Oh, shit. What have I done? I push my hair back from my face in frantic strokes and fumble for my phone on the nightstand. Whatever’s happening, I can call it off. I will apologize as much as I have to. I’ll go over to his house and talk to him about this. I’ll promise never to scare him like this again. I promise, I promise. I’m half awake but the call—it can’t wait. It has to happen right now.
My phone’s not on the nightstand. There’s a small lamp there. It’s the one casting the golden glow over this room. It’s one of those fancy lamps, the one with settings to adjust it. It’s on its lowest setting. Emerson didn’t want me to wake up in the dark. He also didn’t want me to get paint all over his sheets. My hands are faintly blue, but he must have washed them for me. Which feels…
I don’t know how it feels.
My phone is the main problem.
I search the covers. Throw them back and push my hands down to the bottom of the bed. Did I kick it down there somehow? I don’t usually fall asleep with the phone in the bed, but then I don’t remember falling asleep.
I remember Emerson’s strong arms and being more tired than I’ve ever been in all my life.
Probably from the sex.
It’s very tender between my thighs. Part of me melts again, which is awful. I shouldn’t be thinking of sex at a time like this, when I have terrified at least one member of my family and probably more. Eva’s going to be worried, too. Maybe even angry. I didn’t tell her what was going on with Emerson.
Where is the damn phone?
I sit up and force myself to think. I put it in my pocket at my apartment. I ran out into the alley. Emerson’s car. He took my coat once we stepped into his house. He hung it on a hook, next to where he planned to hang his own coat. The phone must still be in my coat pocket downstairs.
Okay. I need a second to get my bearings, and then I’ll get up. I have to let Leo know I’m okay. Imagining his horrified shock makes my heart ache.
It makes me feel like such an asshole.
At least the worst didn’t happen. This isn’t against my will. This was exactly my will.
Emerson comes in through the bedroom door. He’s been transformed. He fucked me in his lovely pants and his dress shirt, but now he’s very obviously showered and changed. He’s shirtless, wearing only loose sleep pants slung low on his hips.
My whole body flushes at the sight of him. He has perfect abs. He has a stunning body. His eyes meet mine, and he smiles a little.
Thank god.
Something happened in the studio, right at the end. It was something I’d said. About making me into art. But his eyes reflect none of the anger I felt in his body. None of the shock. Only a crisp determination, like it’s not the middle of the night.
Emerson comes to the side of the bed, a coffee mug cradled in his hands. Wordlessly, he offers it. Wordlessly, I take it. Midnight coffee is kind of weird, but obviously not a dealbreaker. My nerves begin to calm. If he’s giving me coffee, it’s probably because he wants to ease me back to humanity enough to take me home. It’s not a short drive into the city.
Okay.
Coffee. The mug is warm in my hands. Not too hot. It distracts me from the fading panic. Freaking out right now would not be the act of an independent woman who asked to come here.
Pride feels like champagne bubbles. I wanted to come here. For the first time in my life, I did something that was only for me. It felt so good.
That feeling crumples under another wave of guilt. I make a silent promise to myself that I won’t do this again. I’ll be upfront with Leo about what I want. I’ll take this new courage and I’ll shape my life around that. Even if it disappoints him.
I hate the thought of disappointing him.
He’ll understand, though. He will. Eventually, he’ll understand. If it takes a long time, then maybe that’s my mistake. Maybe I should have been honest with him.
No more second guessing the past. Enough about Leo. I can’t think with all this guilt. I look back up at Emerson and smile.
“How are you, little painter?”
I take stock. “Sore,” I admit, my face heating all over again. “But…it was good.”
All except that moment at the end.
But we can move past it. From the way Emerson looks right now, he’s willing to move past it. Chalk it up to an intense moment during sex. I’m sure people have those all the time.
It’s going to be okay.
“You felt good,” he says, but it’s not a sweet moment. He’s looking past me, at the big window. With the light this low I can see the moonlight on the ocean.
Something changes in his expression. I couldn’t name it. Couldn’t describe it to someone else. It’s not a total blankness. But it is….an absence.
Like he’s gone somewhere else.
Now that my head is clearer, I look down into the coffee. Not a hint of cream. I put my lips on the rim of the cup and taste it. Yes—sugar. This is just how I like it.
Another prickle of unease tiptoes across the back of my neck.
I’ve never talked about coffee with Emerson. I’m not sure I’ve talked about coffee with anyone, except maybe Leo and Eva and the guy at the little coffee shop on the next block. I only go there once in a while. You’d have to be watching very carefully, or interviewing everyone on those blocks, to know this about me.
Emerson knows.
Being a Morelli means paying attention. And knowing who’s paying attention to you.
I’ll do that, too. I’ll pay more attention. I won’t lower my guard again.
He nods toward the coffee. “You’ll probably need that for what I’m about to tell you.”
Alarm sweeps through me. I push the mug onto the nightstand, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and stand up. Something terrible has happened. Something involving my family.
Oh, god, that’s what it is. Another emergency.
My security team must have gotten through to Emerson, and now he has to deliver the news. He’ll have to be the one to get me back to the city. I’m going to have to leave now. If it’s Leo—if something happened to him, and it’s because of me—
I force my thoughts to shut up for a second and face Emerson. “What’s wrong?”
My voice shakes, but it’s better than staying silent. I need more information. I can’t be shut out again. I have to know.
“You’re not getting your phone back,” he says, his voice eerily calm. And definitely determined. “Not until I’m sure you won’t run.”
Individually, the words make sense. They’re simple enough sentences. And Emerson’s tone isn’t particularly harsh. It’s matter-of-fact. In one way, this is a good thing. It means there hasn’t been a family emergency. Any emergency, really.
You’re not getting your phone back.
“You took my phone?”
“Yes.”
Not until I’m sure you won’t run. I’m pretty sure my heart is going to fall out of my chest and onto the floor and crack like a glass paperweight.
“What do you mean?” I look Emerson in the eye. I need every available piece of information about what’s happening to me right now. Emerson is the only person here. He’s the only one with any answers. “What do you mean, until you’re sure I won’t run?”