Stepbrother Billionaire(42)
Author: Colleen Masters

“I know it’s a lot to take in all at once,” he says, as we step into the elevator together with a few other coworkers, “But you really are doing a great job. You’re going to do so well here, Abby. I’m proud of you.”

I bite my tongue until we reach the ground floor. As the other Bastian employees head off in their own directions, Emerson and I fall into step with each other out on the sidewalk. I feel like I can breathe again for the first time in hours. Never underestimate the stifling nature of coworkers’ judgey passive aggression.

“How does it not bother you that people are clearly gossiping about us in there?” I ask Emerson, as we head for the subway.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow at me.

“Our coworkers,” I spell it out, “They obviously know that something’s up between us.”

“Well, something is up, isn’t it?” he asks, slipping an arm around my waist in his mischievous fashion.

“Seriously Emerson,” I say, drawing to a stop beside the subway entrance, “Aren’t you worried that this could mess things up for us at work?”

“No,” he says shortly, looking a bit irked. “I’m not worried about being fodder for the rumor mill for a week or two. This isn’t high school, Ab. Gossip can’t hurt you.”

“It could be a bigger deal than that,” I reply anxiously, “I mean, what if Cooper doesn’t approve of us…being whatever we are?”

“How can he disapprove of ‘whatever we are’ if we haven’t even decided what we are yet?” Emerson counters.

“Oof. This is making my head hurt,” I laugh, the tension of the day dispelling now that we’re out of the office.

“Bet I have the cure for what ails you,” he replies, taking my hand in his and tugging me down the block.

“That’s my train,” I inform him, glancing back at the subway.

“I know,” he says, “But my apartment is this way.”

“Are you inviting me over?” I ask, trailing along behind him.

“Obviously,” he laughs.

“What…for?” I ask, digging my heels in ever-so-slightly.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a pretty decent cook,” he replies, “Let me make you dinner. We can call it a belated double-birthday celebration, since our other attempts at celebrating got…derailed this weekend.”

Dinner at Emerson’s apartment? That sounds an awful lot like a romantic evening to me. And though I know it would be wise to take this whole thing slow, I just can’t resist him tonight. Who am I kidding—when have I ever been able to resist Emerson Sawyer?

“OK,” I smile, “Lead on, Iron Chef.”

We swing by a fancy high-end grocery store on the way to Emerson’s apartment so he can gather his ingredients. I can’t help but smile wistfully as I think of the last time he cooked for me. There was so much sweetness and sorrow wrapped up in those few fleeting weeks of our younger years that any thought of them is bursting with remembered sensation. Of course, it’s not like this reunion of ours has been without its emotional moments.

“Here we are,” Emerson says, drawing to a stop on a gorgeous block lined with cozy cafes and classy boutiques. He leads me up a set of stone steps and unlocks a door there.

“This is where you live?” I breathe, glancing over my shoulder at the cosmopolitan block.

“Sure is,” he says, holding the door for me.

I expect to walk into the lobby of an apartment building, a ground floor leading off to a bunch of different units. But as Emerson nudges open a second door and steps through, I feel my jaw drop. The entire space inside is an open, spacious loft. This entire building is his. I’ve watched enough house-hunting reality TV to know that this is easily a multi-million dollar property—and this isn’t even his only place!

The impossibly high ceilings vault above a perfectly-arranged interior. There’s a huge, sparkling kitchen, a sunken living room, and an enclosed bedroom off the main space. Huge, towering windows take up the entire wall opposite us, and lead off onto a private terrace. The design is mostly minimal—white walls and hardwood floors—with purposeful touches of natural materials like wood and stone. The appliances and decor are an artful mix of new and vintage. Emerson’s home is utterly perfect. It could have been ripped right off my “dream home” Pinterest page. Amazing how our tastes are so aligned, even though we come from totally different backgrounds and have led completely different lives.

I’d call that a good sign.

I gasp as a throw pillow comes barreling my way, only to realize in the next moment that the galloping bundle of white fluff is actually an adorable little West Highland Terrier. The tiny dog collides with my legs, tail wagging a million miles an hour.

“You must be Roxie,” I laugh, reaching down to scratch her ears.

“Yep. That’s the lady of the house,” Emerson smiles.

“House?” I shoot back, kneeling down to get a better look at the friendly Westie. “More like palace.”

“Pick your jaw up off the floor and tell me what kind of wine you like,” he laughs, setting the groceries down on the kitchen island.

“Something red,” I say, staring in wonder at the impeccable space.

“Coming right up,” he replies, opening a concealed miniature wine cellar nestled into the island. “How does a nice Rioja sound?”

“It sounds…nice,” I tell him, settling down at one of the wooden stools before the counter. Roxie follows me over into the kitchen and sits at my feet, staring up at me with amiable, adorable curiosity.

“She likes you,” Emerson observes, pausing to give Roxie a good nuzzling.

“Well. She has wonderful taste,” I kid, flipping my blonde hair theatrically.

He produces a couple of wine glasses and pours generously. “To our 26th years,” he smiles, clinking my glass.

“To you not doing too shabbily for yourself,” I reply, taking a sip of the delicious wine. “I mean, you told me how well you’ve made out with this app development gig, but holy crap. This loft, Emerson…”

“I’m glad you like it,” he says, gathering and prepping his ingredients. “I actually prefer it to my place in London, to tell you the truth. But that’s where Cooper decided he needs me most, so.”

It takes a second for Emerson’s words to click. Of course. He’s not even based here at the New York offices of Bastian. He runs the show in Europe. That means, of course, that he’s probably due back there soon. Like, the end of the week soon. Why didn’t I think of that before?