Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Liam
A nother week and a half of the sweetest goddamn torture I'd ever experienced.
Every minute in that lab felt like some exquisite form of punishment—Emerson right there, close enough to catch the scent of her, to see the way she bit her lip when she concentrated.
But thanks to our self-imposed "professional boundaries" agreement, I might as well have been watching her through bulletproof glass. Time was slipping through my fingers. Two and a half weeks into this ninety-day experiment, and all we had to show for it was one night at that carnival.
Not that I was counting, but... yeah, I was definitely counting. Every second.
But Emerson, being Emerson, insisted on doing this "properly"—her word, not mine. Like this was some kind of scientific protocol that needed to be followed to the letter.
Meanwhile, I'd have been happy just existing in the same space as her, watching her read a book or organize data or whatever the hell else she wanted to do.
But no, we needed "structured dating activities."
Seeing her every day at work, knowing Friday was coming, had my skin practically crawling with anticipation. Like an itch I couldn't scratch, a reaction I couldn't control.
If I hadn't had this night penciled into my mental calendar (and probably her actual calendar), I might have lost it completely and taken her right there in the lab, proper scientific conduct be damned.
Now, standing in her kitchen—which was exactly as organized as I'd imagined it would be—I picked up a spatula, trying to focus on cooking instead of how gorgeous she looked in casual clothes.
"They say cooking is the quickest way to someone's heart. Think that's true?" I asked.
The look she gave me made my pulse skip—that perfect blend of amusement and challenge that made me want to forget about dinner entirely, to press her up against those immaculate counters and mess up her perfectly ordered world.
"Maybe, but you've got to have the right ingredients," she answered, her voice dropping into a register that shot straight through me.
"Oh, I've got all the right ingredients." I couldn't help staring at her mouth, imagining all the ways I wanted to test our chemistry. "Just waiting for the perfect moment to combine them together."
I was about to close the distance between us, to finally give in to the magnetic pull that had been drawing me toward her all week, when the pot on the stove decided to revolt.
Water cascaded over the sides like a miniature Niagara Falls, sending us both scrambling for the controls. Steam erupted everywhere, turning her pristine kitchen into something out of a B-grade horror flick.
"Shit." I grabbed for a towel, feeling heat crawl up my neck. "I, uh, got a little distracted." I shot her what I hoped was an endearing smile, praying she'd find my lack of kitchen coordination charming rather than concerning.
Though honestly, if she expected me to focus on proper cooking techniques while she was standing there looking like that, she clearly hadn't accounted for all the variables in this experiment.
But she just laughed, a sound that made my chest ache with yearning. It was infectious, a melody that wrapped around me, making it hard to focus on anything else.
“Distracted, huh? Let’s try not to burn the kitchen down at least.”
As we cleaned up the mess together, our hands kept touching, each accidental brush sending little sparks up my arm, buzzing with a warmth that lingered. It was as if every graze carried a secret message, a silent conversation happening between our skin.
We moved as if we’d rehearsed it, each of us hyper-aware of the other’s presence. Heat radiated from her body, a magnetic pull that drew me in despite my best efforts to maintain composure.
I poured us both a glass of red wine, hoping to calm the nerves that were now a steady hum beneath my skin.
I handed her a glass, our fingers brushing once more as she took it, the contact sending another jolt of heat through me.
The wine seemed to work as we fell into a rhythm of chopping vegetables and prepping the pasta sauce, like we’d done it a hundred times before in some other life.
“My grandma always said the secret ingredient was love,” I reminisced, feeling a bit nostalgic. “I thought it was cheesy when I was ten, but now I get it. It’s about putting care and attention into the food you make for other people.”
Emerson listened as she stirred the sauce, her brow slightly furrowed. I couldn’t help but watch her, the way her hair fell over her shoulder, the gentle curve of her neck. I wanted to trace my fingers down that curve, feel her shiver under my touch as I went lower...
She dipped a spoon into the bubbling red sauce and held it out for me to taste. “What do you think? Need anything?”
I was caught off guard, but I managed to meet her eyes as I tasted it. The rich flavor hit me, but all I could think about was the closeness of her, the way her breath caught when I licked my lips. Fuck, she was perfect.
“Mmm. Amazing,” I said, and I wasn’t just talking about the sauce.
A charged moment hung between us before Emerson looked away, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks as she turned back to the stove.
Every move she made was like watching a TED Talk on "How to Make a Guy Lose His Mind Without Even Trying." Here I was, a grown man with a master's degree, suddenly transformed into a thirteen-year-old watching his first crush at a school dance, and it drove me crazy wanting to know everything about her.
