Stepbrother Billionaire(43)
Author: Colleen Masters

“You OK?” he asks, heating up some olive oil in a cast iron skillet.

“Oh. Yeah,” I say, snapping back to attention. “I just…Kind of forgot that this is a temporary situation. You being in New York.”

“Mmm,” he mutters, noncommittally, “It’s true, I did only swing by to train the new recruit at Cooper’s request. If I could have known that you were the new recruit, well…”

“Well what?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the island.

He glances over his shoulder at me, smiling. “Maybe I wouldn’t have bought a return ticket, in the end.”

I’m torn between elation and trepidation. Best not force the issue of what’s going to happen between us once my training is complete and focus on the moment at hand. I watch as Emerson grills two delectable salmon fillets, blanches some broccoli rabe, and prepares a small batch of pesto pasta. The food smells amazing, the wine is fantastic, and I’m here with one of my favorite people on earth. Today may have been a little bit rough, but it sure is shaping up nicely. If I try real hard, I can pretend that this is what my life is like every day, and forget that this is just a fleeting anomaly.

“Here we go,” Emerson says proudly, plating our food and nodding toward the terrace. “Shall we?”

I follow him out onto the secluded patio with Roxie right on my heels. We settle down at a little table beneath a canopy of string lights and overgrown ivy. I know I shouldn’t get attached to this place, this feeling, but I can’t help it. This is all so…perfect. And that’s even before I taste the food.

“Oh my god…” I murmur, taking my first bite of perfectly grilled salmon.

“Better than my risotto, even?” Emerson asks, helping himself to his meal.

“I never would have thought it possible but, yes,” I exclaim, savoring the taste.

“I kept up with the hobby,” he says modestly, “Spending a bit of time in France certainly whipped my cooking skills into shape.”

“You lived in France?” I ask, wide-eyed.

“Oh yeah,” he nods, “France, England, Spain, even Finland for a while.”

“Damn,” I whistle, “I’ve been in the same apartment since I was eighteen.”

“Nothing wrong with having roots,” he replies.

“Yeah…” I murmur, thinking of my grandparents’ threat to tear those roots right out from under me.

We savor our incredible meal, the fine wine, each other’s company—and of course the delightful presence of Roxie. It’s shaping up to be a pretty good first day at the new job after all, even if this is strictly extra-curricular. The evening wears on, a couple more glasses of wine are poured, and Emerson even manages to find a record we can both agree on—Iron and Wine, an old favorite of ours. We retire back into the loft, and I meander about the space at my leisure, taking in all the little details that make his house a home.

“I’d offer you a grand tour,” Emerson says, watching me from the center of the room, “But this is pretty much it.”

“What about in there?” I ask, nodding toward the bedroom door.

“You trying to get a peek at my bedroom, Rowan?” he asks, grinning.

“Maybe I am, Sawyer,” I shrug, “Unless you’re afraid of me finding your Playboy stash or something.”

“This from the girl who kept a vibrator within arm’s length through her entire adolescence,” he laughs, walking toward his room.

“I have needs, OK?” I exclaim, feigning defensiveness.

“Is that so?” he replies, his voice going raspy around the edges as he pauses in the doorway of his bedroom.

The delicious wine has lowered both of our inhibitions, and my body comes alive as I feel us transitioning into the more…sensual part of the evening. We haven’t mentioned our steamy kiss from this weekend, yet, but we seem to be coming back around to right where we left off. Emerson’s blue eyes flash with desire as I step up to him, resting a hand on the firm panes of his chest.

“You know about my needs better than anyone,” I say softly, trailing my fingers down his cut, defined torso.

“Mmm. We’ll just have to see what we can do about them, then,” he murmurs, catching my wrist. My eyes go wide as he draws my hand to his full lips and takes the tip of my finger into his mouth. I feel his tongue brush against my fingertip, remember what it felt like to feel his mouth other places…and break off into his room, chest pounding.

It’s a small, simple space with high ceilings and a huge king bed front and center. A sleek dresser and wide window round out the space, and a few well-placed keepsakes make it feel like a sacred space. I trail my fingers along the dresser, setting down my drained glass of wine. I’m just on the far edge of tipsy, and my cares are swirling away by the second.

There are a few framed pictures on the dresser, and my stomach turns to see an old wedding photo. It isn’t of our parents’ ridiculous ceremony, of course, but I do recognize a much-younger Deb. This must be from her first wedding to Emerson’s father, a man who looks remarkably like the one standing next to me now. Deb looks so happy. Healthy, even. It breaks my heart to think of what her life has become.

I tear my eyes away from the old picture and notice that a second frame holds not a photograph, but a drawing. It only takes a split second for me to recognize it, and as soon as I do, I feel my hand fly to my lips. There, on Emerson’s dresser, is the sketch of him I drew when we were kids, the one I gave to him on his eighteenth birthday. The drawing features him in half-profile, looking serious and sure. I worked on this piece for hours—days, even—before giving it to him in that seaside motel room. It’s been preserved perfectly, lovingly, and for a spell I’m too moved to speak.

Two strong arms wrap around my waist from behind as I stare at the picture of teenage Emerson, drawn by my very own hand. I clasp his hands where they rest against my body, letting my head lean back against his chest.

“You kept it,” I whisper, turning my face toward his.

“Of course,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of my head. “That picture has traveled the world with me. I’ve kept it in every home I’ve ever lived in, from my little apartment in Philly to my flat in London. Every time I get to thinking that I don’t deserve my success, that I’m just some punk kid who’s pulling one over on the rest of the world, I just look at this picture. It’s always reminded me that there’s someone in the world who thinks I’m strong, and worthy. Someone who loved me, once.”