Emma
TWENTY-FOUR
The left side of the bed is empty when I wake up. My eyes are still closed, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve had the longest, most dangerous kind of dream: the one that’s easy to believe.
Then everything comes into focus. Matt’s library, the view of the hills through the window. The smell of coffee and pancakes lingers in the air. I can hear him fussing around in the kitchen. My stomach grumbles, complaining about the lack of proper food last night.
He’d offered to make me dinner after Julia and Harrison left, but I’d been too distracted by the way his lips moved down my neck. My eyes caught on the Rummikub box still sitting on the living room floor, and the night turned far too interesting to take him up on his cooking skills.
“I wanna play,” I whispered into his ear, biting playfully that spot right under his jaw that immediately makes him groan.
He chuckled, and I felt his faint smile against my skin.
“Play what?”
“Strip Rummikub.”
Matt pulled back, eyes darkening. That naughty smirk of his took over the corner of his mouth for a second before dropping back down.
“You win… I strip,” I tell him.
That caught his attention. And it’s exactly how we turned a kids’ game into a high-stakes competition.
In the end, he put on some music and gave a show to remember. By the time his last piece of clothing came off, I was so hot and bothered I had no choice but to take off my own too.
If asked, I’ll deny, but I don’t regret that decision one bit.
My phone lights up from the nightstand. I reach for it, expecting a message from Julia, or my mom. But it’s an e-mail. From Martha. On a Saturday.
I’m about to dig into whatever crisis she’s having—urgent, as always—when the man of the hour walks in, sporting a black apron covered in flour over his boxers.
“I hadn’t realized Magic Mike came with a chef option,” I tease. He flips the covers off in one big swoop, takes my ankles and pulls me down until he’s towering over me at the foot of the bed.
“Morning, honey,” Matt says. I hook my fingers into the front pocket of the apron and tug him to me for a kiss. “You taste like trouble.”
“Still rejoicing in my fair-and-square victory,” I tell him. “Want to go for round two?”
“How about I feed you first?”
My stomach answers for me. He chuckles and lifts me up like I weigh nothing. I wrap around him, although I could play dead and he still wouldn’t drop me.
His hands squeeze the back of my thighs, and I give his neck a playful bite. Two can play this game.
“I thought you were cooking,” I say with a pout when we get to the kitchen. There’s chaos, but suspiciously no breakfast in sight. “Did you eat already?”
“I’m offended you’d even consider that! I would never.” He gasps, taking us down the stairs.
When we get to the backyard, I’m met with a huge spread on the patio. There’s toast, pancakes, coffee, cookies… Food is clearly my love language, and apparently, he’s fluent.
He puts me down, but I linger against him a little longer.
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this,” I mutter, “but you’re pretty amazing.”
“Wow. Not a single ounce of annoyance or frustration,” Matt says, eyebrows raised. “This is a huge step in our relationship.”
“A relationship, huh?”
“You’re telling me you can leave right now and not miss this?” He turns, arms outstretched. “My bed, my bath, my infinite amounts of Emma-wisdom?”
I press my hand against his chest and lean up on my tiptoes, hovering for a few seconds before whispering in his ear.
“Never.”
“That’s what I thought.” He hands me a coffee mug, still steaming.
We sit down on the couch, and Matt fills up a plate with so much sugar I’m going to be bouncing off the walls all day.
“I like having you here,” he confesses, voice low but steady. “It makes it feel more like a home.”
“It’s lived in,” I argue. “The first time we came here I fully expected some bachelor pad pulled out of some architecture magazine.”
“Started out like that. Eventually I realized… I wasn’t going anywhere. Pictures went on the walls, books on the shelf. Yet something was always missing.”
“That family warmth,” I add.
He nods. “And you.”
My heart physically does not have the capacity for how raw he sounds. Suddenly, the urge to tell this man I used to hate how different my feelings are now builds up in my throat.
Then, as soon as I even consider saying it, the guilt from hiding my position at Golden eats it up.
He could end up resenting me later. Or worse, when I do tell him, his response will be tipped by my feelings for him.
Might be fine for a while, but we both know the press can spark arguments with a single headline.
“Don’t even know what to say…” I settle.
Aside from the fact I think I love you, my heart says.
Matt’s expression doesn’t fall like I thought it might. The ghost of a smile flickers across his face. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, eyes knowing.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells me. “Do you regret taking your boss up on the article?”
Martha’s e-mail.
“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing my phone from the table. “It’s work. I forgot to get back to her.”
My stomach drops as soon as I start reading. Nausea hits me like a wave, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to keep my breakfast down.
Subject: Matt Hunt Feature Assignment
Emma,
This is not going to work. I spent all day yesterday reading the draft you turned in for Matt Hunt’s feature to see if there was anything salvageable. It’s all fluff.
Sure, it’s a fresh approach, but it’s not one geared to the readers we already have. And if they’re not interested, there’s not a chance we’ll attract new ones.
This deal you came up with was directly attached to the numbers it’d bring in. I made that crystal clear. So, if you don’t want to go back to where you started, you will re-write this. And this time, make it bleed.
“Everything okay?” Matt sits up, probably wondering why I’ve gone pale.
“I—no, just—”
I’m stuck on that last word.
Bleed. Make him bleed.
“Mills?”
My head turns to him at the sound of my name.
Martha’s cutthroat. And I’m not actually an editor. I write The Golden Scoop and I’m pretty sure I’m royally fucked.
I want to tell him. Let it all out, and deal with the fallout if there is any.
But I can’t.
My contract was already broken—twice—with Julia and Harrison. They haven’t, and would never say a word, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t cross the line.
Matt’s eyes are full of worry. My chest tightens, begging me to trust him, but my brain is already listing the consequences. I could lose my job. Get blacklisted from every decent publication in the city.
A couple more days. I need to make it out of the column, then I can come clean. All I have to do is convince Martha this version will spike the ratings as is.
“I have to go.” I’m already getting up before I say something I shouldn’t. “I’ll text you.”
He looks so confused he doesn’t even move.
I lean forward and kiss his cheek a little longer than normal.
Just in case I’m about to ruin this.