8. Emma
8
EMMA
The aroma of toasted bread wafts through the air, pulling me from my dreams. Another morning, another breakfast solo. Sunlight streams through the kitchen window, painting bright squares on the countertop. I yawn, stretch, and go about making my usual—scrambled eggs and toast.
The familiar patter of footsteps on the stairs brings a smile to my face. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” I greet Damon as he enters the kitchen, his hair a mess and a tired smile on his face.
“Morning,” he mumbles, grabbing a mug and pouring himself some coffee. “June and Ethan up yet?”
“Not yet,” I reply, stirring the eggs in the pan. “June's probably wrestling with Ethan's clothes as usual.”
As if on cue, a chorus of giggles and Ethan's whiny protests reach us from upstairs. A moment later, June appears, her hair half-pulled back and a sleep mask dangling from her wrist. Ethan, a mop-haired whirlwind, trails behind her, fully dressed but sporting a mismatched pair of socks.
“Good morning, sunshine,” June says, ruffling my hair as she grabs a plate. “Thanks for the breakfast. You're a lifesaver.”
“No problem,” I laugh. “Although, at this rate, you might need to start taking turns. I can't keep up with how late I go to bed.”
I wink at her, and both she and Damon burst into laughter. Ethan, ever the inquisitive five-year-old, frowns.
“What's so funny?” he asks, his big brown eyes blinking in confusion.
“Just an adult joke, honey,” I say quickly, placing a plate in front of him. “Something you wouldn't understand.”
We all settle in, and the chatter around the table is a welcome change from the quiet mornings I'm used to. Halfway through breakfast, I catch Damon and June stealing glances at me with their faces stretched into wide, mischievous grins.
I scrape some butter onto my toast, then carefully slide my eggs on top. Perfect. Just as I take a bite, I feel their stares again.
“What are you two looking at?” I ask, wiping a stray bit of butter from my mouth.
“There's no crumb on your lip, Aunt Emma,” Ethan pipes.
I chuckle. “Thanks, Ethan. I wonder if you know why your dad and June are staring at me, though.”
I turn back to Damon and June. Their smiles have only gotten wider.
“You okay, Em?” Damon asks, his voice laced with amusement.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” I reply, taking another bite of toast. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” he says, taking a long sip of his coffee.
“It’s more than wondering. You haven't stopped smiling all morning.”
He glances around the table, then back at me. “I gotta say, I'm happy. Glad everyone's finally finding their place.”
A bitter pang shoots through me. Yes, everyone except me. I force a smile and mumble agreement. “Eat up, you guys. We don't want to be late.”
Just then, Ethan looks up at me. “Are you dating Uncle Liam, Emma?”
That’s the worst curveball I’ve ever been thrown in my life. The question hangs in the air, and my head snaps up to meet Damon and June's gazes. I immediately realize why they’ve been smiling.
Oh, fuck Liam Miller!
“Where did you hear that, Ethan?”
“The kids have been talking about your open-air PDA, my friend,” June coos.
Before I can object, Damon lets out a hearty laugh. “You guys played us long enough, Em,” he says, his voice teasing. “I shouldn’t be hearing about my own sister and friend’s relationship through the grapevine.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.”
“We figured it out,” June chimes in, her eyes sparkling. “That's why you were so weird around him. You were just trying to hide it!”
My cheeks burn. “No, that's not?—“
“Oh, I understand,” June cuts me off, nodding sympathetically. “It must be hard, wanting to keep things private. But honestly, you two are adorable together. No need to be shy.”
Panic threatens to consume me. “There's nothing to be shy about,” I insist, my voice rising in frustration. “We met in New York eighteen months ago, and?—“
“See?” Damon claps. “I told you they'd been dating for at least a year!”
“Eighteen months?” June exclaims, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God, Emma, that's amazing!”
They’re determined I’m hiding something and are not going to believe we’re not in a relationship. No one would believe Emma Cole would kiss a random stranger she’s not seriously dating—in public, at that. Liam’s thoughtless action yesterday puts me in a serious bind.
I smile and excuse myself from the table, grabbing a jacket. He made this mess, and he should clean it up. I’m going straight to him to tell him right now.
My head throbs like a volcano about to erupt with fury. I can feel blistering anger scorching my insides. “Stupid, stupid Liam!” I spit under my breath, slamming my car door shut a little too hard.
I drive madly to the hospital, hurriedly parking my car and jumping out. The walk from the parking lot to the hospital entrance feels like an eternity. My legs pump with frantic energy. Bursting through the automatic doors, I scan the reception area, my gaze darting over the waiting patients. There, smack dab in the middle of the hall, stands Liam.
He's talking to a woman with a prominent belly, her hand resting protectively on it. Agatha, the perpetually gossiping baker from down the street. From the way she's eyeing me, I wouldn't be surprised if she's secretly hoping we give her some drama worth talking about.
Across from them, an old lady with a shock of white hair peers at us with an unnaturally keen interest. Everyone here would be thrilled to be firsthand witnesses to some juicy drama. Any stupid action here adds fuel to the fire of this absurd rumor, and that feeds my rage further.
