Emma That is Dead (FREE!)

Chapter Eleven

No matter how hard this is for me, it has to be so much worse for her. And not just what happened while she was captive, but even now, trying to pick up the pieces and move on with her life. Nothing about this situation is normal. Emma belongs to a small percentage of victims who have lived to tell their tale. She must feel so lost and alone right now, with no one around who truly understands what she's going through.

His eyes cloud over. "Is that what you want? Not to see each other anymore?"

Is he serious? It's the last thing I want! I'm in love with him. I always have been, and I probably always will. Doesn't he get that?

My voice comes out small and pathetic. "No."

"I don't want that either." His shoulders relax and he nuzzles my neck, his breath warm against my skin. His hand caressing my thigh.

I rest my head against his and weave my fingers through his hair, allowing them to get lost in the tangle of silky curls. "Are you still in love with her?"

For every second he doesn't answer, my stomach twists tighter into a knot.

Finally, his head lifts and he looks me in the eye. "Emma was an important part of my life for a very long time. But now, I think of her as a friend. I know everyone assumed we were this perfect couple, but we weren't. We had our problems, we just didn't broadcast them. I'm not sure how much she shared about our relationship, but things aren't always what they seem. People show the sides of themselves they want others to see. But everyone has layers, and you have to peel them back before you can find what's underneath."

I can't hide my smile. "How did you get to be so smart?"

Smith tips his head back and laughs. "You learn a lot at Al-Anon meetings," he says, referring to the support group for families of addicts. "So, yes. To answer your question, I do love Emma, but as a friend. Do you believe me?"

My heart pounds, and I can't shake the feeling that it might burst from my chest. "Of course, I believe you."

Smith would never lie. Not on purpose. But that doesn't mean he's not doing it subconsciously. What is it they say about first love? That it never truly dies? That the person is etched into your soul forever and becomes so ingrained, like a part of the fabric that makes you you?

It's true. Because that's exactly how I feel about Smith. He's my first love.

Only ... I'm not his.

Smith studies me, and raises an eyebrow. "Come here."

There's always been something about this moment, those few fleeting seconds before the kiss. Like he wants me to need it, to need his mouth on mine, the same way my lungs need air to breath. His nose caresses mine and everything around us dissolves into a weightless nothingness. My mind is wiped blank, a clean slate, nothing left to think about other than what's happening here and now.

His hand cups my cheek as his lips brush and tug, gentle at first, before going deeper, deeper, our tongues twisting together, hungry for more. My body's on fire. Every nerve ending and blood vessel, every neuron in my brain. I want him in a way I've never wanted anything.

Until his phone vibrates against the table, destroying the moment.

Smith slumps back and already I miss his touch. He glances at the text and rolls his eyes. "It's my dad. He needs me to pick Booker up from basketball."

I don't bother to hide my disappointment. "Now?"

"His coach has to stay until every kid is gone." He gives me a small smile. "Sorry."

I slide off his lap and try not to pout. "How many more years until your brother gets his license?"

"Well, he's thirteen, so you do the math. You're lucky you don't have to chauffeur your little sister around. It's the single worst chore in the history of chores."

"Even worse than dishes?" I say, glancing at the stack of dirty plates in the sink.

"Way worse. Dishes don't demand to ride shotgun even when your friends are in the car."

He stands up, stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a carved abdomen underneath. I look away, so I won't be caught staring.

Smith grabs my hand and tugs me toward the door, then turns to face me. Gives me that crooked grin. "Thank you for dinner and dessert. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I guess we can save that for another time." I close my eyes, shake my head. Will my cheeks not to burn. When I look up, he's staring. "Did I render you speechless?" he teases.

"Always."

His head dips and our lips meet again, his hands gripping my waist, my arms around his neck. And the moment hasn't passed after all. The need is still there, that primal urge for more, our breaths quickening, not wanting the moment to end. If I could crawl inside of him I would.

He lets out the cutest whimper. "Booker's waiting."

But he doesn't release me, and I find myself gripping tighter, not wanting to let go. I inhale the air between us, wanting his breath to fill my lungs, so that even after he's left, part of him will still be here with me, circulating in my veins.

The ways he's looking at me, the heat rolling through my entire body, making my limbs numb and tingly, my lungs void of air. "I love you." The words come out before I can stop them, but I don't want to take them back.

I'm in love with Smith Anderson, and I want him to know. But more than that, I want him to say it back. To confirm he feels the way I do.

Smith leans closer, plants a tender kiss on the top of my nose. "I have to go."

Wait.

Oh my God.

What?

He turns to leave, and a prickly layer of sweat crawls over my flesh, worming its way from the top of my head all the way down to my toes.

Did he hear me? Does he understand what I just said? "Smith, I—"

When he glances over his shoulder, a brown curl falls across his forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I stare after him, my hands shaking, my entire body on edge. I told him I loved him but he didn't say it back. He didn't even acknowledge it.

What the hell does that mean?