Chapter 37
Chapter thirty-seven
Emma
The workweek passed in a blur of stolen glances and shared coffee runs.
Jennifer's plan was working.
Every day, Damien found a reason to stop by my office—
a question about the Henderson proposal,
a follow-up on the quarterly projections,
a document that absolutely could have been emailed but, somehow, required hand delivery.
And every day, I found myself drifting toward his office for the same invented necessities.
We ate lunch together in the café—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.
Same table. Same chicken Caesar salad.
Tessa joined us twice, her sharp gaze tracking the way Damien's hand brushed mine when he passed the salt, the way I leaned in when he spoke—
the quiet gravity pulling us closer before either of us noticed.
But she did.
Said nothing.
The smile she hid behind her juice bottle saying plenty.
By Friday, the whispers had started.
Not loud. Not malicious.
Did you see them at lunch again?
He never used to eat in the café.
She laughed at something he said and his whole face lit up.
I'd heard that last one in the bathroom—two women talking quietly, but not quite quietly enough.
I'd stayed in the stall an extra thirty seconds, hand over my mouth, just to keep from laughing.
It felt like dating him for the first time all over again.
Except this time, we didn't have to hide.
The weekend slipped past in fragments—Candace check-ins, Sebastian updates, and my miserable attempt at the mandatory one-hour relaxation Damien insisted I needed.
And the result of my failure?
I was tired.
Bone-tired.
And god, I wanted Damien. Just him. Just us.
But that wasn't in the cards today.
Because today was Sunday, the day that belonged to carbs and a woman named Rosie.
Damien leaned against the doorway in dark jeans and a Nothing More T-shirt—soft, worn, unfairly attractive. His favorite band. Now mine too.
"You look great."
"Thanks," I mumbled, swiping on a burgundy lipstick.
Damien had laid out a sweet little sweater dress—one I'd felt awkward in at first, until his gaze traced up and down my body so many times it burned confidence into my skin.
It paired perfectly with the collar resting in the hollow of my throat.
I barely noticed it anymore.
Forgot it was there.
Until his teeth caught on the chain when he kissed my neck…
Or the chain pressed into my skin when his hand tightened around my throat.
He appeared behind me in the mirror, hands sliding around my waist and squeezing the soft flesh there.
"You really are beautiful."
His voice was warm, velvet-soft, as he pressed slow kisses up the curve of my neck to my ear, tugging the lobe gently between his teeth.
"Stop," I scolded—weakly, hopelessly. "If you keep going, we'll be late."
"It's only my mom," he said, nipping again. "She'll understand."
I twisted in his arms, facing him.
"New rule. No bringing up your mom when you're trying to do—" I waved vaguely at him, at my neck. "Whatever that is."
His brows shot sky-high. "You seem to have forgotten how this works."
My heart skipped—but I challenged him anyway. Held his gaze.
His expression darkened, fire sparking in his eyes.
Before I could blink, he spun me around and bent me over.
A sharp smack cracked against my backside, the sound ricocheting off the bathroom tiles.
"Ow!" I yelped, rubbing my ass dramatically.
It hadn't been hard—not even close to the type of hit I'd begged for before.
But I was fully committed to the theatrics.
His large hand covered mine, increasing the pressure as he pressed slow, claiming kisses up the center of my back.
"New rule," he whispered against my ear. "You don't give me rules anymore."
He punctuated the command with a firm squeeze.
I yelped—more delighted than offended—my smile curving despite my best efforts to scowl.
"Daily check-ins, mandatory rest time, three square meals, sleeping in the bed instead of the couch, immediate communication?" I made a face at him in the mirror. "And now this? You're practically a dictator."
He threw his head back and laughed, Adam's apple dancing beneath his short scruff.
"You have no idea how intense this stuff can get, love." He shook his head, amusement softening his expression. "Right now I'm practically not even a Dom."
A rare dimple appeared.
"Honestly, I'm more of a babysitter."
I spun, smacking him in the chest. "How dare you."
He made a show of rubbing it, a grin curving his lips. "New rule—no hitting the Dom."
