Chapter Thirteen
Emma
The last thing I”m in the mood to do today is work, but I don”t really have a choice.
There are only so many days in a row that I can let Alex run things before I have to worry that he”s either going to burn the place to the ground or completely run out of alcohol.
The bass vibrates through the soles of my shoes as I stride into the club, nodding at the bouncer. The flashing blue and green lights leave me feeling like I’m under water and sinking into the depths of the ocean. It”s a thought that has terror striking into the heart of me.
I take a deep breath and watch bodies pulse on the dance floor as a kaleidoscope of colors lights up dressed-up patrons. This place is never quiet. Not for a second, and I used to love that, but now I”m not sure I like the noise, the lack of calm, the never-ending party that I’m never part of and don’t wish to be involved in in a non-working capacity.
Maybe I”m growing up.
Even though I”m here to work, I find myself searching for Kade. I find him leaning against the bar as if waiting for me, but his eyes—those deep, penetrating midnight pools—skip right over me as if I”m just another partier.
“Hey,” I call out, as I make my way toward him. But he’s looking the other way, and annoyance fills me. How dare he ignore me? What did I do to deserve him being this rude?
I move right up to him and bump his arm with my shoulder, wishing we were a little closer in height.
“Emma.” His tone is flat, distant, and a pang of something like disappointment tightens in my chest. We might as well be strangers, given the way he is not looking at me and how he said my name.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, frowning. The memory of our last conversation hangs between us, all laughter and fun, him checking up on me and us reminiscing about our magical trip to the botanical gardens.
“Everything’s fine.” He doesn”t elaborate, just takes a sip of whatever amber liquid is in his glass, probably scotch. If he keeps treating me like this, I might slip him some tequila later, just to annoy him. I know how much he hates tequila. I notice the set of his jaw, a muscle ticking in his cheek, and the way he scans the place as if ready to pounce on some unseen prey.
Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones.
“If our talk last night—” I start, but he cuts me off with a sharp look.
“Our conversation last night was fine. Let”s leave it there.” His words are a dismissal, and they sting more than I expected.
“Okay, then,” I say in a mocking tone, my eyebrows making their way toward my hairline as I turn away from him. I’m too young to drink, but I’ve never needed alcohol more in my life.
As I turn away, I feel his eyes on me for a split second before he deliberately shifts his gaze.
What would he do if I poured myself a drink? I mean, it risks our liquor license, so I’d never do it, but I wonder how he’d react.
Still, the heat of irritation warms my cheeks. What”s gotten into him? And why does it bother me so much?
I get to work, my thoughts muttering from different corners of my brain. Out of the corner of my eyes, I watch him move, noting how his body language screams focus, purpose. I can’t help but wonder what - or who - he’s looking for. Kade is on a mission, and somehow, I”m not a part of it, even though this is my club.
When I have a moment, I slip through the door of Kade”s office. This is wrong, and I know it is, but the sharp question of his sudden coldness leaves me with no choice but to look for answers.
The room smells like him—spicy cologne and smooth scotch—and I feel a familiar pull in my stomach.
The office is meticulous, not a paper out of place, which makes the half-folded letter on his desk stand out like a sore thumb. My curiosity wins over the guilt gnawing at my conscience as I hurry toward his desk.
“Who hand writes letters nowadays?” I mean, texts exist. Even email would be less of a throwback than this. I’m muttering under my breath to myself as I pick up the cream-colored paper, noting the bold strokes of Kade”s handwriting on the front. I unfold the single sheet, noticing the name at the top: Stella.
And beneath that, the start of a letter that isn’t for me to read, but it hits me like a pillowcase full of quarters swung by a very angry person.
My trembling fingers hold the perfectly smooth - save for one crease - paper.
“It was so nice to see you again,” I say, reading the words aloud, every single one twisting in my gut. “What we had in the past was amazing, I can’t lie about that. But, well, it”s different now, isn”t it?”
And the name Stella clicks. She’s the redhead he loved in high school. I remember her, her beautiful blue eyes, her playful freckles, her sweet attitude. But didn’t she run off and marry someone else? So why is he writing this letter to her?
And what does he mean? Different how? Better? Worse? Nonexistent? I scan the lines for a clue, for any sign of what Kade feels for his old high school sweetheart, but the letter cuts off abruptly, leaving only questions filling the rest of the blank page.
“Damn you, Kade,” I whisper, feeling a full cycle of emotions rolling through me.
My heart races, pounding against my ribcage as if demanding answers. Is Stella back in his life? Is she the reason he”s been so cold and distant today? And how the heck do I confront him about a letter I have no right to be reading?
But his empty office offers no answers.
My breath hitches, still holding the half-written confession, each word a painful strike in my chest. The room is silent, save for my ragged breaths. The words blur. He”s not mine—never was, never will be. Yet the pain of discovering Stella”s reappearance in his life feels like being lit on fire.