This isn't the place to unleash it, though. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I force myself to calm down. Shouting at Liam in the middle of the hospital wouldn't exactly dispel the rumors, would it?
With a cold composure, I march toward him. “Liam,” I say, my voice clipped and formal.
He turns, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Emma? What are you doing here?”
I scan the crowded hallway. People of all ages and ailments sit scattered throughout the waiting area, casting curious glances in our direction. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid—more fodder for the rumor mill.
“Can we talk?” I hiss, my voice barely above a whisper. “Somewhere private…and soon.”
His jaw clenches for a moment, and I brace myself for some snarky retort. Instead, he surprises me again. “Sure,” he says after a beat. “I'll be free in about an hour. Do you want to wait here, or should I find you?”
There's a hint of concern in his voice, overshadowed by a layer of annoyance I can't quite place. “Whatever,” I mumble, frustration bubbling back up.
He shakes his head, a low grumble escaping his lips. He brushes past me, the scent of his cologne—a warm, woodsy fragrance—momentarily filling my senses. That was the first thing I noticed about him that night in New York, a catalyst that pushed me to throw caution to the wind and have a fun, carefree night with this intriguing stranger. Well, that and the fact that we'd both been embarrassingly drunk.
A young woman attendant approaches me, holding a steaming cup of coffee. “Dr. Miller asked me to give this to you,” she chirps pleasantly.
“Thank you,” I mumble, taking the cup from her outstretched hand. The warmth seeps through the paper, a small comfort in the face of my swirling emotions.
I watch Liam navigate the crowded hall, and every interaction with his patients leaves me speechless. He speaks to them with a gentle kindness I haven’t seen from him before, his demeanor far from the arrogant jerk I've gotten used to. He listens patiently, his brow furrowed in concern, and even cracks a few jokes that elicit genuine laughter.
This compassionate, caring side of him is completely unexpected.
Maybe there’s more to Liam Miller than I initially thought, but that doesn't change the tangled mess he'd gotten us both into. The clock on the wall seems to tick excruciatingly slow as I wait, the hot coffee growing lukewarm in my hand, mirroring the cooling of my initial anger but not the underlying frustration.
The initial inferno of anger that propelled me to the hospital is starting to simmer down, replaced by a simmering frustration. Every tick of the clock feels like a deliberate jab, each glance from a passing nurse another piece of fuel for my annoyance. An hour has crawled by, and Liam is nowhere to be seen.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. I flag down the attendant who'd given me the lukewarm coffee earlier. “Excuse me,” I say, my voice clipped. “Could you please tell Dr. Miller that Emma Jones is still waiting?”
The moment the words leave my lips, a familiar figure emerges from behind the curtained entrance to a patient's room. Dr. Miller, senior—Liam's father.
“Emma! There you are,” he booms, his voice carrying an undercurrent of surprise. “Liam told me you were here. Here, have some tea. It'll help you wait.”
He gestures toward a paper cup resting on a nearby table, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. Embarrassment floods my cheeks. I mentally curse myself for wanting so badly to cut him some slack. I should have known Liam is not capable of being considerate.
“Oh, thank you, Dr. Miller,” I stammer, taking the cup from him.
“Just call me Richard,” he chuckles, his eyes twinkling. “Now, where's that rascal of a son of mine?” He scans the hallway, then spots Liam talking to a patient a few feet away.
“Liam!” he booms, his voice cutting through the chatter of the waiting area. “Emma's here to see you.”
Liam turns, his brow furrowing in confusion. He excuses himself from the patient and walks toward us, a frown etched on his face.
“Hey, Dad,” he greets, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance.
Richard pats him on the shoulder. “You have a visitor, son. Now, I believe Mr. Jones needs his medication checked. You two go on, get out of here. Talk things through.”
He winks at me, a knowing smile playing on his lips, before disappearing back into the patient's room.
Liam stares at me for a beat, then sighs. “Emma, I can't really—“ he starts, but I cut him off.
“An hour, Liam! An hour I've been sitting here while you…” My anger threatens to reignite. “You could have at least come and said something. Explained what was going out.”
Liam's jaw clenches. “I was busy, okay? But…”
“But what?” I spit, frustration bubbling over. “Do you have any idea what this is doing to me? Everyone thinks we're some secret couple. June practically did a happy dance when she saw me!”
Liam's hands fist into balls at his sides. “Look, I get that it's frustrating,” he says, his voice tight with contained anger. “But just give me a moment, alright? I can't just drop everything and?—“
“No!” I nearly shout, my voice echoing in the sterile hallway. “You can't just drop everything? What about my reputation? What about…”
I trail off, my voice choked with emotion. The heat of his anger mirrors mine, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife.
Suddenly, a voice cuts through the air. “Is something wrong here?” It's Dr. Miller, looking back at us from the doorway of the patient's room.
Liam closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “No, Dad, everything's fine. Emma and I were just… discussing something.”
“Well, whatever it is,” Dr. Miller booms, a mischievous glint in his eye, “it looks like it can’t wait. Mr. Jones is in good hands. Why don't you two go somewhere private and talk it out in peace?”