"So you can hit me and I can't hit you?"
"Listen," he lifted both hands, all faux innocence, "we can stop the spanking if you want."
I glanced down at my toes, grumbling. "No, it's fine."
"That's what I thought."
He kissed my forehead.
"Now tell me all your rules again."
"You can't be serious." I shifted my weight onto one hip.
He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms across his broad chest. "Serious as a heart attack."
I sighed dramatically.
"Fine. Check-ins. Rest. Meals. Sleep. Communication…"
I paused.
He leaned forward, cupping his ear. "Go on."
"No setting rules," I muttered.
"And?" he said, enjoying this far too much.
"And no hitting."
I stomped my foot like a toddler mid-tantrum.
He reached for me, tilted my chin up, warmth softening the edges of his smile.
"That's my girl. Now tell me I'm a good babysitter."
"Fuck you," I snapped.
He lifted one finger. "New rule—"
I launched my hairbrush at him. It hit square in the chest with a satisfying thud.
He blinked, then lifted a second finger.
"Second new rule—"
Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of Damien's car with five new rules and a pissy attitude.
He, of course, looked smug as sin.
Rosie's house came into view—her cute little brick home with the white shutters and the flower boxes she tended like beloved grandchildren. The front garden was perfectly manicured, overflowing with summer blooms.
Damien parked at the curb, cutting the engine.
He looked over at me, biting back a smile.
"Better?" he asked.
"No," I grumbled, sinking into my seat.
He reached across the console, fingertips brushing the inside of my knee.
A shiver chased up my spine despite myself.
"Behave. My mother will be watching."
I shot him a look. "Then maybe stop giving me rules."
"Nope," he said, leaning in just enough to ghost his lips across my cheek. "It's kinda my job."
I shoved the car door open before I could smack him.
Three handprints on my ass were already plenty.
Wind chimes tinkled again as I stepped onto the small stone path, the scent of lavender drifting up from Rosie's garden.
Damien locked the car and came up beside me, brushing his hand lightly against my back.
Noise met us before the door did—loud, animated, unmistakably Holt.
Sebastian and Rosie were in a full-blown shouting match over something on the TV, their voices overlapping in chaotic Italian-laced English.
"No, Sebastian, you don't put that much garlic—your uncle would roll in his grave!"
"Ma, everyone likes garlic!"
A bang of a pot lid.
A dramatic groan.
Something sizzling in a very unhappy pan.
My stomach growled in response.
Damien huffed a laugh beside me. "Told you not to eat that sad little protein bar before we left."
I elbowed him lightly. "You said we'd be here an hour ago."
He shrugged, unapologetic.
For the past three days he'd been talking about Rosie's cooking with religious devotion.
True Italian this.
Meatballs that.
Chicken cutlets to die for.
Her Bolognese could stop wars.
At some point he'd turned into a Dr. Seuss character.
Red fish.
Blue fish.
Garlic in every dish.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as he reached for the front door.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
The door swung open before either of us could knock.
Rosie stood there—
all five-foot-nothing of her, thin arms, warm olive skin, eyes wrinkled in the soft places and blazing in the sharp ones. Short dark hair styled with enough hairspray to disintegrate the ozone. Apron tied tight. Wooden spoon brandished like a weapon.
Delight and fire.
That was Rosie Holt.
"Finally!" she scolded. "You're late! Also Sebastian ruined the sauce again!"
Behind her, Sebastian popped his head out of the kitchen doorway.
"I did not ruin it—she's lying!"
"Get inside!" Rosie demanded. "Both of you."
Her eyes snapped to me.
"And take off your shoes, Emma. The floor's clean—I just mopped."
I stepped inside, the smell of tomatoes and garlic wrapping around me like a heated blanket.
"Yes ma'am." I slipped them off quickly, following her into the living room.
Rosie's house was… exactly what I'd imagined.
Doilies.
Everywhere.
Crocheted ones on the end tables. On the arms of the couch. Under the houseplants. One balancing precariously on a lamp I was ninety percent sure was a fire hazard. A ceramic Virgin Mary watched over the living room from the top shelf beside dozens of people I'd never met.