As we channeled our inner Food Network stars with the lasagna, I took in the details of Emerson’s place—the high-end appliances, glossy hardwood floors, and the kind of art that probably cost more than my rent.
It wasn’t just any old building either; this was the Black Orchid Hotel, a beautifully restored landmark that everybody in town knew. It was a place full of status and history, and Emerson had an entire floor.
A pang of insecurity hit me as I thought about my shabby studio apartment with its thirdhand furniture, leaky faucet, and rent that I couldn’t even afford. Talk about worlds colliding—she was casually living in the penthouse suite of life while I was still trying to figure out if ramen counted as a food group.
But I pushed those thoughts away, trying to focus on the moment and not on all the gaps between us.
She was talking about her approach to seasoning, a serious look on her face that was both adorable and impressive.
“Cooking is like chemistry. It’s all about getting the right balance and proportions of flavors.”
I found myself hanging on every word, mesmerized by the intensity in her eyes and wondered what else she was passionate about. The thought of her focusing that intensity on something less innocent made my blood heat.
“Spoken like a true scientist,” I teased, unable to resist poking a bit of fun. “But don’t you think a great meal is more than just a bunch of perfectly measured ingredients? There’s an art that comes into play.”
She paused, giving me that skeptical tilt of her head. Her lips pursed slightly, making her look even more irresistible. I wondered what those lips would feel like all over my body.
“I suppose,” she said, reluctantly. “But I still think there’s a lot to be said for precision and control. Especially in baking—that’s pure chemical reaction.”
“Fair enough,” I conceded. “Except I do make a mean chocolate soufflé, and that’s definitely more art than—ouch!” I winced, looking down to see I’d managed to nick my finger while shredding cheese.
Classic—too busy trying to banter to pay attention to the sharp object in my hand. Jesus.
“Let me see.” Emerson grabbed my hand with a swift, no-nonsense efficiency, dabbing at the cut with a towel and examining it with that adorably serious expression.
Her touch was a combo of pain and pleasure that left me wanting more.
“It’s not too deep. Let’s clean it and put on a bandage.”
I let her lead me to the sink, savoring the feeling of her fingers on my skin as she gently tended to the minor injury.
“My hero,” I joked, though I was genuinely touched by her care.
She shook her head and smiled but didn’t let go of my hand until the cut was cleaned and a small bandage was applied. Her hand lingered on mine, and a magnetic pull surged between us, a connection that thrummed in the air.
With dinner safely in the oven, we settled on the soft leather couch with our glasses of wine. The room felt intimate in a way that made my heart do jumping jacks. Just us, some wine, and enough sexual tension to put the local power grid out of business.
Perfect. I wanted her all to myself, away from the rest of the world.
As the conversation drifted to Emerson’s family, she talked about her mother, Vivian, and her mother’s twin, Victoria, and the unique dynamics of their household. Her face lit up like a kid explaining their favorite dinosaur facts, and I found myself grinning like an idiot, completely smitten with this genius woman who could probably explain quantum physics but got equally excited about family drama.
“Mom and Aunt Vic are amazing, but they’re also a handful. Imagine growing up in a place where your mom and your aunt are constantly meddling in your life, but in the most loving way possible. It’s like living in a sitcom sometimes. One minute they’re hosting a fancy gala, and the next they’re arguing over whether to adopt another stray animal.”
I chuckled, intrigued by the picture she painted. “Sounds like there’s never a dull moment.”
“You have no idea,” she said, grinning. “Mom is the practical one…ish, but she can be scatterbrained. Just last week, she organized a charity auction and forgot all the auction items at home. Of course, she gave herself extra time, just in case, which she always seems to need, so everything turned out fine. But Vic is the real free spirit who believes in everything from tarot cards to UFOs. She once tried to set me up on a date with our gardener because she had a ‘vision’ that we were soulmates.”
I laughed, picturing Emerson navigating such a quirky household. “That sounds... chaotic, but also kind of amazing.”
“It is,” she admitted, a smile on her lips. “They drive me crazy, but I wouldn’t trade them, or this place, for anything. Every room in this old hotel holds a memory; every corner has a story—most involving some kind of ridiculous mishap.”
I tried to focus on her words; I really did, but holy hormones—have you ever tried to concentrate while a literal goddess is sitting there being all... goddess-y? Like she was conducting an invisible orchestra of my rapidly dissolving self-control.
She'd freed her hair from its usual professional prison, and it was falling around her shoulders like some shampoo commercial fever dream. The lighting was doing that soft, magical thing that made her look like she was glowing, and I was sitting there thinking about running my fingers through those waves while simultaneously trying not to look like I was thinking about running my fingers through those waves. Real smooth, Romeo.
