Chapter 16
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Emma
What the hell was I thinking?
Inviting him into my home days after he’d wrecked me.
His breath stayed shallow beside me as the elevator climbed—floor by floor—carrying us closer to my world. My space. The weight of that landed harder now than when the invitation had slipped out. My pulse hadn’t leveled once. Suddenly the idea of hiring a housekeeper didn’t sound that ridiculous.
“This is it.” The doors slid open, revealing my apartment in its most honest light. Pillows askew on the couch. Shoes left beside the elevator. I nudged one aside with my foot, sliding it under a coat that had fallen from its perch.
His attention moved through the room—over my grandmother’s lamp, the worn leather sofa, the bookcases swallowing the far wall, the dark florals and moody edges that made the space feel more like a cocoon than an apartment.
A breath of laughter escaped him. “Now this—” He shook his head. “This is what I expected.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Of course.” His smile deepened. “You’re—unique, interesting. Not one of those sterile gray-box people. This”—he motioned around the room—”is you.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “Thanks,” I managed—too tight, too aware of him, too aware of everything.
We stepped farther inside. The faint rush of Candace’s shower carried down the hallway.
“Give me one minute,” I said, lifting a finger and peeling away.
I knocked lightly and poked my head in. Candace was already under the spray, hands lifting above the curtain as she worked shampoo through her hair.
“So—”
She yelped like I’d fired a warning shot.
“Sorry!” I winced. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to tell you…” I braced. “I invited Damien up.”
Her head popped out, shampoo still foaming. “No.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened. “What the hell are we supposed to do with him?”
I shrugged helplessly. “Haven’t workshopped that far. He came all this way. Hospitality felt… polite.”
Candace squinted—then grinned, wicked and gleeful. “You dirty, slutty liar.”
“Candace.”
“You are!” She laughed, ducking back under the water. “You didn’t invite him up for hospitality. You invited him up because he’s a total smoke show.”
I shut the door on her cackle and exhaled.
Back in the hallway, a new scent threaded through the vanilla and jasmine of my space—leather and citrus, unmistakably Damien. It rewired the room around him, subtle and intrusive at the same time.
He’d stayed in the living room, still and watching, his focus tracing the small things:
The shelves I needed a stool to reach.
The throw blanket Candace kept threatening to “accidentally” burn.
The vase I kept meaning to replace.
All of it reflected in his face like he was mapping me through the things I chose to keep.
I slipped off my shoes by the door. He tracked the motion.
Then he let out a genuine laugh. A dimple popping in his right cheek.
“You’re not a weird feet guy, are you?” I asked, raising a brow.
“No.” He ran a hand through his hair, flushing faint. “But I feel like a Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.”
I snorted, wiggling my toes against the cool floor. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. “Lemonade, tea, wine, water?”
“Tea would be great.”
“Green, white, black?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“Green then.” I padded toward the kitchen, each step an undignified little duck-flap. “Lemon or no lemon?”
“Lemon, please.”
He settled onto a barstool like it was the most natural thing in the world. But nothing about Damien Holt in my kitchen felt remotely natural.
I grabbed the teapot, grateful for something to do. Water hissed into the kettle. Loose leaves rattled into the strainer, a few floating stubbornly before sinking under the heat. The scent of citrus and toasted grass curled upward, smoothing the air between us.
“You never got to eat lunch, did you?” Damien asked suddenly.
My stomach answered for me, loud and mortifying.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” His grin spread, open and disarming. “Want me to order a pizza? I know a great family-owned place.”
“Sure,” I managed, spoon stilling. “Candace and I usually split a cheese.”
He pulled out his phone. “Lucio!”
A muffled voice answered.
“I’m doing well.” He tucked the phone against his ear. “I’d like to place an order for delivery. Large cheese and a medium Sicilian. Put it on my tab.”
A pause.
Then he rattled off my address from memory.
My shoulders crept up, then eased. He was Damien Holt—his brain probably operated like a spreadsheet on legs. And besides… Read would’ve remembered.
“It’ll be here in thirty minutes or less.” He tucked his phone away.
A laugh slipped free. “Remember when pizza places actually promised that?”
“Oh, yeah. If they were late, it was free. Sebastian and I used to time it, hoping they’d miss.”
“Candace and I did that, too.” I relaxed, just a fraction.
“Talking shit about me already?” Candace called as she rounded the corner, towel-wrapped hair dripping onto her tank top.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Damien said.
“I could,” I added, earning her snort.
She dropped onto the stool beside him, flicking a bead of water that landed on his T-shirt. The thin cotton molded to his chest—dark jeans, a white tee, hair pushed back in that unfairly effortless way—and seeing him like that, here of all places, knocked something loose in my ribs.
Candace had been right. He was a full-blown smoke show.
The kettle screamed. I turned back to the stove and poured three cups of tea. A tiny spray of lemon shot into my eyes as I squeezed juice into the cups. I wiped it away, eyes watering.
Candace swiveled toward him, elbows on the counter. “So, Damien—mind telling me what the actual fuck you were thinking?”
Color drained from his face, but he didn’t flinch. His gaze flicked to mine—hoping for backup. I gave none.
“I’m a dick.” Simple. Unvarnished. “A selfish prick. I tricked her—made her believe I was someone else.” His voice dipped. “But I didn’t lie about what mattered. Everything we talked about—the late nights, the stories, the thoughts—was real. But I did lie by omission.”
Something familiar rose in my chest, sharp and old.
Candace crossed her arms. “And?”
He braced. “And I made her cry. Hurt her. Broke her trust.”
He looked at me. “And I regret every second of the pain it caused. I wish I could take it back. I hated seeing you hurt. But,” he continued, voice dropping, “I don’t regret reaching out.
I don’t regret the connection we built. Not one word.
And if making you believe I was someone else gave us that—then I’ll take every hit you need to throw. All of it.”
Candace’s eyes darted between us, tension humming through the room. Then she exhaled. “That’s… actually pretty romantic.”
I shot her a look. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain.”
She studied him again—less suspicion now, more reluctant curiosity. “And you did save us from a mugging today.”
He laughed. “That’s generous.”
“Fine,” she amended. “You gave us a ride after the mugging.”
“That I’ll accept.”
Their laughter mingled, the tension finally easing its grip.
Then Damien’s phone buzzed. “Pizza’s here,” he said.
Candace perked. “Pizza?”
“Large cheese,” I reminded her.
“Perfect.”
Damien stood, stretching to his full height. “I’ll go grab it.” He paused. “Except… I don’t know your elevator code.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said, sliding into my slippers.
Candace’s jaw dropped—loaded with questions—but we slipped out before she could launch any.
The elevator chimed as we stepped inside, closing on the warmth of tea and cologne.
He shifted on his feet. “I’m still surprised you asked me up.”
“I am, too,” I admitted. “I’m still pissed. And hurt.”
“I know.” His voice stayed low, steady.
I nudged his elbow. “The pizza’s a good start.”
He blinked—almost startled. “Start?”
“Start,” I repeated. “We’ll see where it goes from there.”