29. Emma
EMMA
“For heaven’s sake,” I muttered, snatching my bathrobe from the hook. I wrapped it tightly around me and cinched the belt with a quick tug. Then I hurried through the house, leaving damp crescents on the floorboards. The bell shrieked again. Whoever it was had no intention of going away.
“All right, all right!” I called, while fumbling with the lock. “I’m coming!”
I pulled the door open.
Max Finnegan stood in the doorway, his eyes blazing with an intensity I hadn’t seen before, his jaw set, and his chest rising and falling as if he had just sprinted the last street.
He didn’t look like the Max who had teased me in the bookshop months ago, not even the Max who had kissed me last week. This Max looked hunted and furious.
Before I could say anything, he pushed past me, brushing my arm with heat and strength. I shut the door and looked at him.
“Max, what’s wrong?”
“You should have told me,” he snapped and turned around.
“Told you what?” I managed, startled by the rawness in his voice.
“That you are seeing another guy.”
It was so absurd, I forgot to breathe for a second. “I… what?”
“But I had to hear it from someone else,” he went on, words falling over each another. “Christ, Emma. Do you know what that did to me?”
“Max, I…”
He rubbed his hair with both hands, his shoulders were tight, his eyes dark. “I could’ve taken it if you’d told me. At least then I would have had a chance to prepare, take a step back. But this?” His voice dropped. “You blindsided me.”
The honesty in it hit hard. Blindsided. My chest tightened. The bathrobe suddenly felt too thin, too intimate for a conversation like this. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He turned towards the door as if running away was the only thing he could do.
“No!” I moved before I could think, darting between him and the door, pushing my palms flat against his chest. “Max, wait.”
His heart was pounding under my hands. He looked down at me, his eyes still fierce but wavering.
“I’m not seeing anyone else,” I said, the words coming out in a rush. “I don’t know why you think that, but it isn’t true. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
He just stared at me and I saw his anger fading. Confusion slid in, then something bare and unguarded.
“You mean it?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Yes, of course.”
He kept watching me, uncertain, his shoulders tense, until something in him eased and he let out a quiet breath. He cupped my face, hesitant for half a second, and then his mouth crashed against mine, stealing whatever words I had left. For a heartbeat I froze, and then my body caught up with him.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful.
It was desperate.
The knot of the belt slipped just enough that the robe opened at my collarbone, cool air hitting exposed skin.
The soft cotton didn’t do anything against the hard line of his body.
I gasped and his tongue slid against mine.
Slow and deliberate at first, then deeper when I opened to him, matching hunger with hunger.
I grabbed his shirt and dragged him closer.
His low, rough groan made my knees go weak and sent a tremor through me.
When he pulled his mouth away from mine, he didn’t say a word. Our foreheads stayed pressed together, our breaths ragged and fast, my hands still on his chest. The silence buzzed between us, charged and messy with all the things we both felt.
Once I could catch my breath, I whispered, “Why did you think I’m seeing someone?”
He swallowed and tightened his jaw. “Grace saw you yesterday. In the lecture hall. She thought you were kissing some guy. She said he mentioned… something about Quebec.”
“Oh,” I said, the breath leaving me in a different way. “God. That was Henri.”
He frowned.
“He’s a colleague. He was at the gala, and yes, one of the academics at the conference in Quebec. He’s been… persistent. Far too handsy. I’ve been trying to be polite about it because we work together, but I’ve told him no.”
“Polite?” Max’s voice went from shocked to dangerous.
“Emma, that guy doesn’t need polite. He needs a very clear ‘back off.’ You don’t owe him any courtesy when he’s crossed a line.
Or I can come down there and set the record straight myself.
But I promise you it won’t be polite or subtle.
” His eyes burned, but I could tell he was waiting for me to say something.
I grabbed his shirt again and pulled him closer, not to kiss him this time, but to keep that bristling impulse still. “No, I’ll deal with it. He’s my colleague. That makes it complicated, but it doesn’t make it impossible. He’ll get the message from me.”
Max’s jaw tightened and relaxed, the fight in him looking for a way out. At last, he nodded. When he spoke again, his voice was lower and the roughness had turned into something calmer. “Emma, it’s time you go on a date with me.”
I looked up at him, still a bit out of breath, still afraid to say yes.
He didn’t flinch. “Go on a date with me,” he repeated, this time softer, almost pleading. “I know you think you shouldn’t start something because you might move. I get it. Hell, I’m scared as well. But I would be gutted if we don’t at least explore where this could go. It already feels so good.”
I didn’t say anything.
My head was spinning with a dozen thoughts at once – be careful, don’t get hurt, don’t mess this up.
I could hear myself saying, ‘Starting something now will only hurt you.’ But there he stood, eyes steady, waiting, not demanding, just waiting.
And the air felt different because of the way he’d said it, confident and soft.
It made me stop second-guessing everything for once.
I wanted to be careful. I wanted to be smart.
But mostly, I just wanted him.
So I stared at him, swallowed, and nodded. “Okay.”
He smiled so big that I couldn’t help smiling back. Then he looked down, properly taking me in – the bathrobe, hanging dangerously loose; damp hair.
“You know, baby,” he said, the corner of his mouth tipping wickedly, “you really shouldn’t be opening doors in just a bathrobe. You look ridiculously hot like that. Someone might take advantage.”
I laughed, half flustered, half exasperated. “Max.”
“All right, all right.” He took a step back, though his hand stayed on my hip like it hadn’t quite got the message. “I’ll let you get dressed. I’ve got practice anyway. I’ll text you the details.”
He leaned in like he was going to kiss me again, and every cell in my body rose to meet him. But he didn’t. His hand came up instead, fingers pushing my hair back from my face. His thumb traced my cheekbone once, slow and careful – and somehow more intense than the kiss.
Then he left and I stayed where I was, trying to calm my breathing and slow down my heart. The truth was, I’d known for a while now I didn’t want to keep saying no to him. And today I finally admitted it.