Chapter 17
Emma dozed, pleasantly tired from the night before. The sheets still smelled like them both—proof this hadn’t been another dream. Morning light crept through the curtains, painting the wall gold. She smiled without meaning to.
A shrill ring cut through the quiet. Not her own phone.
She blinked, surfacing properly now, and turned her head.
Natalie slept curled into her, one leg slung warm and heavy over Emma’s thigh, arm draped loose across Emma’s stomach as if she had reached for her even in sleep.
The sight lodged something soft and dangerous behind Emma’s ribs.
She wanted to stay exactly here, tracing the freckles across Natalie’s shoulder with a fingertip until she stirred on her own.
Instead the phone kept ringing from somewhere on the floor where their clothes had landed last night.
It stopped. Then started again. Emma checked her watch. 7:12am. Which made it after 11:12pm in Los Angeles.
She eased herself up on one elbow, careful not to jostle the woman tangled around her.
Natalie’s hair spilled dark across the pillow. “Natalie. Hey.” Her voice came out low, still rough from sleep and everything that had come before it. “Your phone’s ringing. Must be something important.”
Natalie stirred, lashes fluttering, a small frown creasing her brow before recognition settled.
She pushed up slowly, sheets slipping to her waist, and Emma allowed herself one indulgent look at the long line of her back before the phone demanded attention again.
Natalie ran a hand through her hair, pushing it off her face, and muttered, “Sorry. God, I’m sorry,” as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
Natalie’s bare skin still carried faint marks from her mouth.
It all felt a little unreal, like the universe had finally handed her the summer she had waited half a decade, for and she kept expecting it to vanish.
She sat up fully, duvet pooling at her hips.
“There’s a robe on the back of the door if you want it. Not that I mind the view.”
Natalie paused halfway to the pile of jeans, glanced over her shoulder, and the smile that broke across her face felt like sunlight after rain. She retrieved the phone, checked the screen, and exhaled. “It’s work.” She slipped the robe on. “I have to take this.”
Emma nodded, already swinging her own legs out of bed. She felt loose and warm and stupidly content. “I’ll make coffee. Take your time.”
Natalie answered with a different voice—polished and alert. “Hi. No, you didn’t wake me.”
Emma pulled on a t shirt and soft lounge pants, moving quietly so she would not intrude and went into the kitchen.
Emma filled the kettle and switched it on. She measured grounds into the French press. Natalie’s voice drifted down the short hallway.
Last night had felt real. The way Natalie had looked at her, how their bodies moved together, the quiet words between kisses.
Emma wanted to believe it meant something lasting.
But the longer she stood at the counter, the harder that became.
Natalie’s life was in Los Angeles—bright, public, always moving.
Emma had tasted distance already. Australia had been an escape laced with familiar faces, cousins of colleagues, Irish pubs that smelled like home even under different stars.
Los Angeles offered none of that comfort.
She tried to picture herself there, navigating freeways and spotlights, but the image stayed flat and cold.
Emma wondered if Natalie would even ask her to come. Would she risk coming out? Or would this summer end like the other, with Natalie boarding a plane?
The kettle clicked off. Emma poured water over the grounds, the rich aroma blooming thicker now, and set the plunger lid in place.
Natalie appeared in the doorway then, wrapped in Emma’s robe.
Her dark hair stood in sleep-tousled waves, untouched by product or styling, and her face carried no trace of the careful makeup she wore for cameras.
Just bare skin, faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the natural flush high on her cheekbones.
The sight struck Emma square in the chest, knocking every careful objection sideways.
This was the Natalie she wanted—not the actress, not the careful visitor who left each September. Just the woman standing in her kitchen, soft in morning light, wearing her robe.
Emma cared more than she wanted to. More than she’d admitted during those Australian nights.
It didn’t make anything easier. It only made losing her hurt more.
“Sorry again,” Natalie said, her voice quieter now that the call had ended. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed beneath the robe’s lapels. “That coffee smells amazing.”
Emma smiled as she checked her watch. She lifted the plunger and pressed it down slowly. The coffee swirled dark beneath the mesh. “You’re fine. Work doesn’t wait, even here.” She poured two mugs and retrieved the milk from the fridge. “Everything okay?”
Natalie accepted the mug with both hands, breathing in the scent before she answered.
She sighed. “Yeah. Work stuff… Ugh. I turned down a project a few months ago because it would mean missing coming here next year, but my agent just wanted to know if I’d reconsider.
They really want me, and… well, they know my grandmother died, so they assumed I wouldn’t want to be here next year. ”
“Wow. Tactful.” Emma’s tone was dry. She added milk to her coffee and watched it lighten.
Natalie’s laugh came short and rueful. She leaned forward to doctor her own mug, the robe shifting to reveal the shadowed hollow at the base of her throat. “It’s just business. And it’s nice to be in demand. Especially at my age.”
The words hit hard. Emma’s thoughts stacked up fast—would Natalie take the job now that Bridget was gone? Would she leave before summer ended? Would Emma watch her go again, this time carrying last night with her? The questions pressed against her ribs. Her coffee tasted bitter.
Emma had come home to stay. The thought of packing up again, of fitting herself into Natalie’s world of noise and performance, made her chest ache. Starting over in Los Angeles held none of the thrill Sydney once had.
And Natalie hadn’t asked her to come. Hadn’t said what last night meant.
Emma swallowed the doubt and kept her face calm.
She lifted her mug and took a careful sip, the heat blooming across her tongue.
She wanted to reach across the counter, to brush the hair from Natalie’s forehead and ask the questions that mattered.
Instead she stood there in her bare feet, heart beating too fast, and waited to see what Natalie would say next.