My mouth opens and closes and opens again in quick, confused succession before I finally manage to squeeze some words out. “Uh, I didn’t what?”
Her smile widens, and damn, I didn’t know she could get any more beautiful. But with that exquisite smile aimed at me, she’s a goddamn work of art. “You were going to apologize for getting involved, for overstepping. You didn’t.”
I blink. Overstepping. That was what I’d thought, the exact word I’d used in my head. I fix her with a suspicious eye, unable to contain the smile that’s now curving at my mouth. “Are you a psychic?”
“Close. I’m a therapist.” She extends a hand. “Emilia Romano, L.C.P. Although my friends call me Emmy.”
I take her hand, relishing the softness of her palm against mine, and shake it. “Oliver Lewis, Attorney at Law.” With regret I release her hand. “What should I call you?”
Her smile grows into a wide grin. “Definitely Emmy.”
I return the grin, feeling like I just won the lottery. Emmy. Her name is Emmy. With her thick curls, sugar-sweet smile, and eyes that tell me that she’s got depths I can only hope to have the privilege of diving into, it’s the perfect name. I emit a sigh like a swooning Victorian before I catch myself.
Giving myself a little shake, I steel myself and do something far more terrifying than facing down a sexual offender.
I ask her out.
“Emmy,” I say, enjoying the way her name feels as it rolls over my tongue, “can I buy you a drink to try to make up for what just happened?”
It’s not on a date, exactly. That wouldn’t be appropriate under the current circumstances.
But I ask her out. And that’s the important thing.
My stomach drops when she shakes her head from side to side.
“No,” she says, and my heart hits the floor. But then the side of her mouth curls upward and she cocks her head to one side, mischief dancing in her eyes. “But you can let me buy you a drink.”
My heart recovers and performs an uncoordinated but enthusiastic jig. “But —“ I say, trying to be the gentleman.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” she says. Her eyes are gentle but her voice firm. “You were about to give me free legal representation — which I would’ve taken you up on if I’d decided to press charges. At least let me buy you a drink.”
My chivalrousness battles with my desire to spend time with this woman for any reason. Including getting treated by her.
She cocks her head to the other side. “Please?”
And fuck, that soft appeal does me in. I’d do anything to make this woman happy, I realize.
So I nod, restraining myself from taking her in my arms and spinning her around the emptying group fitness studio, and instead say, “I accept.”
She rewards me with a smile more luminous than any she’s given me thus far and god, even if this evening is the only time we spend together, I’ll cherish every moment of it.
Emmy
In spite of myself, I find myself having a blast with Oliver at the dive bar we agreed to meet at. He’s charming and funny, and the way he stood up for me at the gym made a bigger positive impact on me than I would have predicted.
Like, in a panty-moistening sort of way.
So when we finish our ice-cold beers and he offers to get us another round, I let him.
I don’t know why I’m letting myself do this. In my line of work, I’ve seen so many relationships gone wrong. And experiences like the one after class tonight? They occur all too regularly in my personal life. My friend Hattie says it’s because I look sweet and guys take that as an invitation to be anything but.
And yes, Oliver did come to my rescue like a knight in shining armor. And while a lifetime of exposure to fairy tales and Disney princesses and happily ever afters may have taught me that being a damsel in distress is nothing but a bullshit patriarchal construct and that I don’t need rescuing . . . I liked it.
A lot.
So much that, while I watched Oliver defend me, putting himself at risk to face down a stranger when he could’ve just ignored the whole thing and walked away, I felt my low belly tighten and my nether regions begin to pool.
Which never happens. At least not since the ragingly hormonal days of puberty, when just thinking about chaste kisses with my middle school crush would get me dripping.
These days, I know better.
And Oliver is probably just another guy that wants to get in my pants.
But for the first time in a long damn time, the feeling is mutual.
This time, I want to jump the guy’s bones as much as he wants to jump mine.
Maybe even more, judging from the wetness I feel between my thighs when I cross my legs — wetness that has nothing to do with the workout Wendy put us through.
Oliver returns with two fresh beers, both in glasses frosted with icy condensation.
“Yum,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the cool base of one of them and drawing it across the table toward me. “I love how this place freezes their cups.”
He takes a sip of his beer. “I agree. It makes the drinks far more refreshing.”
“So,” I say, the alcohol making me bold, “do you normally do that sort of thing? Ride in like a white knight?”
“You mean what happened at the gym?” He crooks an eyebrow at me.
I nod.
He shakes his head, sipping his beer and licking the foam off his top lip.
Which makes my inner sex-starved teenager shiver.
I clear my throat and try to focus on the words coming out of Oliver’s mouth and not how much I want him to kiss me.
“No, not unless I’m getting paid,” he’s saying.
I nod. “In your work as a prosecutor.”
“Yep.” He winces. “Does that make me a bad person?” He sounds like he actually wants to know. A guy who values honesty and self-reflection? It’s a dream come true for this therapist.
“Not at all. I just wondered if you had a habit of rescuing ladies. That might be a red flag.”
I blink. Is it just me, or are Oliver’s cheeks flushing pink? God, a man who blushes too . . . I wonder if he’ll be the one to change everything for my love life.
I wonder if I believe that’s even possible.
Looking at the silver hair that shines from his head like a crown and the warmth in his slate eyes, I find myself hoping it is.
“How’s this for a red flag?” Oliver is continuing, slowly, as if he’s weighing each word. “A man is attracted to a woman who’s likely half his age.”
His voice is deep and masculine. But the vulnerability in Oliver’s eyes gives me a glimpse at the little boy that still lives within him, and it makes me want to wrap my arms around his solid form and protect that inner child with everything that I have in me.
And then his words hit home. He’s talking about me, I realize. About us.
I’m the woman he’s attracted to.
Now my cheeks are the ones growing crimson.
“I don’t consider that a red flag. Attraction doesn’t follow any rules. We like who we like.” I meet his eyes through my lashes. “I’d think a young woman would very much appreciate the experience and emotional maturity an older man could offer.”