Chapter 7
Emma Jane
Lucy Spence walks into Books and Beans, and on her heels follows her boss, Stone Harper.
But is he…?
My eyes bulge out of my head as I watch the tall, handsome, and brawny man with a chiseled jaw and honey blond hair wrap his arm around her waist, spin her into his side, and kiss her square on the lips.
The initial shock of the picture before me wears off, replaced with a buzzing excitement for my older friend from college.
The girl finally did it.
She snagged her hot boss.
The mug I’m drying off fumbles in my hand, but I steady it and set it on the counter, a wide grin stretching across my face. “Hi, Lucy.” I look over her shoulder to the man who constantly reminds me to keep Lucy’s romance book stocked. No wonder…
Lucy fingers her strawberry bangs, which match the color of her face right now. She’s wearing high-waisted skinny jeans with a blue tank top tucked in and white sneakers.
And I point this out because Stone mirrors her in his light wash jeans, blue t-shirt, and white sneakers.
I want to throw confetti at the two of them for finally becoming official, but then I’d have to clean it up, and I’m not in the market to create extra work for myself later today. It’ll prevent me from putting the polishing touches on my new website: Emma Jane’s Guide to Matchmaking.
And when I post Knightley’s success, I’ll add to his column: the Mayor.
“Emma Jane?” Lucy says, scrunching her nose and narrowing her eyes in evaluation. Probably of my sanity since I know I just left earth there for a second.
“Sorry, I’ve got news to share with you.” Now it’s my turn to examine her. “But it seems you do, too.”
Stone responds, “She finally agreed to date me.” The way he looks down at her, like she hung the moon and stars, simultaneously makes joy and longing swell within me.
I allow the joy to take over and shove the longing deep, deep down.
“I’m so happy for you two! Both of your coffees are on me today, okay?”
“For getting into a relationship?” Stone muses. “Guess I need to do that more often.”
Lucy elbows him and gives him a smile I can only describe as both loving and deadly. “We need the coffee to go today, E. J.”
The man has been in this coffee shop with many different women since I’ve been employed here, but I noticed that stopped a few months ago. I wonder if it was because of Lucy.
I shrug, already starting on both of their usual orders. “I love love. It should be celebrated. If the two of you didn’t come together organically, you were definitely on my list to matchmake for my new business.”
Lucy and Stone eye each other like they are sharing a secret no one else is privy to. Guess that’s what coupling up does to people. Finally, she turns to me. ”Oh, did you finally get your website up?”
“Want to see it?”
“Of course I do!” She breaks free from Stone and does what only a few people ever get to do: she comes around to my side of the coffee bar.
I set to work pulling up the mobile design of my website, showing her all the features from my compatibility checklists, the service inquiry form, the testimonial section (where only Halle and Grant reside currently), and the free guide on how to matchmake in case anyone can’t afford my services and wants to try to get the love of their lives for themselves.
“This is amazing, E. J. I’m so glad you’ve found what you want to do.” She gets this faraway look in her eyes that sometimes happens when she’s got a story idea. “I think I want to write a romantic comedy about a matchmaker now!”
I laugh and set my phone down. “I’ll be your resource. I haven’t been studying the topic of romantic love for long, but I’ve studied psychology and sociology throughout my time homeschooling and in college as part of my business major.”
“I got the romance part down. In fact, I could help you with some tweaks on your compatibility form if you’d like.
” Lucy walks back to Stone, who has been leaning against the counter and scrolling on his phone.
When she rejoins him, he puts his phone away and kisses her on the cheek.
That twinge of desire reignites, and I douse it once more with water.
“Great! Let’s meet up later in the week.
” I finish making their coffee, give it to them, and they leave.
For the rest of the shift, I contemplate if now is the time to quit this job.
I started working here because it got me out of the house.
Papa has always been great at giving me money to budget for myself every month, but it can be suffocating alone in that large home with only him and ghosts of my mother in every picture frame I pass.
“Bye, Kelsey.” I wave to my younger coworker before leaving.
As I’m stepping through the door and planning to go grocery shopping, an ache spreads across my lower abdomen, rerouting my plans for the rest of the day the same way the disease reroutes mature eggs during ovulation.
I have missed my last two periods, so this day was bound to happen.
Trying not to double over at the ever increasing pain, I make it to my car and speed through town to try and make it the twenty minutes home to Hartfield.
My skin rips from my upper lip, leaving a burning, red mustache.
Okay, it’s just a mark from the wax strip, but still.
It’s better than the hair that was previously darkening in the area. PCOS: a gift that keeps on giving. Hairy edition.
I called out of my morning shift today because after I got home yesterday, things only went downhill.
Flowed downhill.
Like an angry mudslide.
My stomach churns again, and I reposition myself from my vanity mirror in the bathroom to the actual toilet.
Papa has come up to check on me twice, but he only thinks I have a stomachache. Not to mention it’s left him breathless to walk the stairs both times he’s done it today. I told him to stay away because I don’t want him catching my sickness.
Which will never happen, but still. I don’t want him wearing himself out over something completely out of his control. I’ve managed this on my own—well, Halle helped me for a while there—since I was fifteen. I know what I’m doing now at twenty-three.
So anyways, to say I’m startled when a knock on my door sounds is an understatement.
“Emma Jane? Are you decent?”
And this day just got unbelievably worse.
