I stumbled over my words, completely flustered.
"Um, um, he's not—I'm not—he's not…"
My voice kept tangling up in itself, and I could barely form a coherent sentence. My cheeks were burning, and I could feel everyone around us stealing glances at the commotion I was unintentionally creating.
Across the table, Emerson seemed entirely too entertained by my struggle. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching as though he were fighting back a laugh. It was infuriating.
I mean, the waitress wasn’t entirely to blame. If you looked at it logically, it wasn’t all that far-fetched. Eric—my ex-husband—was Emerson’s son. Emerson had Eric when he was 17, with his high school sweetheart, who was only 16 at the time. By the time Eric was born, Emerson had just turned 18, and