There's a playful edge to his voice, and for a moment, the absurdity of the situation threatens to break the tension. Then, to my surprise, Liam lets out a defeated chuckle.
“You're right, Dad,” he says, shaking his head. “Come on, Emma. Let's go.”
He gestures toward the exit, and I hesitate. Part of me wants to stay, to fight Liam about the mess he'd created. But another part, a deeper more primal part, can't ignore the undeniable pull toward him.
“I’ll drive.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I have my own car and I can drive.”
“Let’s not argue here, Emma.” He murmurs, “Please?”
I follow him silently and climb into his car, and he drives us. There’s silence in the car as I battle with my senses from being overtaken by the aroma of his cologne—a blend of woodsy notes and clean musk. My gaze follows the path of his hand as he rests it on the steering wheel of his car, strong fingers wrapped tightly around the smooth leather.
He parks in front of a house and turns to me. “Wanna come in?”
“I don’t need to.” I shake my head. “Just tell the whole town the truth.”
“I won’t if you don’t come in. There’s something I want to tell you first, and I can’t have us argue outside where anyone can see us again.”
I blow out a breath and he leans over to unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door. “Come on.” He climbs out on the driver’s side and walks up the porch steps.
Against my better judgment, I find myself walking toward him, my senses eclipsed by a yearning I can't explain. He opens the door for me, a flicker of surprise crossing his face as I walk into the house.
He glances at me for a brief moment. “I'm sorry about causing you trouble,” he mutters, his voice gruff. “I must admit that the kiss was about more than saving you. I wanted to kiss you.”
I don't respond, unsure of what to say. Part of me wants to tear into him, to unleash the full force of my anger. But another part, a traitorous part, can't help but be captivated by the raw emotion simmering beneath his stoic exterior.
He steals another glance at me, his eyes lingering on mine for a beat longer this time. The air crackles with unspoken tension, a potent mix of anger and something else entirely.
“I still want to kiss you now.”
As he leans over, I put my hands on his chest and push, stopping the kiss.
“We shouldn’t kiss,” I gasp breathlessly.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want it?”
His eyes narrow. “I think we both want it. I think it’s part of why we argue so much.”
He’s right. Behind the sparks of anger is real and raw desire. Having him so close, in a house I know only he and I occupy, there’s less of anger right now and more of the desire for him to fuck my brains out. My legs shake, clit aching to have him inside me.
I need to go back to being mad quickly. This feeling is too much.
“I think that’s just you in your head. You’re a dickhead, you know?”
He shrugs and smiles, then leans closer to me. “Did you know you just called me dick? Proves what’s on your mind, sweetheart.” The look in his gray eyes is mocking, but there’s something else in there—a fire that melts my insides.
“Don’t you wanna know if our two nights was a one-time fluke? I want to.”
When he puts it like that, with his gray eyes shining, my mind goes back to that night—undulating under him, screaming as he makes me come again and again.
“I don’t want it.”
“Yes, you do, sweetheart. I think you want even more.”
Tension crackles in the air between us. I blink up at him as he crowds me against the wall, holding me prisoner with his body.
“Tell me no, now.” His voice is a low growl. “Tell me you don’t want me to make you lose your mind until you beg me not to stop. Until you’re so desperate to come that your body ripples with pleasure.”
I put my hands on his chest, curling my fingers. “Liam?—”
“Say no now, and I leave you alone forever.”
The sound of that feels so bleak and scary. “I don’t want you to. It’s stupid but I can’t seem to keep my body in control around you. I want you.”
“Then tell me to touch you.” His breath fans my face, setting a fire through my body.
“Touch me.”
He smiles, reaching down and sliding his hand past the waistband of my jeans. His fingers explore between my legs, and I hiss in a breath. My panties are soaked.
“You want me,” he growls, letting his fingers glide along my wet slit. “You want me.”
I bite my lips, trying to keep my feet steady and my eyes focused on his face. He smiles as he pushes two fingers inside me.
“Oh, God.” I moan, digging my nails.
He puts his mouth to my ear. “It’s not God. It’s Liam. I want you to moan my name.”
I bite down on my lower lip as his fingers dig deeper, flicking around my wet walls and setting off uncontrollable sensations.
“My name, Emma,” he growls in my ear. “Tell me you love this.”
“No.” I gasp, rocking my hips, grinding against his hand.
“Tell me what you want.” He fingers me faster, pressing his palm against my clit.
My eyelids flutter as I let out another moan. Him. I want him. But I can barely speak any words. I can barely breathe. My body is only focused on rolling my hips, riding his hand. My inner muscles tighten. He’s driving me crazy. I grip his shoulder, trying to hold on.
And then he stops.
“No, Liam!”
“Tell me what you want.” He smiles as he traces a finger across my face and down to my lips.
“You know what I want.”
“I want you to say it.”
His finger descends to my chest, pressing my tits tightly through my clothes. His touch makes me moan. In response, I let my hand travel down his body, grab his erection and squeeze him as hard as I can.
“I want an orgasm, Liam. Give me a fucking orgasm.”