It’s all I can do not to crinkle the paper in my hands, to ball it up and throw it away as if that’ll change the reality staring me in the face.
I should place it back, walk away from this invasion of privacy, pretend I never saw it or question him. But it”s too late to unsee what I’ve read, and my heart won’t let me forgive and my mind will never forget.
“Emma?”
I jolt and whip around, the letter clutched in my fingers like evidence of a crime. His dark eyes lock on mine, filling with a mix of shock and something darker, more dangerous. Kade”s presence fills the room, overwhelming, a silent scream in the loudly quiet room.
“Kade,” I whisper, my throat tight, words failing me as our standoff stretches into eternity. His gaze drops to the letter in my hands, and the air around us fills with an unseen, but felt, tension.
He doesn”t say a word, but his eyes speak all the accusations his lips don’t.
“Who”s Stella?” I want him to lie to me, to tell me that what I think is going on isn’t true. But we both know better, and I can see it in his eyes.
His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking wildly as he steps toward me, closing the gap between us with a predator”s grace.
“Emma, put it back,” he says, his voice barely controlled. I asked him who Stella is, he couldn”t possibly think I didn’t read it, or that putting it down now will change anything.
I stand my ground, glaring at him.
“Who”s Stella?” I ask again, my voice stronger in the oxygen less space between us.
Kade”s expression turns to stone, his piercing gaze never leaving mine as he takes a deliberate step closer. “It”s not what you think,” he says, voice low and steady.
Does he really know what I think, though? And why isn’t he answering me?
I swallow hard, my resolve weakening. “Tell me the truth, Kade.” Lifting the letter, I wave it at him so he knows I’m not going to let this go.
His expression tightens. “You know Stella. She was my high school sweetheart.”
The words hang between us, and I wonder where things went wrong. I know he’s not mine, so why do I feel so betrayed by this?
What can I possibly say? What can I do? Get mad at a man who isn’t mine for talking to his high school sweetheart? I’m the one in the wrong here, I’m the one acting like an insane woman.
He releases a breath and makes his way behind the desk, sitting down in his chair, as if this is the most inconsequential conversation he’s had all day. “She came back, talking about her divorce, looking to rekindle what we had.”
His words break my heart and I blink back tears, praying he doesn”t see them.
“But it”s over. That letter was me closing that chapter.” He gestures at the letter in my hands, and I wonder what I’m missing.
“Then why keep it secret?” I ask, my voice soft in the loud silence of the room. Why would he hide this if there was nothing to hide? Have all his advances, all his flirting, all the heart-racing moments between us... have they meant nothing? Have I been reading him - and whatever this is between us - all wrong from the start?
“Because I didn”t want to lose you over something that means nothing to me anymore.”
His words leave me unable to speak or breathe.
“All she is to me is an old flame that can never be reignited.” His gaze locks on me, leaving no room to doubt what he’s saying. I’m still curious why he hid the truth, but maybe he’s being honest. Or maybe I’m overlooking a glaring red flag and inviting pain and trouble into my heart.
His gaze drops to the floor before finding mine again, regret filling his handsome features. “I”m sorry,” he says, “I should”ve been straight with you from the start. She only got into town last night.”
Something about the thought of them meeting up last night and him penning this letter today has my gut twisting. Did they sleep together? Why do I care? It’s none of my business.
He extends a hand, asking for the letter without words. Instinctively, I jerk back, cradling the paper against my chest. I have something to say, too. “I shouldn”t have read this,” I say, my voice heavy with guilt. Snooping isn”t in my nature, but my curiosity demanded answers.
“Emma,” he says, but I cut him off with a raised hand.
“We both made mistakes.” My throat tightens around the admission. “Mine worse than yours, of course...” I trail off, not sure where I’m going with this.
He seems to consider for a moment, then asks me a question that leaves me wondering the answer, too. “Why does this matter to you?” Something in the narrowed look in his eyes leaves me internally gasping for air.
There’s no answer I can give, so I bow out instead. “Here,” I say, extending the letter toward him like an olive branch in the midst of a war.
“I messed up.” My confession comes quick and I retreat, turning on my heel and desperate to escape the confines of his office. I just want to put distance between us.
But I don”t get far before he moves right up to me and his fingers wind around my arm. I gasp as he halts me mid-stride, then, in one fluid motion, spins me around to face him. He moves me back with his body until the wall presses to my back and he presses to my front. I can hardly breathe.
“I”m not just going to let you walk away, Emma,” he says, and I steel myself to the fate of having to answer his questions, even though I don’t want to.
He leans in closer, the heat of his body searing through the fabric of my clothes to burn my flesh. His hands plant on the wall beside me, framing my shoulders. Every nerve ending sparks to life as he studies me like a dying man eyes his last meal.
His lips hover near mine and when his gaze drops to my mouth, I know it’s all over.
But before he can kiss me, someone clears their throat.