Chapter 19
Friday traffic, fed-up driver, fans waiting.
The car lurched forward, then slammed to a halt. Emma’s hand shot out, bracing against the seat in front of her.
“Could you maybe just go a little bit faster?” she asked, polite but strained, her voice pitched an octave too high.
The driver gave her a murderous look in the rearview mirror, muttering something in Spanish. She caught loca, and something she was pretty sure translated to “ass.”
Darren leaned back against the seat, his mouth twitching. He seemed remarkably at ease, given that the cramped backseat was hardly designed for someone his height. “Emma,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s the fifth time you’ve asked. And we’re standing at a red light.”
“Yeah, well, I meant . . . after,” she said, gesturing vaguely.
He chuckled. “You’ve done all you can. Hell, you risked both of our lives to get there on time. Now it’s up to the traffic gods. Not even you can take on those.”
“This is the smallest Uber I’ve ever been in,” she grumbled. “He could probably sneak past the line if he really tried, like a scooter.”
Darren gave her a mildly reproachful look. “It’s out of your hands, Emma. Try to relax.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one supposed to be charming a room full of strangers in—” She checked her phone, groaning. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Which you’ll manage just fine,” Darren said. “But you won’t get there any faster by wrecking your Uber rating. No signing in the world is worth that.”
She sniffed. “I’ll have you know I’m a solid 4.9, thank you very much.”
“Not for long if you keep this up.” Darren tilted his head. “Let’s talk about something else. How did you and Leah meet?”
Emma let out a quiet breath. He was trying to distract her. But he did have a point: there was not much else she could do right now.
She forced her shoulders back against the seat, trying to borrow some of his calm. The warmth of his thigh, just inches from hers in the small, stuffy car, hardly helped her relax.
“I didn’t have an agent when I sent in The Bonds of Light to publishers,” she said. “I went the slush-pile route.”
“Seriously? That was a ballsy move.”
“More like naive. But when the publisher picked it up, they sort of matched me with Leah. Said we’d be a good fit.”
“Sounds like they were right.”
“Yeah. Leah has four little sisters, so she’s fiercely protective by nature. When she started her own PR firm, she decided to focus on women writers. She says we too often need someone willing to go to bat for us.”
“You two seem to have a very close relationship.”
A warm smile touched Emma’s lips. “She’s very selective with her clients. She takes on only a few of us, but she does it wholeheartedly. I’ve only known her since January, but our first meeting was basically a love-at-first-sight meet-cute.”
The car slowed down, and Emma’s head turned instinctively toward the window.
Darren put a hand on her knee, pulling her attention back. The casual touch caught her off guard, her eyes widening. He looked back at her with quiet steadiness.
“Not there yet, Emma,” he said. “Tell me about the meet-cute.”
She blinked a few times, trying to remember what they had been talking about. Darren’s hand stayed on her knee.
“Uh, it was back in January,” Emma said.
“Right before the book was coming out. We met at a café. I was early. And nervous. When Leah showed, wearing a blazer with shoulders that would have intimidated Lady Gaga, I stood too quickly and bumped the table. Tipped over my hazelnut mocaccino, so it drenched my laptop. Had to get a new one.”
“Probably the hazelnut syrup that did it in,” Darren said with mock gravity. “Tragic casualty of your terrible taste in coffee.”
Emma shot him a glare.
“Any-way. Leah said later that she had decided on the spot that she wanted to take me on.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Well, she also said it was because I was the most helpless little ball of a writer that she’d ever encountered, so it wasn’t all Hallmarky.”
She’d expected a laugh at that, but Darren just gave her a small, unreadable smile. His hand settled a fraction heavier, anchoring her there.
“So yeah,” she concluded. “That’s our origin story. I still don’t have a regular book agent—Leah kind of fills that role, too. Sometimes I think she sees me as her honorary fifth little sister.”
Darren glanced out of the window. The car was at a standstill again. “Do you have any siblings of your own?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Only child. You?”
“A sister and a brother.”
“What do they do?” Emma asked. “Oh wait, they’re—”
“Doctors,” Darren filled in with a grin. “Yeah. I’m the clichéd, attention-seeking middle child.”
The car started moving again. Emma looked out at the street, trying to get her bearings.
Her fingers toyed with the hem of Darren’s T-shirt.
“Well,” she said, her mind focused on tracking the buildings sliding past. “I’m not one to tease about clichés.
I’m a single female romance writer who has two cats and drinks wine in the bathtub.
” She caught herself, embarrassment flaring. “I mean . . . occasionally.”
He leaned back, amusement tugging at his lips. “Occasionally, huh?”
She hummed noncommittally. “Occupational hazard.”
Darren’s laugh rumbled low beside her, and she hated—loved—how it softened the mortification into something almost endearing.
His phone buzzed sharply, breaking the moment. He pulled his hand from her knee to fish it out, a small crease forming between his brows. “Sorry, it’s Max. I’ve just got to . . .”
“Sure,” Emma said a little too quickly. Her skin felt warm under her jeans where his hand had rested.
His hoodie sleeve brushed her arm as he typed, his thigh still pressed against hers, and for a moment, she didn’t mind the slow crawl of traffic.