5. Emma #2
By the time our order is ready, there are a couple of paparazzi waiting outside. I’m thinking we’re going to go back to set, or eat in the car, but he takes a seat by the far window, leaving me no choice but to follow.
We eat in silence for the first five minutes.
I pick at my muffin, still confused as to how this man knows such details about me.
He seems to be in his own world, probably counting the minutes until he can get rid of me and ride into the sunset with the cashier.
Not that I care what he does after this.
I don’t want to be the first to budge, but I have to know.
“How?” is all I say.
He grins, satisfied that I broke.
“I heard you order one the day before the wedding.”
“And you memorized it? That’s not weird at all.”
He shrugs, not even slightly embarrassed.
“I pay attention to things that matter.”
Nope. We’re not acknowledging that. I return my focus to my muffin while he finishes his food. This new dynamic he has going on is making me uneasy. It’s so far from our usual hatred that I don’t know how to feel about it.
Once in the comfort of his car, with his attention focused on the road, I pull out my notebook to write down the loose thoughts in my mind. I’m hoping at some point it all comes together and starts making some sense.
“Get in that death trap you call a vehicle and follow me.”
I groan loudly.
It’s almost four. We’re back on set. He’s parked right next to my Jeep and has come around to open the door for me.
“I thought we were done.”
“Just about. I have one more thing I want to show you.”
I’m tired. I want to get home. And I know he won’t let me out of his car until I agree.
“Fine.”
He steps aside and waits until I’m buckled in and ready to go before he starts his car. I wonder what would happen if I ditched him at the first light. I’m tempted. But I have a feeling he would still find me.
The drive takes about fifteen minutes, winding up into the Hollywood Hills. The higher we go, the more anxious I get. I’m about to back out when he stops in front of a gate, opens it, and turns into a driveway carved straight into the hillside.
The house is gorgeous. A luxury villa with sharp straight lines, flat roofs, and enormous glass panels that reflect the outside. Light-colored concrete with dark framing stretching wide across the hill like it grew out of it itself.
“Seriously?” I hiss. If I could slam my car door, I would. Too bad they’re sitting in my living room. “This was what I needed to see? Your house?”
“Insight no one has ever had before.”
“On what? Your arrogance?”
He laughs, opening up the front door.
“You have a strange way of saying you like it,” he replies, reaching for my hand. I tuck it behind my back faster than humanly possible.
He rolls his eyes. “Come, I’ll give you a tour.”
The inside is… lived in. I almost expected it to look like a hotel, sterile and robotic. Instead, it’s warm. There are framed photos everywhere. He and his mom in New York, he and Josh at some baseball game, and a blurry childhood picture where he’s missing a front tooth.
Plants stand out against the neutral walls, bringing color into the space. It smells clean, but not artificially. Like him.
The main floor opens into one large space: a kitchen with marble countertops, a white center island that could host an entire football team, and a wooden dining room table.
Across from it, an even bigger couch facing the TV.
Floor-to-ceiling glass doors open to a balcony overlooking the hills, the city stretching far below like it belongs to him.
“What a waste of a kitchen for someone who’s never made anything other than a grilled cheese,” I say, trying desperately to get him into that bickering momentum I’m so good at.
“Speak for yourself,” Matt answers. “Take notes: Matt Hunt can cook you a five-course meal any day.”
“I doubt that,” I mumble.
“I’d be happy to show you. Pick the date.”
I roll my eyes and turn away from his, once again choosing to ignore his words and the effect they’re having on me.
“You’re not writing anything down,” he whispers, coming up behind me.
“Nothing interesting enough yet to do so,” I answer, turning to him. “And my personal thoughts I’m keeping to myself, like professionals should.”
“That’s no fun,” he argues with a pout. “Maybe you’ll find the rest more… juicy.”
His hand comes down to my lower back and guides me deeper into the house through a long hallway. There’s a guest room and a guest bathroom, both bigger than anywhere I’ve ever stayed. At the very end, a closed door.
“Is this—”
“My bedroom,” he interrupts.
I want to argue I feel like I’m invading his privacy, even though he seems to be loving every second of it. But my urge to snoop is so strong my curiosity wins. I keep my lips sealed as he opens the door.