And there—already perched on the floral couch like she'd been placed there by a museum curator—was Candace.
Wearing a sleek, semi-formal plum satin dress that hugged her shoulders and caught the warm lamplight like she was attending a gala—not Sunday dinner in a house decorated entirely in lace doilies and Catholic guilt.
Her ankles were crossed too tightly.
Her hands folded neatly in her lap.
She looked like a ballerina dropped into a Hallmark movie set.
And right beside her—like the universe's idea of a punchline—sat Sebastian.
In plaid pajama pants, hoodie, and a knee-high medical boot.
His hair was a chaotic storm, sticking out in directions that defied physics.
A five-o'clock shadow darkened his jaw.
He looked like he'd either just rolled out of bed or fought someone in the street.
Possibly both.
"Emma," Candace breathed when she saw me, relief softening the too-tight edges around her mouth.
Sebastian gave me a lazy little salute from the couch.
"Hey, Sinclair. You made it. I told Rosie you wouldn't bail."
Rosie's voice bellowed from the kitchen, "Sebastian! Stop lying to people!"
"See what I live with?" he groaned.
Candace looked at him, then at me, as if silently pleading:
How is this my life right now?
I sent her a tiny, reassuring smile and moved toward the couch.
"You two look… comfortable," I offered delicately.
Sebastian grinned. "Well, one of us does."
Candace muttered, "I should've brought a cardigan."
He elbowed her lightly. "Relax, Candy Cane. It's Rosie's house. She's legally required to love you."
Rosie appeared behind us, her wooden spoon in hand and a smile on her face.
Damien laughed beside me. "What did you just call her?"
Sebastian's face turned red. "Nothing!"
I sat beside Candace, letting my shoulder brush hers. "You okay?"
She nodded—too fast, too practiced.
"Much better."
I'd checked on her every day since that night—dinners, movies, quiet company.
She'd said the same words every time.
On the other side of her, Sebastian tipped his head back against the cushions, closing his eyes.
"I'm hungry," he whined dramatically.
"Shut up!" Rosie hollered from the kitchen.
And then, even louder—
"GIRLS!"
Candace and I froze.
Then I turned to Damien. He didn't even bother hiding the smirk pulling at his mouth.
"You better go," he warned. "She isn't playing around."
Candace and I scrambled to our feet like schoolchildren summoned by the principal.
The moment we crossed into the kitchen—
Wham.
A wall of scent hit me so hard I blinked back tears.
Garlic. Basil. Tomatoes simmered down in a large pan.
And then—
The decor.
Jesus Christ.
The wallpaper was floral.
The curtains were floral.
The tablecloth was floral.
The rug was floral.
Even the ceramic salt shaker—shaped like a plump Italian grandmother—was wearing a floral dress.
I struggled to take it all in.
Patterns collided in every direction, fighting for dominance.
Rosie didn't look up from the stove as she barked, "Aprons. On hooks. I don't want you ruining those pretty dresses—"
"Yes, ma'am," we echoed, already moving.
We tied the aprons around our waists.
Rosie was waiting when I looked up, two spoons in hand.
She dipped them into the sauce and held them out to us.
"Taste."
Not a request—a command delivered in marinara.
I took the spoon and the moment the sauce hit my tongue, my soul separated from my body.
Oh.
Oh, god.
It was rich, silky, perfectly balanced. Tomatoes singing. Basil warm and bright. A depth I didn't know sauce could have. My knees nearly gave out. I actually saw a light.
"I think I just ascended," I moaned.
Next to me, Candace tipped her head back, expression borderline obscene.
A soft, involuntary moan escaped her as well.
Rosie's face split into the most satisfied grin I'd ever seen.
"Good," she declared, pleased as a queen surveying her empire. "You two can stay."
From the living room, Sebastian yelled, "I TOLD YOU IT WAS GOOD!"
"Shut up, you ruined the first batch!" Rosie snapped back.
He gasped in offense. "That is a lie!"
And for the first time since Candace had collapsed on her apartment floor, I saw light spark in her eyes.