Chapter 4
Kade
MY SHOULDERS ACHE FROM hunching over textbooks all day, a dull throb that matches the pounding in my temples.
Three back-to-back classes followed by a group project meeting that dragged on for ages because no one did the assigned reading.
I trudge up the path to our house, keys jangling in my hand, already fantasizing about collapsing on the couch with a beer and mindless scrolling.
Not a single thing about today has gone right, and all I want is the blissful oblivion of doing nothing for the next few hours.
I push the door open and freeze mid-step.
Soft, flickering candlelight bathes the guest house—dozens of candles scattered across every surface cast dancing shadows on the walls.
The air is thick with the rich aroma of herbs, butter, and something sweet underneath.
For a disorienting moment, I wonder if I’ve walked into the wrong house.
“Hello?” My voice sounds loud in the quiet space.
Movement from the kitchen draws my attention. Emmett steps into view, and I have to blink twice to make sure it’s him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a deep green button-down that makes his eyes pop even in the dim light. He has styled his hair differently, less rigid than usual.
“Come in,” he says, his voice formal. “Dinner’s ready.”
I drop my backpack by the door, still trying to process what I’m seeing. “What is all this?”
“Practice,” Emmett says, as if that explains it all. He gestures toward the dining table, which has been transformed with a dark tablecloth, more candles, and actual cloth napkins I didn’t even know we owned. “Sit down. I’ll bring everything out.”
I stare at him for a long moment, my brain struggling to catch up with what’s happening.
Making a beeline to the bathroom, I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face, noticing my baffled expression in the mirror.
When I return to the living room and walk toward the table in a daze, I notice details I missed at first glance.
Soft music plays from speakers hidden somewhere—not the classical stuff Emmett usually listens to, but something more ambient and intimate.
The plates are our nice ones, the ones we only use when our parents have people over.
“Did you do all this?” I ask, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice.
“Yeah.” Emmett appears with two wine glasses, setting one in front of me. “Wine for you, grape juice for me,” he says with a little curl of his lips. “I figured if I’m going to impress Serena, I should practice the whole setup, not just the flirting.”
Right. Serena. Our deal. The strange tension from yesterday’s lesson floods back into my awareness, and I take a long sip of wine to hide my sudden discomfort.
“You’re certainly…committed,” I manage, watching as he returns to the kitchen and comes back with steaming plates.
When he sets the food in front of me, my jaw drops. “Is this…?”
“Carbonara,” Emmett confirms, sliding into the seat across from me. “With pancetta, not bacon. And freshly grated Parmesan, not that pre-packaged stuff.”
My favorite dish. The exact way I like it. My stomach growls.
“How did you know?” I ask, twirling pasta around my fork.
Emmett shrugs, his eyes not quite meeting mine. “You always order it when we go to Giovanni’s with Mom and David.”
Something warm and unfamiliar unfurls in my chest at the realization that he’s been paying attention, noticing details about me that I barely register myself. It’s unsettling.
“Try it,” he urges.
I take a bite and close my eyes. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the sauce creamy without being heavy, the pancetta adding just the right amount of salt and texture. “Holy shit.”
“Good?” His voice holds a note of genuine uncertainty.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Another forkful disappears into my mouth before he can answer.
“YouTube.” He looks pleased with himself, watching me.
We fall into silence as we eat, but it’s not the strained silence that usually sits between us. This one is charged. I keep stealing glances at him—the careful way he twirls his pasta, the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows his grape juice, the candle glow catching in his green eyes.
“So,” I break the silence, desperate to dispel the strange atmosphere, “you did all this for…practice?”
“Yeah.” His fingers tap against the stem of his glass. “I wanted to see if I could pull off the whole romantic dinner thing.”
“Planning to do this for Serena on Saturday?”
Emmett nods. “That’s the idea. Though probably with different food. I’m not sure what she likes.”
A strange sensation twists in my gut—something sharp and unpleasant. “But you made my favorite food.”
His eyes flick up to mine, then away. “Like I said, practice. I figured if I could impress you, Serena would be easy.”
The twisting feeling intensifies. The idea of Emmett recreating this scene—these candles, this attention to detail, this intimate atmosphere—for Serena makes my appetite fade. I set my fork down, confused by my own reaction.
