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  Chapter 4

  It happened like a horror film in slow motion. One minute, Emille had been striding stably on her platform stilettos, and in the next instant her ankle twisted at a grotesque angle and she was flying backward. Later, she swore that she'd seen little commas bracketing her body as she'd flown through the air.

  She had to laugh. Or she'd cry. She had to make people laugh. Or they'd see how she truly felt in that moment. Humor made shame and embarrassment tolerable. Didn't it? So, she laughed until she felt the burn of tears. Then she stopped, because she would be mortified if she cried.

  "OhMyGod! OhMyGod! OhMyGod!" That was Jeff repeating himself over and over like a stalled CD.

  She shut her eyes tightly and willed herself awake. She silently, fervently prayed that if this wasn't a nightmare, that maybe she'd fallen back into her seat and blown things out of proportion. Maybe she hadn't tripped over her chair when she'd toppled backward and landed on top of the table. And sent it - and herself - crashing to the floor. If she kept her eyes closed long enough, eventually the people who had turned their heads to investigate the noise and risen in reaction to the sight of a three hundred pound woman sprawled on the restaurant floor wouldn't be looking at her.

  "Em. Em, are you okay?" Peter asked. He was at her side in an instant, almost as if he'd followed her to the ground as she'd fallen. Only, he'd fallen gracefully. No one was reacting to the sight of him on his knees. "Did you hurt anything?"

  Nothing but my pride and the furniture, she thought. Feigning a bravery she was far from feeling, Emille opened her eyes and smiled brightly at him. He was alarmed as he tugged her into a sitting position. "I'm fine. I'm fine, Peter," she promised. That didn't stop him from fussing, which only made things worse.

  "Help me get her up," Peter barked at Jeff.

  Belatedly, her date - who had cleared the field of the accident in one superhuman leap - hurried around the table to help. Then, Jack was there. All three of them began tugging her hands to get her back to her feet, but for some reason - the ten ton weight of her mortification, most likely - they couldn't lift her. Emille wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of Dodge and go lick her wounds in private, but apparently three men couldn't help her up off the ground. She'd never felt every ounce of her three hundred and twenty-eight pounds the way she did in that moment. She wanted to die. But she couldn't die. She couldn't die on the floor of the Mark, because if she died, her pallbearers wouldn't be able to lift her up.

  Oh my god, her heart wailed. Her eyes burned as she lived through her worst nightmare. They'd have to incinerate her there on the floor and cart her ashes away in wheelbarrows. She couldn't let herself start feeling this way, otherwise she'd never get up off that floor.

  So she rolled to her side, and attempted to rise to her own feet, but the three men tugging on her hindered more than they helped.

  Suddenly, she became aware of a sharp pain cutting through her right ankle. "Ow!" she cried out, before she could bite her lip and endure. Even more embarrassing than an obese woman crushing a table in a packed restaurant… even more embarrassing than the fact that three men couldn't lift her, was an obese woman crushing a table in a packed restaurant because she'd decided to wear a pair of sexy stilettos on a fake date that she'd set up for herself because she was desperate to get laid.

  This was it! She would never date again. It wasn't worth this humiliation.

  "You're hurt," Peter accused.

  "She's hurt," Jeff announced to everyone. They responded in kind with soft murmurs.

  Emille groaned into her hands.

  Jack was already at her ankle, removing the shoe with the broken heel and inspecting her foot. "It doesn't feel broken," he announced with a grim expression on his face. "Does this hurt, Em?"

  In that instant, she looked up and met Peter's gaze. It was as if they had an entire conversation in that one look.

  "Wrap your arms around my neck," he said, leaning his head close so she could comply. "I'll take you to the E.R."

  "No," she said just as softly. "Just pass me a chair, and I'll help myself up."

  Peter buried his face in the glossy black waves at her temple. "Trust me," he cajoled.

  Slowly, Emille wrapped her arms around the firm column of his neck. She did it because he'd asked her to trust him. It was never a matter of whether or not she could. In the fifteen or so years that they'd been friends, Peter had never done anything to embarrass her. She trusted him so much that she didn't even notice when he placed his arm beneath her knees, making sure to tuck her dress for modesty. It was only when he was halfway to his feet that she realized he wasn't merely helping her to stand. Peter fully intended to carry her.

  "Peter, no!" she hissed, scrambling to get out of his arms. Emille was willing to tumble right back onto another table if it meant no one would witness Peter hissing and wheezing as he ruptured his spleen attempting to carry her.

  Whenever anyone did something to annoy him, Peter had this look. He had this way of pausing all activity to give you his full attention. And if you were smart enough to recognize that you'd done something to irritate him, you were probably smart enough to realize you didn't want his focus on you. Emille had dodged her way around it earlier tonight with sass and brash. But there was no escaping the look now. Especially since the man wearing it was holding her semi-suspended as if he had all the time in the world. Especially if he looked like he'd just drop her if she said the wrong thing.

  Are you going to let me do this? that look asked.

  She turned to Jackson for help. But, that was in vain, because Jack was looking at Peter with shock and awe - like he was seeing a superhero in action. Helplessly, she turned to Jeff. But Jeff was gaping openly too. Emille knew what they were thinking. They were all thinking the same thing. Even her. She had visions of an ant trying to carry an elephant. He might be small and mighty, but a tragedy was bound to occur. There was no way to stop it from happening because Peter was wearing that expression, and no amount of fast talking would make him release her. All that was left for Emille to do was relax and let the disaster continue to unfold.

