’s nobody I’d bring to Dad’s birthday party.” I’m not subjecting Amy to what will undoubtedly turn into a massive clusterfuck. “Too damn embarrassing.”
Three knocks at the door. “Come in,” I say, then turn to my phone, relieved I don’t have to continue the conversation. “Kids, I gotta go. Work.”
“Likewise.”
We hang up. Grant stands as Amy walks in. Just the woman who’s been endlessly occupying my thoughts.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Amy
Grant and I greet each other, all professional. Emmett’s eyes skim me carefully, so I paste on a smile and pretend I’m fine.
There’s nobody I’d bring to Dad’s birthday party. Too damn embarrassing.
If Emmett and his dad didn’t get along, I might assume he was embarrassed about his dad. But I know that isn’t true, so maybe Emmett’s embarrassed about me. The notion is like a hot knife stuck in my chest. I force a smile and feel the corners of my lips twitch a little.
When Grant closes the door behind him, I take a seat.
“How are you feeling?” Emmett asks, all solicitous.
How much of that warmth is real? “I’m fine. You?”
“Good.” He clears his throat. “So. Have you thought about what I said yesterday?”
I start to answer until the books on his desk catch my attention. “Did your brother see those books?” Did you tell Grant?
“Yeah, but I told him they’re for an industry analysis. He has no clue.”
“I see.” I nod slowly, trying to decide how I feel about that.
“So, about what I said yesterday…”
Did you mean I am embarrassing when you said, “Too damn embarrassing,” or was it something else? The words form in my mouth, then get stuck. I was an idiot for thinking I should keep an open mind about his proposal. “What about it?”
“What do you think?”
“Shouldn’t we meet each other’s families first?” I throw that out instead of the real question I want to ask.
He shakes his head. He’s trying to keep his expression neutral, but I catch the wince fleeting across his handsome face. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Too damn embarrassing. Emmett’s voice echoes in my head. The queasiness I’m feeling has nothing to do with morning sickness.
“It isn’t like we’re marrying each other’s families,” he adds.
My hands shake, and I clench them. I’ll be damned if I let him know how hurt I am. “Let’s talk about the Drone project.”
“But we didn’t get to finish—”
“I need more time.” To compose myself. It’s going to be humiliating if I end up crying, even though I can feel my face heating.
He peers at me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a little nauseated.”
“Morning sickness?”
I shrug. Let him think it’s the pregnancy. That’s better than having him see my bruised heart.