Page 79 of Emerson

I feel like I've slept with him too many times now for it to not be obvious. Like there has to be a tattoo on my forehead that says ‘Dillon's Slut,’ and I just can't see it.

You know what I can see, though? The slutty little smug smile that tugs on his lips every time I struggle to break eye contact with him from where he sits across the dinner table.

He has no problems interacting with my family, and it's never been so nerve wracking before. He's talking about goddamn heirloom tomatoes with my dad, and I can't even process the shit that my brothers are talking about around me.

I hate him.

I want to crawl over this table and wipe that smile off his face with my tongue in his mouth.

“You should have brought Penny with you, Dill. I can't believe you're taking her away from me for four months.” I tense when my ma sighs like a dramatic southern mother does. “You'll tell Sabrina to call me if she needs anything. That may be the only grand baby I'll ever have.” She looks around the table at us, her actual kids. I roll my eyes but feel my heart speed up its pace. Four months.

“Like I told Jesse, just because I like men does not mean I can pop out babies. Sorry, Ma.”

“Does my dog count?” Ian asks, shoveling lasagna in his mouth like he's never eaten a thing in his whole life.

“I told you, kid, that's no dog. You let a damn yote in your house,” Dad says from the end of the table. Gus, his whack ass bird, sits perched on his shoulder. Pirate patch on his missing eye, he nods up and down with a squawk of apparent agreement.

“Bruce Wayne is just a mutt,” Ian argues.

“I thought you named him Thor?” Zane asks, then takes a sip of his wine.

Ian shakes his head, then says something else, but Warren cuts him off.

“I already told Morgan I would help wherever I can with Penny.”

Dillon looks at Warren, and I wait. I expect a snide remark or something, but Dillon finally gives a single nod. I didn't just fail the mission of helping their friendship, I obliterated the mission and then fucked it. Got fucked by it. Whatever. This is the worst time for him to show up here.

The worst time.

I've been anxious since I woke up and saw the pink cupcake box on my nightstand yesterday. He must have grabbed it from the kitchen from Friday night and set it right where I would see it when I opened my eyes.

First, I saw the bed next to me empty. Then I saw the box.

And I'm fucking anxious. Because who is going to deliver me cupcakes now, huh? He's programmed me to need a sugar fix in the morning, and now he's abandoning me.

I slam the water in my glass like it's a shot and set the glass down.

“Are you hot, Emerson?” Dillon asks. “You're a little red in the cheeks.” His voice is smooth and taunting.

The water goes down wrong, and I choke. Ian smacks me on the back, but I wave him away.

Dillon laughs, but it's not a Sunday dinner laugh. It's the laugh he gives me when he teases me when we're alone.

And, God, there will probably be a room for people as depraved as I am who have to fight off boners at a family dinner because a man laughed. All of us disgusting boner havers will burn in the depths together.

I move side to side to readjust, to get out some of the anxious jitters in my limbs. Warren is looking at me a little too fucking closely.

“I think he has a boyfriend,” War announces.

My eyes bulge. “Even if I did, that's none of your business, Warren.”

“Just sayin’.” He munches on a stalk of asparagus. “You've got that look.”

“What look?” I say with a laugh, trying to play it fucking cool even though my heart is racing. I will not glance at Dillon. Will not.

Maybe I don't have the tattoo on my forehead, but I have nosy damn brothers, and they're all looking at me now. One wrong move, and it's all over. The jig will be up.

I don't need Warren trying to choke Dillon out with his napkin to defend my honor or something. Dear God.