7. Emma
SEVEN
Emma
If someone had told me months ago that I’d be sitting at my living room table, with a fully fleshed-out article about the truth behind Matt Hunt, I would’ve believed them. What I wouldn’t have believed—what I would’ve laughed at—is my document holds nothing but questions.
Which is exactly why I’ve been cursing at my laptop the entire morning until Kate joined me on a video call from the office. She’s already been updated on the situation, and like everyone else except me, seems to be delighted.
“Don’t kill me,” she says, already making me groan. “After you took the assignment, I took a look at the pictures from the wedding.”
“Yeah, and…”
“And were you not gonna tell me this man is into you?”
Her face holds the kind of ‘duh’ expression that makes me want to hang up.
“Clearly no one around me has ever had to deal with a nemesis,” I mumble.
“He only has eyes for you. In. Every. Single. Photo.”
“Planning my demise, I bet.”
“Sure, we’ll go with that for the sake of your sanity.” She laughs.
I have enough trouble questioning his actions myself without the need of extra encouragement.
I’ve been trying to stay firm on my hatred toward him, but it’s been getting harder with each exchange because he’s been nothing like his usual self.
And without proof he’s faking it, I don’t have a leg to stand on.
“All we’ve ever done is bicker. And now he won’t even take my bait. He’s decided he’s going to annoy me by flirting instead.”
“Have you stopped to consider he might be for real?”
“No, I haven’t.” I refuse.
My phone starts ringing.
“It’s him,” I tell her.
“Well, I guess we’re about to find out,” Kate answers. “Text me later!”
Even with our video call ended, I let him go to voicemail.
What’s up?
I’ve not heard anything from him all morning. I almost thought maybe he wasn’t going to make it. My writing hasn’t benefited from it, but at least my sanity has.
He reads my message and calls me again. I curse under my breath.
“Do you need to be reminded of the text feature you couldn’t seem to resist last night?”
“I prefer calling when I have the chance.”
“Why on earth would that be better?”
“Because I get to hear your voice.”
Nope. Not engaging with that one either.
“Ahh. You wanted a front-row seat to my disappointment when you told me your ‘outing’ has fallen through.”
“You wish. I’ve cleared my schedule for the rest of the day. Send me your address, I’ll pick you up.”
“I can meet you there.”
“My outing, my rules,” he insists. “And honey—”
“Emma’s fine.”
“Wear your overalls.”
Thirty minutes later, he’s at my front door in a plain navy tee and washed-out jeans. There’s a small part of my brain that lights up with excitement for the adventure. Very concerning.
And I’m… I’m wearing my overalls, with my little notebook and pen stuffed in the front pocket, itching for the next layer of Matt Hunt I’m about to uncover.
“How many cars do you have?” I ask when he opens the passenger door of a blacked-out SUV. When I first saw it, I fully expected there to be a chauffeur inside, but Matt hops into the driver's seat ready to take on traffic himself.
“Just the two,” he answers. “I normally drive the other one, unless I’m trying to keep a low profile, and then I’ll take this baby out for a ride.”
I take out my notebook and pretend I’m writing. I’m hoping it annoys him enough to go back to hating me. Plus, it keeps me from staring at him.
“Out of everything you could’ve found interesting about me, you landed on the number of vehicles I have?” He laughs.
“You don’t even know what I’m writing, Matthew.”
He looks over, but I press the paper against my chest.
“Ohh, wrong move baiting me like that. I have no problem getting physical,” he teases with a wink. “It might backfire if you tempt me enough.”
I’m left speechless yet again. I can’t flirt. Not with him. And not without embarrassing myself.
He sneaks a look at me, sitting in silence and decides to cut me some slack.
“Relax. We’re almost there,” he reassures. “It’s nothing fancy. You might even enjoy the peace.”
A couple of minutes later we’re parking on the side of the road in front of a supermarket.
“Please tell me you’re not planning on making a five-course meal at home,” I groan, dreading the intimacy that would come with that situation.
“As much as I would love to prove you wrong,” he says, coming around to open my door for me, “whenever I cook for you, it’ll be because you asked me to.”
“Phew. Glad to know that’s never happening.”
He smirks, his eyebrow raised. I can tell he’s got his answer ready, but for once he swallows it back down.
And it has the opposite effect of what I wanted.
Because instead of satisfied, now I’m craving his thoughts even more. Which is new, and leaves me feeling like I’m slowly losing control of the narrative—and my feelings.
Matt takes my hand in his, but I’m too busy analyzing my internal reaction to realize we’re moving until he stops us in front of a hole-in-the-wall bookshop.
