Hard Sell| ETHMA

17

ETHAN
Tuesday Evening, September 26

"Emma. Shit. Emma!"

She's halfway down the block before I can catch up with her, my fingers grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her around.

What I see there rocks me back a step.

Emma Chamberlain is crying.

She shoves a hand against my shoulder. "Don't. Don't talk to me, don't touch me, don't ever call me again."

I run my free hand through my hair, still holding her arm with the other. I'm not letting her get away. Not when she looks like this.

"What did I—"

"He's the only other man who can afford me?" she says, her scathing tone doing nothing to hide her hurt.

"What—"

Oh. Oh fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Of all the boneheaded things I could have said . . .
I lift my hand to her other arm, holding both her shoulders, desperately needing to make her understand. "No," I say firmly. "That's not what I meant."

She pulls away with a harsh laugh. "Whatever. You made it clear four years ago what you thought of me."

I groan. "Not that again—"

"Yes again," she shouts, not caring that a handful of passersby are staring at us wide-eyed. "You may want to forget what you said that morning, but I can't. You said that I must be worth every penny. You said it after we slept together, like I was a common—"

"Don't say it," I growl. "Do not call yourself that."

"Why not?" she challenges. "You practically did."

"You heard what you wanted to hear, then and now," I say, my own voice raising to a shout. "Back then I only meant that you were damn good at your job. You'd told me just hours before that your job was to be anything to anyone, for a price, and that night you were everything to me."

She snorts and opens her mouth to argue, but I talk over her.

"And tonight, I was referring to our shopping expedition. The one where I spent three thousand dollars on clothes for you. Wasn't that the point of that whole scheme? So people would think we were a couple? That I doted on you?"

"You've never doted on anyone but yourself your entire life," she says.

Her voice has calmed slightly, and I nearly sag with relief, knowing that while she's still pissed, at least she seems to maybe believe that I wasn't telling Lanham she was a damned paid escort service.

"Maybe not," I grant her. "Doting's not my thing, but neither is hurting people. And I hurt you."

"You didn't—"

"I did," I interrupt. "I did and I'm sorry, Emma. I just got . . ."

She lifts her eyebrows in question when I don't finish, and I sigh in frustration—at her, at Lanham, at myself.

"I saw you talking to him, and—"

"You were worried I'd blow your cover."

"Hell yes, I was worried!" I explode.

Worried you'd be happy with someone other than me. Worried that I could lose you, even before I really had you.

I shove the thoughts aside, clinging to the safety of anger instead. "The entire reason we have a fucking contract is so that people like Lanham will think we're together, that I've settled down, that I'm not blowing money on lap dances and drugs. Instead, I look over and see my girlfriend flirting with the very client I'm trying to win over."