My Great Escape Led Me to You (Emily Blair) novel Chapter 892

Emily Blair let out a soft, unmistakable click of her tongue, the sound crackling through the phone and right into Tristan Davis’s ear.

Tristan’s voice was lazy, almost teasing. “What’s with the noise? Are you dissatisfied with the guy, or with the roses?”

“Neither one impresses me,” Emily replied dryly. “And Elizabeth Wilson is such a loudmouth.”

Tristan’s expression softened, just a touch. “So, if Elizabeth Wilson hadn’t blabbed, were you ever going to tell me?”

On the other end, the whir of Emily’s hairdryer stopped abruptly. “There’s nothing worth mentioning.”

He let that answer slide, barely. “At least tell me about the guy who confessed to you?”

Emily sounded almost indifferent. “I already turned him down. What’s there to say? Elizabeth Wilson just loves stirring things up.”

A smile tugged at Tristan’s lips. “Ms. Blair, you’re so popular it’s starting to make me nervous.”

She paused. “You… you can’t be serious.”

He chuckled. “Why not? Is it so hard to believe?”

Her voice came through the receiver, cautious and tentative. “…Are you gay?”

Tristan nearly groaned aloud, closing his eyes and taking a long, steadying breath. “Emily Blair, I’d really love to know what goes on in that head of yours. What kind of nonsense are you even thinking about?”

She was still probing. “So you’re not?”

Suddenly, she rushed to add, “It’s okay, even if you were, I wouldn’t mind—”

“Emily Blair.” Tristan could barely keep his patience, biting out each word. “I’m not gay. I like women.”

“…Oh. Oh, okay.”

Tristan gripped his phone tightly, feeling his head throb. “Got it this time?”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Yeah, I got it.”

The next moment, there was a muffled gasp on Emily’s end, followed by a heavy thud.

Tristan’s brow furrowed in concern. “Emily? Emily, what happened?”

No sooner had he spoken than there was a knock at his door. He told the visitor to come in.

It was Hilaria Vargas, his secretary, carrying a mug of hot hangover soup. She smiled warmly. “Mr. Davis, I’ve made you some soup. Would you like to have it while it’s still hot?”

Emily caught a hint of the conversation through the phone.

She recognized the gentle, professional voice of Tristan’s secretary—the same one she occasionally heard in the background since Tristan started spending more time at the company. Tristan had introduced her before.

“Work stuff?” Emily guessed. “I’ll let you go, get back to it.”

She hung up cheerfully, then stared at her phone, grumbling to herself.

Did she just hear something about “hangover soup”?

Since when did Tristan’s secretary know how to make hangover soup, while hers couldn’t even boil water?

Was she just not paying her enough?