Out front, there’s only one window, with the name ‘Dog-Eared Bookshop’ in golden letters across it. To the right, a small wooden door.
I frown. Next to me, Matt seems like he’s ready to jump out of his skin with excitement. Is he a book nerd? That’s not part of his brand.
“Let’s go!”
He pulls us inside, the bell on top of the door immediately alerting everyone of our arrival. An old couple appears from the back, and Matt moves to greet them.
I hover in the doorway for a couple of seconds, taking in the smell: old book pages, worn leather, and fresh coffee. It’s bigger than I expected, and somehow also full to the brim.
To my left, there are six rows, stretching front and back to the edge of the shop, lined with books of all kinds. To my right, in the small corner by the door, there’s a stand with current bestsellers.
And right ahead, from where Matt’s currently gesturing at me, a little café is set up.
“We didn’t expect to have you in today, Matt,” says the elderly woman.
“I know, Bea. It was a last-minute decision,” he says. “I have someone special with me today. Can we get her set up with a card?”
“Of course!” says the man.
“This is Emma Miller,” Matt introduces me when I join him. “Emma, these are George and Beatrice, owners of Dog-eared, happily married for longer than we’ve been alive, and action movie aficionados.”
“Hey!” says Bea, playfully. “We’re not that old!”
Matt laughs, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him before. It doesn’t match the man I thought he was, just like everything else lately.
“How’s Lucky doing?” he asks. She immediately pulls her phone out to show us a video of a puppy carrying around a shoe in his mouth.
“George was not happy about his slipper.” She laughs. “We love him, though. Thank you for getting us in contact with the shelter.”
“Happy to help.”
I guess he wasn’t lying at the wedding either.
George comes back and hands me a card with a picture of a dog, ear flipped down, reading a book. “Here you go, Ms. Miller. Two free drinks every month, unlimited reading.”
Matt hands him his own card, chipped in one corner and faded to the point where the dog is almost gone.
Okay… so this isn’t staged. That’s inconvenient.
He moves to the side to order for us, and I catch Bea eyeing me playfully.
“You must be special,” she comments. “You’re the first person he’s ever brought here aside from his mama, of course.”
“I guess your number one enemy does take up a special place in your life,” I tell her, rolling my eyes.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” She looks at George, love clear in her eyes. “There’s something in arguing about modern-day prose, and who gets to pick up after the dog, that’s kept the spark going more than forty years.”
Matt comes next to me, his hand on my lower back. “Let me show you around.”
I nod, unable to form a sentence, too distracted by the warms of his palm seeping through the denim. I hate that my body is reacting this way.
Keep it together. This is not impressive, this is… books, I think.
But then his lips graze my ear as he whispers, “Bet you thought the ones in my bedroom were fake.”
He guides me through the neatly stacked shelves, pausing to through the history section.
“I’m a regular here,” he explains, grabbing a book about Italy through the years. “Most weeks I’m in here on Sunday evenings, when I need to disconnect, and read away from everyone.”
“How often do you think about the Roman Empire, Matthew?”
“Way too much.” He laughs, putting the book back. “I’ll pick something else today…”
“Don’t you have enough books at home?”
“I don’t like holing up by myself,” he says with a shrug. “George and Bea keep me company. Sometimes, someone new walks in here, and if they make a scene I’ll go back home, but most of the time it’s regulars. You can’t even find Dog-Eared on Google.”
“It feels unique,” I whisper, running my fingers through the spines like I did at his place. “Full of stories, and something softer I can’t quite name.”
“It is,” he agrees, sauntering over to the next aisle. “It’s sort of my safe space.”
We’re now immersed in international fiction, where he’s browsing through books in French and Spanish.
“I didn’t know you were such an avid reader,” I say, softer than I intend, with a touch of apology in my voice for what seems to have been a misjudgment.
“Si seulement tu savais qui je suis vraiment, peut-être me regarderais-tu avec la même adoration que je te regarde,” he says, with a perfect French accent, making my skin break out in goosebumps.
I have no clue what that meant, but it doesn’t matter, the effect’s the same. I hate him a little less. Another self-betrayal.
“I also didn’t know you were bilingual.”
He picks one up in Spanish and turns it to me. El Secreto De La Cocina Mediterránea.
“Hay tantas cosas que quiero ensenarte, pero todo a su debido tiempo. Si te dijera que hago de todos menos odiarte, saldrías corriendo,” he speaks in Spanish.
“Okay, now you’re showing off,” I mumble. “What did you say?”
“I said I started reading when I was a kid,” he answers, his voice low.