It’s stunning. Really. If I could afford a house like this, I’d want it designed by the same person who did this one.
The California king bed sits flush against the back wall, framed by dark wood, with a headboard of the same material. Five wooden beams cut through the cream-colored ceiling.
I can see the start of a walk-in closet, but I resist the urge to approach it, too scared the intensity of his scent trapped in one space is going to make me lose my mind.
The en-suite bathroom is modern, perfectly clean and tidy. There’s a shower and a bath. I scoff. Rich people and their passion for unnecessary things.
And yet, despite how hard I’ve been trying not to gawk, it all goes down the drain when I take in what sits on the wall opposite the bed.
Books.
A whole bookshelf built into the wall, almost completely full. I run my hand along the spines, some of them so old they still have that leather feel to them. There’s history, crime, thrillers… some in Spanish, others in Latin and French.
I’m about to tease him and ask him how long it took him to stage this when my eyes drop to the armchair in the corner, next to a small stand holding an open book with reading glasses on top.
Say something snarky. Restore normalcy, I think to myself but come up blank.
He must sense my distress.
“Do you want to try it out?” he says, nodding toward his bed.
A giggle traitorously escapes my lips.
“Jesus, Matt. Give me a break.”
He doesn’t try to hide his amusement, laughing, full and unfiltered.
“Fine, let’s keep moving.”
We trace our steps back into the main area and then down a set of stairs to the bottom floor. To the right, a home cinema. Equipped with the best of the best, or so he says. A place to recharge his self-adoration whenever he’s in need, I add.
On the other end, a small gym, with more glass-panel windows opening up to the massive garden and vanishing-edge pool that blends into the hillside.
The sound of his belt buckle being undone snaps my eyes back to him. My stare drops to where his fingers are unbuttoning his pants.
“Matt,” I warn.
“Emma,” he says, moving to the zipper.
I turn around to face away from him.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“Thought so.”
His pants drop with a soft thud, followed by some shuffling.
“You can look now.”
I take a deep breath before facing him. He’s changed into shorts and has decided to discard his shirt entirely.
It’s not fair.
How this man is built like a warrior despite having never fought a battle in his life.
“You’re staring.”
I am. I’m trying not to, but I am.
“Just wondering what you need all those muscles for. Wouldn’t it be more practical to be quick on your feet? You know, for escaping all those one-night stands before morning?”
“I’m faster than you think.”
“Not faster than me.”
“Is that a challenge?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I’m wearing work pants, a blouse, and heels. It’s hardly a fair fight, and yet something in me tells me I’d win either way.
I take my shoes off and drop my purse.
“Let’s go.”
We line up outside, crouched down as if we were about to compete for Olympic gold.
“If I win, I never have to see you again after this is over,” I say.
“Fine. But if I win… I get a kiss.”
He must not know how competitive I am because that gives me the extra boost I needed. I never back down from a bet.
“First to the fence wins. On three?” I ask.
He nods.
“One… Two… Three…”
I sprint faster than I have in years, and even with his strides being much longer than mine, he can’t seem to keep up.
I’m almost to the fence when he dives toward me. His hands reach my waist, bringing me down with him. We tumble on the grass, coming to a stop with him completely on top of me.
It wasn’t a hard fall, and I’m not hurt, but I still want to be mad. He knew I was going to win and he cheated.
Except when I open my eyes, I meet his blue ones already staring at me, dark with some emotion I can’t pin down. His hair is disheveled, and I have the urge to raise my hand and mess it up even more.
That’s when I realize my palm is sitting firmly on his chest.
“How are you this fast?”
“You seem surprised.”
His mouth is hovering inches away from mine, reminding me he’s stolen the win from me.
“You’re making me feel that way a lot lately,” he whispers.
“That’s because you don’t know me.” I push him off and he goes without resisting.
I get up and dust off my clothes.
“It was weird you knew my coffee order, but it’s even creepier you wanted to kiss me badly enough to cheat.”
I expect another comeback, but I’m met with silence instead. The close contact has my skin itching (although I try to fool myself into believing it’s the grass).
So, I walk away, his eyes still holding that unreadable expression as I leave him lying there behind me.