Her love for her family radiated from her, creating an intimacy that made my chest tight with a different kind of longing.
"Your childhood sounds fascinating," I managed, forcing myself to focus on her story about growing up in that sprawling mansion with her sisters and cousins.
But God, the way she'd curled up on the couch, her legs tucked under her and casual in a way I’d never seen her. I shifted, trying to ease the growing tension in my body.
"You all must be so close. I always wished I had a big family."
My own childhood had been happy enough—quiet weekends with my parents, summer camps, and family trips to the lake.
But there was something magnetic about the chaos and warmth she described, something that pulled at me, getting sucked into this story like a moth to a really expensive, probably designer flame, wondering if there might be room for one more awkward nerd in this glamorous chaos.
"It's nice in some ways," she said slowly, unconsciously playing with a strand of her hair. The movement exposed the curve of her neck, and I had to clench my fist to keep from reaching out to trace it.
"But it can be complicated. The house was always noisy and full of drama, and we all have such different personalities and paths in life. I love them all, but we don't always see eye to eye."
I couldn't help myself—I reached out and touched her arm where it rested on the couch. Her skin was silk-smooth and warm under my fingers, and the contact sent electricity shooting through me.
"It does sound challenging," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "But it seems like you all care about each other."
She met my eyes then, and the softness I saw there nearly undid me. Gone was the confident scientist, replaced by something more vulnerable, more real.
My body responded instantly to that look, heat pooling low in my gut. I wanted to pull her into my lap, to taste the secrets hiding behind those lips, to discover if she was as soft everywhere as the skin beneath my fingers.
"Yeah," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "We do. A lot."
The sexual tension in that room was thicker than my PhD dissertation, and about a thousand times more interesting. Every tiny move she made hit me like a shot straight to the heart. When she licked her lips, my brain basically blue-screened like an old Windows computer.
I was turning into some kind of creepy scientist, mentally documenting everything: her perfume, the way her breathing hitched when our eyes met, and her collarbone playing peek-a-boo with her shirt (which was just unfair, really).
We were still talking, but my brain was operating at the speed of cold molasses. Every laugh felt like foreplay, and each "accidental" touch was making my IQ drop by about 50 points. So smooth, Professor Hormones.
Then she leaned forward, giving me a view that made me forget literally everything I’d learned in grad school, and suddenly maintaining eye contact became harder than explaining quantum physics to a goldfish. It took every ounce of self-control not to close the distance between us.
I watched, transfixed, as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the delicate shell and making me wonder how she'd react if I traced it with my tongue. Here, away from the sterile lab environment, she was softer, more accessible, yet somehow even more intoxicating.
The blaring beep of the smoke alarm shattered the moment like a brick through a window, making us both jump.
Smoke seeped from the oven door, and the rational part of my brain knew I should care about the impending disaster. But all I could focus on was how she'd instinctively grabbed my arm, her body pressed against mine in surprise, and how perfectly she fit there.
I wanted to pull her closer, to use this moment of chaos as an excuse to cross the lines we'd drawn. Instead, I forced myself to stand, my body protesting the loss of contact.
We scrambled to the kitchen, moving in chaotic sync, like a pair of headless chickens. I shut off the oven while Emerson frantically waved a towel at the smoke alarm that was still screaming like an angry drill sergeant on a caffeine bender.
After what felt like an eternity, the hellish device finally shut up.
I coughed, squinting through the haze at the blackened lump that was supposed to be our lasagna.
“Shit, I must’ve set the temperature wrong,” I said, the sting of failure hitting me in the gut. “Fuck. I ruined our dinner.”
Emerson started laughing, her eyes watering from the smoke and maybe from the absurdity of the situation. She couldn’t stop, and honestly, it was contagious. Before long, I was laughing too, the tension breaking like a dam.
“Guess your cooking skills aren’t quite ready for prime time,” she teased, wiping her eyes.
“I’m a man of many talents. Cooking just might not be one of them,” I said with a grin, trying to keep my voice steady despite the heat simmering between us.
She shot me a look, her expression shifting from amused to… something else. “I guess you’re probably just better with your hands in other ways.”
Her words sent a jolt straight through me. My hands itched to touch her. My mind raced with images of what I could do to her, how I could make her feel. For a moment, neither of us moved. The air crackled with tension, the space between us charged with need. I wanted to close the gap, to pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless.
But I fought to keep my composure, knowing that once I started, there’d be no going back.