THATCHER
I open my eyes to see what's tickling my face. I know I have long hair and a beard, but I don't usually half choke myself on my own locks. Then I remember. I fell asleep at Emma's after two rounds of, frankly, the best sex of my life. When I turn my head, she's there next to me in the bed. Her red hair is sprawled everywhere. Thick and straight, it has strands of gold, brown, and umber. I can't help myself--I reach out and start to run my fingers through the silk, stroking it and watching the colors shift in the light. I look at the contented smile on her face and, rather than feel eager to get the fuck out of here, I feel so damn glad to wake up beside her. I was supposed to be talking with her about our exit plan for this contract. I need it to be her who breaks things off, or else the whole thing was pointless. But right now, ending things with Emma is the farthest thing from my mind.
My stomach growls and I decide to comb Emma's cupboards and make us some food. That's what a real fiancé would do, right? Might as well play the part since I'm here anyway. I slip on my boxers and dig through the fridge. She doesn't have much, but I figure I can make French toast at least. I get to work and am just sliding the first slices on to a plate when I see Emma padding down the hall wearing my t-shirt. I freeze as a huge, unidentifiable emotion seizes my chest. It's not arousal, although I definitely feel turned on looking at her with no bra, imagining her pink, tight nipples pressed against the fabric of my shirt. I frown, realizing that I'm feeling some combination of possession and pride and, well, joy at seeing her like this in the morning. Limping a little, smiling a lot, looking content.
"You cook?" her smile is dazzling. I'm glad I decided to do something nice for her, if it means I get to see that look on her face.
I shrug. "When I'm hungry." I drop a piece of toast onto another plate and then slide it down the counter toward Emma. "You've got a hitch in your giddy-up, Chezz," I say, grinning when she winces climbing onto the stool.
"Well, whose fault is that?" She takes a bite of toast. "Mmm, this is really good, Thatcher. Did you add cinnamon?"
I nod, turn off the burner, and sit in the stool next to her. I nudge her with my shoulder playfully. What the hell am I doing? I haven't flirted like this in years. I don't need to. Women are usually throwing themselves at me, and I always know I'm going to go back to their place. Emma is different. I care what she thinks about me, and she calls me out on my bullshit if I act like a jerk. I made her breakfast, for fuck's sake. I clear my throat and get to the matter at hand. "So, Emma, like I said, I think we need to make a plan for, you know, after Ty's wedding."
She frowns and puts down her fork. "How am I supposed to break up with you? I'm not doing it in public or causing a scene at the wedding, let's be clear about that."
"Jesus. No. You don't even have to actually do anything. We just need to agree about what we're going to say you did. Will do. Whatever." I finish my toast, thinking. "You know it has to be you ending it, right? We talked about that."
She nods, pushing her fork around in the puddle of maple syrup on her plate. I think for a bit, sigh, and tell her, "I think it can work if we just tell my brothers your parents don’t approve of me. Which is true anyway."
Her jaw drops. "Thatcher Stag, I would never end a relationship with someone because of what my parents think! No. Absolutely not!"
"Emma," I put my hand over her hand. "This isn't about what you would really do. Remember? This is about convincing my family that I'm not an oversexed playboy."
"They're going to think I'm some frivolous child who does whatever her parents want her to do!"
"Well who cares what they think of you?"
She recoils from me, staring. "Are you serious? This whole thing is about you caring what they think of you, Thatcher." She sighs and stomps off to the bedroom.
"Hey," I chase after her. "Come on, Emma." She throws my jeans at me.
"I have to go to work, so you should probably get dressed and take off. That's your M.O. isn't it? Morning meeting? Busy day ahead?" She yanks on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, throwing my shirt back to me before she slides her feet into a pair of Toms. "Look, Thatcher, thank you for the great sex and the breakfast. I don't accept your proposal for this ending to our illusion, but I'll think on it and get back to you in a few days."
"My proposal?" I fish around under her bed for my shoes. Shit, this gives me a sense of déjà vu.
"Yes. This is a business transaction, right? I'm negotiating our exit clause. But first I'm going to go meet with my editor and you're going to leave my apartment and do whatever it is that you do."
I'm used to women being angry when I leave the morning after sex, but I'm not used to feeling like I want to make things right. This shit with Emma is screwing with my head, because she's supposed to just be someone I'm making a deal with, and now everything is complicated and layered. I shake my head and rest a hand on her shoulder for a minute since I feel like kissing her, but know that she'd probably slap me.
When I get in my truck I pound the steering wheel a few times. "Fuck!" I shout in the empty cab. This is why I don't do relationships. Even when it seems like it's just fun, it always gets intense.
Before I can check myself, I aim my truck toward downtown and pull into the visitors lot at the hospital. I'm in a foul mood, and I feel like telling my father a few things about how fucked up it is to leave your family when they need you. They moved him to a private room on a different floor. The nurse in the hallway tells me he's getting released soon and they're hoping someone can convince him to check into a rehab center now that he's been safely detoxed.
I don't greet him, just walk in and sit in the chair beside his bed. He drops the newspaper he's holding and turns to look at me. "Didn't think I'd see you back again."
"Yeah, well you were asleep the last time I came. So now I've been a better son to you than you deserve. Twice."
He closes his eyes, then looks at me. "I want them to let me die, Thatcher. I can't do this without Laurel."
I want to feel bad for him, that he's so wrecked about this, but it's not like my brothers and I weren't wrecked, too. "Fuck you," I spit out. "You had responsibilities. To us. You think she'd want you to treat us this way?"
He just shakes his head. I feel depleted now, so I stand up and shove the chair away and walk out of the room.