“There’s dessert too,” he says, gathering our plates once we’ve finished. “Red velvet. Also…your favorite, right?”
I nod, watching him disappear into the kitchen. My mind races, trying to make sense of the jealousy—because that’s what it is, I realize with a jolt—curling through me. Why should I care if Emmett woos Serena? Isn’t that the point of our arrangement?
He returns with two slices of cake, the rich red interior a contrast to the creamy white frosting. It looks homemade, not the store-bought kind I’m used to.
“How long did all this take you?” I ask, gesturing to the food, the candles, the whole setup.
“Most of the day,” he admits. “I skipped my afternoon class.”
Emmett Grayson, Mr. Perfect Student, skipped a class to prepare this dinner. For practice. For me. The realization makes me dizzy, or maybe that’s the wine.
“I thought we could watch a movie after,” he continues, taking a bite of cake. “To complete the date experience.”
“What movie?” My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
His lips curve into a small smile. “Lord of the Rings. The Fellowship of the Ring. Extended edition, of course.”
My favorite movie. Again. I stare at him, unable to hide my shock. “You hate that movie. You said it was boring and too long.”
“It is,” he agrees. “But you love it. And this is about creating the perfect date, right? Doing things the other person enjoys.”
Something shifts in the air between us. The pretense feels thinner somehow, more transparent. This isn’t just about teaching Emmett how to woo Serena anymore. It’s something else, something neither of us is acknowledging.
After dessert, we move to the couch. The TV flickers to life, the familiar opening narration of the movie filling the room. Emmett sits beside me, closer than necessary. Our thighs press together, a line of warmth that I’m hyper-aware of.
“So, how am I doing so far?” He turns to me, his face mere inches from mine. “As a date, I mean.”
I swallow hard. “Good. Really good, actually.”
“Anything I should do differently with Serena?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “No. She’d be…impressed.”
Emmett nods, satisfied with my assessment. He turns back to the movie, but I notice he doesn’t put any distance between us. If anything, he settles in closer, his shoulder brushing against mine.
Ten minutes into the film, he shifts, draping his arm along the back of the couch behind me. It’s the oldest move in the book, but something about the deliberate way he does it—measuring my reaction from the corner of his eye—makes my skin prickle.
I’ve seen this movie so many times I could recite the dialogue from memory, which is fortunate because I can’t focus on the screen at all. Every part of me is attuned to Emmett’s proximity, to the subtle shifts of his body beside mine, to the faint smell of his cologne.
His fingers begin a light, almost imperceptible stroke against my shoulder. I pretend not to notice, but my heart rate spikes.
“Am I doing this right?” he murmurs, his mouth close to my ear. The soft words send a shiver down my spine.
“Yeah,” I manage.
As Frodo and the Fellowship leave Rivendell, Emmett removes his arm from the back of the couch and his hand finds mine, our fingers interlacing the way I showed yesterday.
His palm is warm, his grip firm but gentle.
My traitorous body responds immediately—breath shortening, a slow heat building in my core.
I should stop this. Draw a line. Remind him I’m supposed to be teaching him, not being his test subject. But I can’t bring myself to pull back.
“You’re staring at me,” he murmurs without looking away from the screen. “Not the movie.”
“Just…evaluating your technique.”
His thumb traces slow circles on the back of my hand, and I bite back a gasp at the sensation.
“So. What comes next?” Emmett asks, turning to look at me. His green eyes are darker than usual, pupils dilated in the dim light. “In our lessons, I mean.”
The correct answer is to suggest practice with conversational topics, or maybe how to secure a second date. But the words that come out of my mouth surprise even me.
“Kissing,” I say. “That would be next.”
Emmett’s breath catches. For a long moment, he just looks at me, and I’m certain I’ve crossed a line, that he’ll laugh it off or get angry or pull away in disgust.
Then he nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat stupidly.
“Yeah.” His gaze drops to my lips, lingering on my lip ring. “Show me.”
This has gone so far beyond our original arrangement that I can barely remember what the point was supposed to be. But I can’t back down now, not when he’s looking at me like that, not when curiosity and something darker are burning in his eyes.
I lean in, giving him every chance to change his mind. He doesn’t move away; if anything, he leans in to meet me. Our noses brush, breath mingling in the narrow space between us. Then his lips touch mine—just a ghost of contact, testing.