Chapter 18
Natalie leaned against the counter, the ceramic mug warm between her palms, steam curling upward in the quiet kitchen.
Emma’s robe hung soft against her skin, smelling faintly of laundry detergent.
Her shoulders ached in a way that made her feel young and reckless.
Her thighs carried a deeper soreness, the kind that flared when she shifted her weight, and the sensation sent a private pulse of heat through her belly.
She had not felt this aware of her own body in years.
She didn’t want to be thinking about work. Not now. Not with the morning light slanting through the window and the evidence of last night still written across her skin. But the call had cracked something open.
The project was good. Scripts like this didn’t come often, especially not for women past forty. Something in her had flared when her agent said the producers still wanted her. Wanted her enough to wait and ask again.
Then the other reality hit her. Taking the project meant not being here next summer.
“I told them I’d think about it.”
The words came out flatter than she intended. She took another sip of coffee, the bitterness grounding her, and watched Emma across the kitchen. Emma nodded once. A small motion, controlled. Her gaze had dropped to the counter, to the milk, to anywhere that was not Natalie’s face.
Emma was already imagining it. The departure. The empty house next door. Next summer without Natalie in it.
The understanding hit Natalie harder than it should have. She set her mug down on the counter and reached for Emma’s hand where it hung at her side.
Emma’s fingers were cool. They didn’t curl around hers immediately. For a long moment they stayed still.
“Hey.” She kept her voice low. “It’s going to be okay.”
Emma’s eyes lifted. Hazel in this light, more green than brown. The faint lines at their corners that had not been there five years ago. Her face was open in a way Natalie had rarely seen it, the guardedness stripped back to something raw and unpolished.
“I know we didn’t really do much talking last night.” Natalie’s mouth curved into a hint of a smile. “And we have a lot to talk about. Do you have plans today?”
“No.”
Natalie ran her thumb against Emma’s finger, the motion automatic, intimate.
“I’m starving,” Natalie said, and it was true. “I’m going to get changed, go next door for a quick shower, and then make us breakfast. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
The word came out quiet, but Emma’s grip on her hand tightened for just a second before releasing. Natalie felt the reluctance in it, the way Emma’s fingers seemed to want to hold on. She squeezed back once, then let go and walked down the hall to Emma’s bedroom.
The room smelled like them now. Like the particular heat they had generated between the sheets, the scent of Emma’s skin mixed with her own.
Natalie’s clothes lay scattered across the floor where they had been abandoned, testament to the urgency that had overtaken them both.
She slipped out of the robe, feeling the cool air brush against her bare skin, and hung it carefully on the back of the door.
She gathered her clothes piece by piece. Jeans that had been peeled away while Emma’s mouth was on her throat. Her underwear, bra. Her top, which had been the first thing to go. The memory of Emma’s hands lifting it over her head sent a fresh wave of heat through her belly.
When she returned to the kitchen dressed, Emma was still standing by the counter. But something had shifted in the few minutes Natalie had been gone.
Natalie took a long sip of her coffee. “What is it?”
Emma’s gaze flicked to her face, then away. “I was going to tell you last night. In the pub.” A pause, and Natalie could see her choosing her words carefully. “But then you left before we could sit down properly.”
The jealousy returned, sharp and sudden. Trish’s hand on Emma’s arm. The way they’d leaned toward each other, voices too low to hear. The way Emma had looked at Trish—warm, comfortable, unguarded. It had been unbearable then. Now, with the taste of Emma still on her tongue, it felt ridiculous.
“I booked my flight to Sydney,” Emma said. “It’s tomorrow.”
The words struck her hard. She’d imagined weeks ahead—the rest of summer. Mornings in bed, walks through the woods, evenings by the fire pit where they could finally talk. She’d thought they had time.
“For how long?”
“Ten days.”
Natalie nodded, the motion automatic while her mind scrambled to recalibrate.
Ten days. A week and a half to sort out a life in Australia, to resign from a job, to pack up.
It wasn’t long. But the thought of Emma on a plane tomorrow, of waking up in the cottage with no light in the windows next door, made something in her chest constrict.
Her stomach chose that moment to rumble, loud and insistent in the quiet kitchen. Emma’s mouth twitched, the first genuine expression Natalie had seen since the phone call.
“I’m going to shower too,” Emma continued. “I’ll come over in half an hour?”
“Sure.” Natalie finished her coffee in one long swallow, the last of it gone bitter and cold.
She moved to the counter, scanning for a dishwasher, and found it tucked beneath the counter beside the sink.
The door opened with a soft click, and she slotted the mug into the top rack beside a single plate and bowl.
She paused at the back door, her hand on the handle, and turned back. Emma was still standing by the counter, watching her with an expression Natalie couldn’t quite read. There was something fragile in it, something that made Natalie want to cross the room and pull her close again.
“We’ll figure it out,” Natalie said, and the words came out rough, like they had to fight their way past something lodged in her throat.
Emma nodded once. A small motion, but it felt like a promise.
Natalie stepped outside into the morning air. The gravel crunched under her feet as she walked the familiar path between their gardens, and she could feel Emma watching her from the kitchen window. The knowledge of it warmed her back like sunlight.