"Not right now," I holler through my cracked-open bathroom door hoping he can hear me from outside of my bedroom. I scramble to finish my business, not bothering to check myself in the mirror before quickly washing my hands and tucking myself into bed while still wearing yesterday’s pajama set.
“Emma?” He one-named me, which means he’s about to burst in this room without my consent.
“Hold on, Squire.” I situate myself upright in bed with my legs tucked to my chest to try and relieve the pain. Crying to myself and folding into the fetal position isn’t an option at the moment, though it was my chosen pose for most of the morning. “Come in.”
Knightley doesn’t hesitate, and he’s armed with…
A tray of food?
I can’t contain my laugh at the image of Knightley standing in my doorway like he’s my personal servant. I don’t have one of those, but if I did, I’d want him to be a complete replica of the man standing across my room.
Knightley is objectively hot, and any woman in her right mind would want to gaze upon that perfect image all day. He’s wearing dark maroon plaid pants with a solid black button down tucked in. His black socks are barely visible and his rusty brown dress shoes are polished.
He came from his law firm.
“I brought soup and electrolytes. Henry said you had a stomach virus and wanted someone to check in on you.”
“He could have sent one of the housekeepers.”
Knightley shrugs, which causes the liquids on the tray to slosh over the edges of their containers.
He straightens and, with careful steps, walks to my bedside.
He smells like a breath of fresh air, a nice change to the stagnant air of this room I haven’t left except for a couple of times to go down to the kitchen.
I adjust, attempting to straighten my legs so he can set the tray on top of them, but the angry wasps in my stomach sting in rebellion. I can’t hold in the moan that arises in my throat.
Knightley sets the wooden tray on the nightstand, knocking my chapstick, speaker, and current matchmaking book onto the floor. He sits down on the edge of the bed, worry shining in his pretty blue eyes. “Are you okay? Do I need to get something for you to throw up in?”
I shake my head, and he visibly relaxes. But then as he looks me over in my balled up position, his jaw loosens, and he lets out a little “oh” sound.
“You’re not sick, it’s just your…” He lets the word period hang in the air.
I nod, not even feeling embarrassed. It’s so much more than just my period, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He looks at the tray then back to me, concern etched across his sharp features.
“You should still eat the soup and drink the electrolyte water. It’s good for you.
” His eyes flick to my lips, and I feel it down to my toes.
Or maybe I just need to go to the bathroom again. “Do you, uh, need anything else?”
My stomach gurgles, and I’m sure of it. “Nope. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” I move around in bed until I’m shoving at him to get up. He doesn’t hesitate. “Now leave.”
Knightley does as I ask. When he shuts my door, I throw the blankets off me and hop out of bed, but dizziness sweeps over me, and I fall toward the floor, hitting the edge of the tray on the way down as I fight to catch myself.
As the thankfully lukewarm soup and water cover me, Knightley swings my door open, pauses, then he rushes over to me, falling to his knees and moving the dishes off of me.
“You’re not handling yourself well, Emma.” His tone isn’t condescending or mean. It’s full of concern and fretfulness. “What’s going on? I’ve seen women on their cycles who function just fine. You aren’t functioning.”
I brush noodles from my chest as he pulls them from my hair. “It’s different for every woman. I get dizzy sometimes. That’s all. Low iron and sugars and such.”
“So dizzy that you collapse?”
“I got out of bed too fast. That’s all. Speaking of, I need to go to the bathroom.”
He stands and offers his assistance. After he lifts me up, I attempt to take my hand back, but he doesn’t let go.
In fact, he’s squeezing a little too tightly.
I glance from his death grip to his face, prepared to make some comment about how he must revel in holding my hand. But his eyes are nowhere near mine.
That’s when I remember I’m in my pajamas.
A little pink matching tank top and shorts set.
Made of silk and lace.
Because it made me feel good when I felt so terrible.
I continue to watch him gape at me, and I don’t think he realizes what he's doing.
And why does his unbridled attention cause a sudden heat flash?
No, not him.
Must be the PCOS flare.
I yank my hand away, which causes me to stumble backwards just from the force. He snaps to attention, grabbing my arm.
“I wasn’t falling.” I place my hand on top of his, ignoring the pooling warmth in my stomach. The next words slip unbidden from my lips in an awfully coquettish tone. “At least not yet.”
No ma’am. No playing flirty games with your older male friend today. Not dressed like this.
Knightley coughs, but doesn’t let go of me. He looks at my lips again, and I’m left wondering if he’s okay.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I reiterate.
In all seriousness, he says, “Let me walk you there.”
“I’m fine, Knightley. I promise. Please just leave. Thank you for helping me. I’ll get this cleaned later.” I force myself to make my voice soft and gentle so he knows I’m all good.
“I’m going downstairs to talk to Henry and to send someone up to clean this. I’ll be back in thirty minutes to check on you.” And with that, he spins on his heel and walks back out my door. I rush to the bathroom and take care of my business. When I come out, it’s like the mess was never created.
And my bed sheets are new.
With a bag of strawberry Lindor chocolates sitting on my pillow.
I can’t help but smile. I change out of my clothes, opting for sweatpants and a tank top. Since my stomach is feeling better momentarily, I sit at my vanity and grab my brush. When I look in the mirror, a light gasp of horror escapes my lips.
I’ve been sporting that stupid red mustache from my waxing this entire time.
No wonder he kept looking at my lips.