Stepbrother Billionaire(20)
Author: Colleen Masters

My reservations about staying in a motel evaporate as I take in the space. It’s a quaint, simple room, well kept and cozy. I spot a deep bathtub through the open bathroom door, a huge window with a view of the sea…and a big queen bed right in the center of the room.

Seeing that big-enough-for-two bed makes this whole thing real for me. I’m finally going to sleep with Emerson Sawyer. After all these years of wanting him from afar, he’s right here beside me. We’re here with each other. It’s almost too good to be true.

Don’t think that, I chide myself, the second you think something’s too good to be true, it usually is.

“Well,” Emerson says with a smile. “I’m starving. You gonna take me out for a birthday dinner or what?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” I roll my eyes, “Sure. Where do you want to go?”

He knows a place nearby, and drives us over to get some grub. It’s a tiny, seaside shack with maybe a dozen tables. The menu is heavy on seafood and regional staples. There’s a warmth to the place that can only be captured during the offseason at a sleepy beach town.

In short, it’s perfect.

We settle down into a table by the window and tuck into our complementary basket of biscuits. The buttery, flaky pastry makes my eyes flutter closed with pleasure. I haven’t eaten anything all day.

“How’d you know about this place?” I ask Emerson, perusing the menu.

“My dad used to take me here when I was little,” he replies, looking out the wide front windows toward the docks. “We’d come out fishing early in the morning, then stop here for lunch before driving home. It’s not fancy, but it’s one of my favorite places in the world.”

His face takes on a cast of sadness as he talks about his dad. It occurs to me that I barely know anything about Emerson’s father, or what happened to him. I try to open up the conversation as delicately as possible.

“Does he still live around here, your dad?” I ask carefully, reaching for another biscuit.

“In a way,” Emerson laughs roughly. “I mean, he’s still in the state. Or should I say, In State.”

“Your dad’s…incarcerated?” I ask, pausing in my one-woman biscuit-scarfing contest.

“You don’t have to be so formal about it,” Emerson replies. “He’s locked up. Has been for most of my life.”

“Wow…” I breathe, unsure of what to say. “That’s…so rough. I’m sorry.”

“I’m pretty used to the arrangement by now,” he says. “But thanks.”

“Do you mind if I ask…I mean, you don’t have to go into it…” I fumble.

“No, it’s OK,” Emerson replies, “You’ve told me so much about your past, it’s only fair that I be open with you too.”

We pause our conversation long enough to place our orders with the young, friendly waitress. Once she’s taken our menus away and left us alone once more Emerson takes a breath and begins.

“My parents got married pretty young,” he tells me, “For a while, they really were happy. They never had much in the way of money, but when you look at old pictures of them, it always looks like they’re having a blast. It wasn’t until they started trying to start a family that things got sort of…complicated.”

“Complicated how?” I ask.

“Complicated in that it didn’t work for them at first,” Emerson goes on. “They kept trying to get pregnant without any luck. Their doctors told them that fertility treatments, IVF and all, might help things along. The problem is, those treatments cost money, and my parents didn’t have any. But they were hell bent on having a kid, so my dad—Peter—decided to get a little creative with the whole money-making thing.”

“And when you say creative…” I prompt him.

“I mean he started selling drugs to make some extra money,” Emerson says bluntly. “Nothing major. Just weed, mostly. And it worked, too—they were able to rake in enough extra cash that IVF was suddenly on the table. My mom was finally able to get pregnant with yours truly. Which was all well and good, until I was eight or so. That’s when the dealing finally caught up with my dad. He wasn’t just selling the drugs. Both my parents had already started having issues with substance abuse by then, and my dad got in a really nasty car accident while under the influence that brought everything out into the open. He went away, my mom got worse, and I was left to take care of it all. I did, too. I have been since I was eight. I mean, it’s because they wanted me so badly that they started down that road at all. It only seems fair, you know?”

“Emerson,” I say softly, reaching for his hands across the table, “You know that none of that is your fault, right?”

“Oh, sure,” Emerson shrugs, “I know that. In theory. But it’s hard not to feel kind of obligated to them now, no matter how badly they mess up.”

“I know what you mean,” I nod, “I feel the same way about my dad. Like, since he lost mom, I always have to be there for him, even if he barely gives me the time of day.”

“Look at us,” Emerson laughs, “A couple of bleeding hearts.”

“I guess so,” I smile.

Our bountiful plates of food arrive—crab cakes for Emerson, vegetable pot pie for me—and we dig in eagerly, plowing through every bite of buttery, flavorful goodness. We even go in for a couple slices of blueberry pie to top things off. I’m surprised we don’t roll out of the restaurant at the end of our meal.

By the time we make it back to the motel, we’re happy, sleepy, and more than a little handsy. My every nerve sizzles with anticipation as Emerson unlocks our motel room love nest and walks in before me. He flops onto the soft queen bed, and I tentatively ease myself down next to him. The whole being-alone thing is still so novel for us that I find myself feeling a little shy. Emerson can sense that I’m still getting my bearings, so he just lets me curl against his side there on the bed. His arms close around me as I press my back against his chest. We drift into a post-dinner nap, the sound of the waves cocooning us as we lay there.

Even in half-slumber, I can feel my body responding to Emerson’s. Our chests rise and fall together, our limbs shifting to accommodate each other. It’s so simple, so easy. Like we were built for each other. By all rights, I should be feeling so much pressure and anxiety about what we’ve promised to give each other this weekend. But I’ve never felt more at peace.