10. Emma
TEN
Emma
Matt’s right. That, I still hate.
And I’m not sure Martha is going to appreciate my first draft when the only juicy new information I have about him is he likes to read. Hardly scandalous. No wonder his team found other ways to keep him present in the press.
Not only that, but just like it happened with my cousin, I’m certain if Golden were to run the article saying he’s everything except cynical, no one would believe it.
They’d assume we’d gotten paid an absurd amount of money to make him look good for the role he’s after.
And that wouldn’t do him any good either.
It’s a thin line I have to walk on. My opening line stares back at me at wishing me luck.
…he acts like someone who’s aware he’s being watched at all times. And one word keeps standing out every time I try to pin him down: act. How many fake masks are we being fed to fit the Hollywood standard?
My phone buzzes against the table, cutting straight through my spiral.
My man
I have outing #3 ready. Are you free?
There’s a very immediate reaction to seeing his contact pop up on my phone.
Technically yes, I’m free. I skipped meeting up with Matt this morning so I could go into the office and speak to Martha, also to give myself time to process his honesty, but she wasn’t there today either. Now I’m back home, trying to write and to my standard, failing spectacularly.
It’s also my turn to plan something. What else could he possibly have in store for us, and why does it make me itch with nerves that he decided to skip me entirely?
Don’t you have work?
My man
Finished morning workout. I have a later filming call today, so I’m all yours until seven.
He’s been ‘mine’ too much lately. I should be getting more annoyed. But my emotions have been going in the complete opposite direction. Without permission.
Professional distance. That’s what I need.
Can’t. I need to get some writing done.
His reply comes through instantly.
My man
Bring your laptop.
Somehow, that’s even more special than if he had told me to do it some other time. Makes no sense.
When he said he was taking me sailing I expected to end up in a yacht packed with a whole crew, charcuterie boards, and champagne bottles. I didn’t think we’d be parking at Marina del Rey for a day on an actual sailboat, just the two of us.
As soon as he opens the door of his SUV, the smell of sea salt, diesel, and sun toasted wood envelops me, thick and warm. Seagulls squeak, and the ropes tight and loose with the sway of the water.
Matt’s wearing a backwards L.A. Dodgers cap, an old gray UCLA T-shirt, and the same navy blue swimming trunks he wore surfing, like he’s never been on a red carpet before. Damn, the different facets of this man. I don’t trust how much I like this version.
He usually looks so expensive in his PR photos, but lately he could pass for any other young thirty-something bachelor. I’ve never seen him so carefree.
I follow behind him as he leads us down a dock. He’s carrying a blue cooler like the ones my parents used to bring to our beach days. It’s so normal, it’s weird.
To our left, the path to the boats is blocked by a group of seals sunbathing. They are committed to doing absolutely nothing with their day.
“That’s one expensive toy,” I tease when we stop in front of a sailboat at least twenty-five feet long.
“It’s my friend’s,” he says, messing with the knots tying it down. “I borrow it when I need a full disconnect.”
I scoff. “I borrow salt and sugar, you borrow boats.”
“Only because I promise not to crash it. But hey, I’d be happy to give you some sugar whenever you need.”
I ignore the very obvious double meaning because I value what’s left of my sanity. But heat creeps up my neck, betraying me.
Matt jumps into the boat, clearly having done this a thousand times. I step into the gangway, watching my feet. I feel like a pirate hoping not to end up overboard. He offers me his hand and I groan, more to myself than to him, but I take it anyway. Falling is worse.
“Thank you,” I whisper once I’m on deck. He does a little courtesy bow. “Show-off.”
“You can get some work done while I get us ready to go.”
It’s bigger than I expected, but not flashy.
Open front with padded seating, steering wheel toward the back with benches on either side, and a small cabin below deck currently closed.
A single tall mast with its paint worn out from use shoots up into the sky, all ropes and sails I know nothing about.
I take a seat on one of the benches and pull out my laptop from my bag. From the corner of my eye, I see him moving around the front with an ease that feels practiced.
His shoulders are less tense than usual, even with the pulling ang tugging of lines. I realize, this might be his safe space, like surfing is for me.
Matt takes us out of the harbor and into the sea, the city fading behind us like it was never that close to begin with. He asks me to grab onto the wheel while he snaps open the sail. The boat sways gently, and I’m holding on as if my life depends on it.
Everything smells sharper out here. The water slaps against the side in steady, rhythmic hits, the wind pulling at my hair. It’s louder. Even my own breathing can’t find anywhere to hide.
He steps in behind me, close enough I feel the heat of him before anything else. His arm brushes mine and I swear I hear him inhale—quick and unexpected. Goosebumps rise instantly, giving me away.
“Here,” he says, placing his hands on top of mine and guiding them upwards.
“How many movies did you have to watch to learn this?” I tease, trying to ease the tension between us. I look back, his lips turned into a smirk.
He leans down excruciatingly close.
“None. I’m not performing,” he whispers, his breath against my ear. “You’re steering my life right now. I’d like to survive this.”
A laugh bubbles up, out of pure nerves, and I turn back to hide the imminent flushing on my cheeks.
“You’re very intense about this.”
“I like things that require attention.”
I don’t know what that says about the way he’s been looking at me.
He drops the anchor when we’re miles away from shore. Too far to turn back easily. Noted.
“Why here?” I ask, wondering what’s so special about being in the middle of the ocean.
“Because no one can interrupt us.”
That shouldn’t sound as loaded as it does. I lean over the railing to look at the water beneath us.