  But Peter surprised everyone in the restaurant.

  Obviously, it wasn't an easy feat for him to rise from a squat with Emille in his arms. A dot of sweat even broke out above his top lip because of it. Emille could see it, because she was so close to him. But he didn't put her on a chair once he was up. Peter actually carried her out of the restaurant and across the parking lot to his car. The distance wasn't far by normal standards. Only, it was a world away to Emille. He carried her as if... She. Weighed. Nothing. She was aware of the truth though. She could feel the tension in his muscles and hear the way he carefully controlled his breathing as if this was a session of yoga or something.

  When they reached his car he carefully lowered her to the ground because he needed to check his pockets for his keys. He cursed under his breath when his pockets came up empty. He'd left his keys in the drawer.

  "I've got to go grab my keys. Lean against the car. Stay right here and keep your weight off that ankle," he told Emille. It was probably the most insensitive thing he'd ever said to her, but Emille couldn't say anything about it when he didn't seem to notice she felt bad.

  "I can't leave my car here," she protested.

  "I'll drop it off in the morning."

  He was so frustrating. "Why are you being so nice?"

  His brows rose mockingly. "Pardon me. I thought friends looked out for each other."

  "I have her purse," Jeff announced from behind him.

  For her part, Emille wanted to forget that he'd been present for tonight's episode of The Twilight Zone. She didn't look anywhere near Jeff's face as she reached for her purse. She couldn't imagine how she'd face him tomorrow in the harsh light of day. Maybe she'd call in sick.

  Before Emille could take her purse, Peter intercepted the move.

  "Hey, Peter!" Jack called as he jogged across the parking lot. "You forgot
your keys!" As he drew closer, he said in a low voice, "Don't worry. I've got everything covered here." He slapped the ring into Peter's hand. "You sure you're doing okay, kiddo?" he asked, tilting his head to inspect Emille.

  Emille rolled her eyes at that. She was a good five years older than Jack. "I'll be okay, Jack. I'll just put some ice on it once I get home."

  "You'll do whatever the doctor orders," Peter informed her as he opened the door and handed her inside. He didn't say anything, but Emille winced as the car sunk to the right under her weight. He turned back to Jeff. "You coming?"

  "No!" The word was out of her mouth before she could think about it. "I mean," she said, "you go home. I'll be fine, I'm sure."

  "If you're not coming, I'm going to take her to get that ankle checked out," Peter snapped shortly. He didn't wait around to extend another invitation. The man was clearly useless.

  Once they were underway, Emille prematurely ended what would have been a long, silent drive. She started with a deep sigh. "Just take me home, Peter. I'll put an icepack on it."

  He cut a glance her way. "For all we know, your ankle could be broken."

  The fact that she wasn't screaming in pain was proof enough that her ankle wasn't broken. She could endure the stabbing throbs. It was nothing a few painkillers couldn't eliminate. "Jack said nothing's broken, and I believe him."

  "Jack could be wrong," he protested.

  "Jack grew up in Cowboysville, Texas. He's probably handled more bones than any E.R. doctor. If he says I'm fine, then I'm fine." She bit her lips. "Besides, the pain is easing. Maybe I just twisted it in the fall."

  Peter kept his eyes on the road, but he spoke in a low murmur. "Humor me, Emille. Let me take you to the emergency room. I just want to make sure you are okay."

  Emille glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. "If it's the legalities of it, Peter, you don’t have anything to worry about. I'm not going to sue the Mark for my own clumsiness." Because she was looking at him, she saw his eyes widen as if he hadn't even considered that possibility. "Just take me home."

  His lips compressed in displeasure, but he no longer protested.

  Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of the suburban property that Emille was renting from the silent millionaire next to her. She rented the house from him because she'd gotten a fair deal on the three bedroom, two bathroom house. And because she trusted the landlord to maintain the property. Back when the real estate industry was booming, Peter had harnessed his talents and started buying and remodeling property - though they were not just houses. Nor did he invest in strip malls. He'd sold a few homes, but Peter had decided that he preferred the longterm income of rental properties instead of quick sales. Later, he had turned to investing in a few start ups as a silent partner. Turned out he had good instinct for venture capitalism.

  Peter wasn't super wealthy by any means, but he lived a far simpler life than what he could actually afford. He paid the rent on a single bedroom apartment in one of his own complexes. Management didn't even know that the owner resided right under foot. The red Mustang he drove was over ten years old. It wasn't one of the flashy new vintage-inspired models, neither was it a classic. It was just an old Mustang. Perhaps the thing that set him apart from most men was the care he put into the things he invested in. Peter's car would probably be around for another ten years. He believed in maintaining valuable things. Even friendships.

  He climbed out of the car and rounded to open her door. Emille panicked. Suppose he intended to carry her into the house? She couldn't stand another moment of him struggling not to wheeze. She scrambled out of the car before he could get to her door, and struggled to her feet, fighting the urge to wince and cry out in pain. Her palms and upper lip dampened with sweat. Desperately, Emille clutched her purse closer.

  "Thanks for the ride, Peter. I really appreciate it," she said, limping past him, pretending to ignore the way he was glaring at her.

  Peter followed her to the door. "I'll check on you in the morning."

  She was unlocking the door, so her back was turned to him. "Alright. Drive safely."