we handle the rush with ease. Our chemistry is undeniable—as strong as our work ethic. The patrons seem to sense it too. They tip generously and linger at our side of the bar until the bouncer announces the bar is closed before guiding them outside.
“That was insane,” Emerson murmurs, tossing a dishcloth onto the battered wood she just finished wiping. “I haven’t worked this hard since…” Her eyes flicker as heat creeps up her neck. Her thoughts are far from her family’s pub. They are solely focused on me and the numerous hookups we’ve had over the past twenty-four hours.
I toss my dishcloth into her face, momentarily distilling her lusty expression so I’m not forced to scrub toilets, before calling it a night. When I twist to face Lynx, he reads my mind before I can speak a word. His head bob is all the approval I need to snatch my bike keys from under the bar.
As much as I have enjoyed the past thirty-six hours, an almost cracked leather couch is only a temporary spooning station. We need room to move, room to explore. I need hours to reimagine the best sex I’ve ever had, and I know the perfect place for us to do that.
Emerson’s smile is infectious when I twist to face her. It is cold as fuck outside, but she’d rather risk pneumonia than give up the opportunity to get on my bike again. She will even set aside her unquenchable thirst to fuck for another hour or two.
Although the winds have settled, I still assist Emerson into a wool-lined coat and a beanie before guiding our walk to the parking lot at the back of Ember’s.
Soon, we’re speeding through the city streets with her hands in my pockets to keep them warm, and her body pressed firmly against mine. Although Zelenolsk Manor is closer, I take a left at the first T-intersection after Ember’s instead of a right.
This, Emerson, is home, so it doesn’t feel right to take her to the one place where I’ve always felt like a stranger.
We arrive at my penthouse apartment a little after 2 a.m. Emerson is quiet when I lead her inside the sleek and modern building with floor-to-ceiling windows offering stunning views of the city. But she takes in the space, her expression curious and too adorable not to respond to it.
As the elevator doors snap shut, I grip her sweatshirt and tug her close before sealing my mouth over hers. I kiss her for several long seconds, tasting the meal we shared earlier and a flavor that is uniquely her.
It is a rough, needy embrace, but my remembrance of the last time someone got frisky in this elevator sees me pulling back before I’ve had close to my fill.
In case you’re wondering, I wasnota participant in that romp. I simply instigated it.
After scanning my thumb on the fingerprint scanner, I push open the door of my penthouse apartment. Emerson enters first, her eyes wide with eagerness and a look I’ve missed the past ten years. She’s jealous. Why? I’m not sure. I’d just recognize that expression anywhere.
I thank god for a woman not afraid to speak her mind when Emerson asks, “How many girls have you brought here?”
“None,” I answer, meeting her gaze. “Except my sister. But she doesn’t count. Right?”
“Depends.”
Bile works up from my stomach to my throat as I silently grill her.
How can my sister not count?
Her expression is a cross of peeved and humored when she says, “Andrik and Zoya drove me to Ember’s. Zoya shared a handful of stories during the commute.”
I cringe while recalling how I handed Zoya my number and the keys to my penthouse last year. Cut me some slack. At the time, I didn’t know she was my sister. I had an inkling she was someone special, but it was in a platonic, non-creepy way.