“I wonder how much deeper it is than it looks.”
“Everything is,” Matt says, messing with a rope beside me. I snort.
“Did you rehearse that?”
“Maybe,” he says, turning to look at me like he’s waiting to see if I’ll call him out.
The line flies as soon as he lets go, swinging straight toward me. I duck and take a step back. My back hits the railing fast. I lose my balance. Before I know it, I’m going overboard headfirst into the cool water.
I surface a few seconds later, hair sticking to my face, but I can see enough to watch Matt dive in after me without hesitation. He grabs my arms and starts treading water, holding us both up like I’m a damsel in distress and he’s my Prince Charming.
Laughter bubbles up in my chest at the absurdity of the situation. I try to keep it in, but the concerned frown on his face is too much for me.
“I know how to swim, Matthew.” I chuckle. “You didn’t need to jump in and save me.”
“I didn’t know if you were hurt,” he says, fussing over me.
His jaw is tight, and for another second he doesn’t let go.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him, my voice softer this time. He’s truly concerned. “I promise.”
His eyes search mine, double-checking I’m not putting on a brave face to get him off my back, and something in my chest shifts in a way I don’t appreciate.
Neither of us move for a beat. It’s… different.
Not a joke anymore. No act, no performance.
Just him caring for me in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time.
We climb back up, clothes sticking to my body. Matt must’ve taken his shirt off before he went in because his chest is on full display as he gets on the steps after me. It’s been too long since I’ve been this close to a man with so little on and my body notices.
The breeze is cold and there’s no way my clothes are drying anytime soon with me wearing them. Luckily, I wore my bikini underneath, although the small pieces of red material don’t cover much. I’ve never been shy about it, and I won’t start now.
I peel off my T-shirt and lay it out in the sun. Then I do the same with my shorts. Matt’s standing in front of me, his eyes following my every move. When I meet them, his cheeks flush and he quickly turns away.
“I’ll, uh—I’ll go get us towels.”
I hadn’t realized I could get that reaction out of him and it’s surprisingly nice. Dangerous, but nice.
“You’ve seen women in bikinis before,” I tease, as he lifts the seating of the bench and takes out two blue towels.
Something clicks for him because when he turns again, he gives me a slow once-over. I should tell him off, feel embarrassed. I don’t. It only encourages me further. A lapse in judgment I’m choosing to ignore.
Matt takes a step closer when he’s done, my chest almost brushing his.
“Yes, I have,” he whispers, towering over me. “But they’re not you.”
I forget, briefly, that this isn’t a real date.
Winches. That’s what the things that hold the lines are called. At least that’s what Matt said. And we are not getting along.
“This thing hates me,” I grumble, trying to tighten it.
When I offered to help, I didn’t think it was going to be this frustrating, or this humiliating.
“You’re pulling against the wind. It’s not personal.”
“It feels personal.”
I tug again, this time harder, and the line tugs back, pulling me with it.
Once again, my Prince Charming moves fast, his hands curling around my bare waist. My entire body goes still, heat flares under his touch, sharp and immediate.
“Easy,” he says, voice deeper than it’s been all day.
“Are you going to stay there, stuck to me, or actually help?” I bite, annoyed I can’t seem to control how much I’m reacting to him, or how much my body seems to want it.
“Both.”
He guides my hands but doesn’t take over completely. I don’t like people doing things for me, I enjoy learning. And somehow, he knows this. A little too perceptive for casual.
“Now pull,” he murmurs.
The sail tightens but he doesn’t step away. I turn in his arms, ready for him to make some funny comment about my lack of strength, but the look on his eyes renders me speechless.
They’re darker. Heated. Focused, like I’ve seen him before when he’s intent on nailing something on the first try.
I don’t realize I’m biting my lip until one of his hands comes up to my chin, pulling down gently to free it. His touch sends a shock straight down my spine, and my heart does a full somersault.
“Emma,” he says, almost as a warning of what we both know is changing between us.
We inch closer in unison. Not by accident, and definitely not by mistake.
I shouldn’t give in, but that makes me want it more. A terrible character flaw. Because this Matt, the one who’s not scared to open up, is undeniably tempting and hard to resist.
His lips look so soft, welcoming.
There are probably a million reasons why we shouldn’t kiss. And yet the words float around in my head without sorting themselves out into actual thoughts. Just noise, none of it helpful.
I shouldn’t.
But I’m drawn to him like a magnet in a storm I need to stay away from.
Before I can decide, my phone starts blaring at us from inside my purse, slicing the tension in half. I bolt back like the energy between us has shocked me into reality where making out with my subject is completely prohibited.
“I have to get that. It’s probably work…” I excuse myself.
“Right,” he answers, stepping away. “Don’t want to interfere more than I already have.”
I crave his touch as soon as it’s gone. It was easier to quit smoking after my senior year than leaving this man behind. And that was brutal.
After ten minutes of listening to Kate ramble about the latest article Martha’s making her write, I tell her about everything happening with Matt.
I give her all the reasons, now crystal clear, for why it’s a bad idea.
The first one being I’m not sure we’d be able to stop at just one kiss.
She then proceeds to argue for another ten minutes on why hate sex is the best kind of sex.
When I join Matt on the front deck, he’s spread out sandwiches, fruit, and a couple of sodas. They look homemade.
“You made these?”
He nods.
It’s at this moment I realize that if this is indeed the real Matt, he’s more than the most eligible bachelor in L.A.