3. Emily
Emily
Morning light filters through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns against the old wooden floors. The house smells like dust and faded memories, the kind that linger in untouched corners, whispering secrets from a past you wish you could forget.
My bare feet make no sound as I move through the quiet space. The air feels heavy, like the house is holding its breath, waiting for something. For me.
It’s unsettling.
I don’t belong here.
And yet…
My fingers trail absently over the dusty mantel until they catch on the edge of a small, worn frame. I pick it up, brushing the dust away, and suddenly I can’t breathe.
A framed photograph sits on a dusty bookshelf, half-buried behind old cookbooks and ceramic figurines that my grandmother probably collected before she realized they were hideous. A ten-year-old version of me stares back. Bright-eyed, with a toothy grin. Sandwiched between my mother and father.
I suck in a sharp breath as the memory slams into me like a freight train. My fingers tremble as I pick it up, brushing away the thin layer of dust.
It’s like a moment frozen in time comes alive. And suddenly, I’m back there.
Hiding behind a bedroom door, fists clenched over the hem of my nightgown.
The crack of something shattering echoes through the walls, followed by my mother’s sharp voice, then my father’s.
The words are different every time, but the rhythm is always the same—accusations, screams, a sudden silence before the cycle repeats.
Love should never sound like violence.
Theirs did. Their relationship was a battlefield, one where both sides refused to surrender. Break up, make up, start over, destroy everything. And when my father finally snapped, when his anger took a life—Kyle, my mother’s newest disaster, her meth supplier and lover—it was over for good.
He was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. And not long after my mother died, and that’s when I swore, I’d never let violence into my life again.
I put the photo down and I force myself to take a deep breath.
That was a long time ago.
But some ghosts never really leave.
This house… it’s the only place I’ve ever felt remotely safe.
I’d spent one summer here before college, escaping the wreckage of my parents’ toxic love story.
It had been peaceful. Quiet. Free of raised voices and the sound of fists meeting flesh.
I had never planned on coming back. But here I am, hiding from a gang that thinks I have something I don’t, pretending to be engaged to a man who makes my skin prickle in ways I refuse to analyze.
Henry Walker—the exact kind of man I swore to avoid.
And yet, last night, I had the audacity to tell him to kiss me. To prove a point.
What the hell was I thinking?
My heart had pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. His scent had wrapped around me—woodsmoke and something darker, something I shouldn’t want. And those eyes. Cold, sharp, assessing. They had flickered, just for a second, before he stepped back like I had burned him.
Which is good. It means I can still rattle him.
A glance at the clock says it’s almost nine. I was supposed to wait for Henry before going anywhere, but my patience expired roughly ten minutes ago.
I need air.
More importantly, I need coffee.
I grab my purse and head for the door.
Rules are meant to be broken. Especially his.
***
Rockers Café is exactly as I remember it—cozy, warm, and filled with the comforting aroma of fresh coffee and baked goods.
The wooden counter is polished to a shine, and the chalkboard menu boasts things like Granny’s Famous Apple Pie and Earl’s Questionable Chili which, is local legend, with Maggie being its third generation steward.
Maggie spots me the second I walk in.
“EMILY CARTER!”
I have precisely two seconds before I’m engulfed in a bear hug.
Maggie smells like vanilla and coffee beans, and she squeezes me like she’s trying to compress all the years we’ve been apart into a single hug.
I wheeze. “Love the enthusiasm Maggie, but I need my ribs intact.”
She releases me with a grin. “Oh, please. You work in an ER. You can mend broken ribs easily.”
Can’t argue with that.
Maggie’s barely changed—same dark curls, same mischievous sparkle in her hazel eyes. She was one of the only people who made Harmony Springs bearable during my visits.
I slide onto a stool behind the counter, sighing as I take in the familiar space. “How’s work going?”
“As always!” She beams. “Change happens slower here than most places, Em.”
“I guess it is. Beats the unpredictability of an ER though”
Maggie snorts. "Look at you, all big city doctor and mysterious secrets! You didn’t even call me the second you got into town, you traitor."
A huff of laughter escapes. "I got a little…distracted."
"Mhm. Distracted by what? Or should I say who?"
I roll my eyes as she drags me toward the counter, her grip iron-clad. "You’re worse than the tabloids, Mags."
She grins. "I try."
Before I can even process that, a teenager with dark hair and bright eyes saunters over, balancing a tray on one arm.
“Grace, meet Emily Carter, she’s my friend,” Maggie says. “Emily, meet Grace. She’s the daughter of the mayor, but she’s working here for the summer.”
“Nice to meet you, Grace,” I shake her hands. Bright smile, confident stance, maybe fourteen or fifteen.
“Emily here is an E.R. doctor, Grace,” Maggie continues, rolling her eyes, “in case you still want to write that school essay on legalizing cocaine?”
Before I can respond to that mind-blowing comment, Grace gasps.
“Oh my God,” she blurts, eyes wide. “You’re her.”
I blink. “I’m who?”
Grace gasps. “You’re my uncle’s fiancée.”
My brain short-circuits.
Maggie freezes.
“Excuse me, what?” I manage.
Grace, entirely oblivious to my spiraling, beams. “Uncle Henry. He never dates. So obviously, when he announced last night that he was engaged to an E.R. doctor that Dad is working with for the town’s hospital, I thought it was a joke, but you’re real!”
I want to die.
Maggie turns to me so slowly, I swear I hear her neck creak.
“You’re engaged?”
I open my mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.
No words come out.
“Oh, this is good,” Maggie says, crossing her arms. “You and Henry Walker, town’s grumpiest bachelor, engaged?”
I clear my throat. “It’s… complicated.”
Maggie’s grin is pure evil. “Oh, I bet.”
Grace practically vibrates with excitement. “How did this happen?”
Before I can spontaneously combust, the café door swings open.
And in walks Henry.
He moves like a storm brewing, boots heavy against the wooden floor. That sharp, assessing gaze scans the café before locking onto me.
Maggie makes a high-pitched noise before vanishing into the back. Coward.
Grace winks at me before sauntering off.
Henry takes Maggie’s now-abandoned seat, exhaling sharply. “What part of stay inside did you not understand?”
I straighten. “What part of I’m not a prisoner did you not understand?”
His jaw ticks. “I spent an hour looking for you.”
I throw him my brightest smile. “That must’ve been so difficult for you.”
His glare intensifies. “We’re leaving.”
Maggie reappears just in time to witness my full-body huff. “Henry, chill. Let the woman have her coffee.”
Henry stands. “She can have it at home.”
Maggie mouths oh my God at me. I give her a help me look she ignores or doesn’t read.
And then, before I can say anything else, Henry grabs my wrist and drags me outside. The second we step outside, I yank my arm free.
“Are you always this difficult?” He turns to face me, towering over me, tension radiating from every inch of his body.
I cross my arms. “Only when large, brooding men kidnap me from my morning coffee,” I snap.
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m some kind of science experiment. “You’re dramatic.”
“And you’re impossible.”
His jaw ticks. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“And I’m trying to live, commander,” I snap.
We stand there, breathing hard, inches apart. The air between us is thick. A pause. He looks away, and then back at me. His gaze flickers to my lips.
I swallow.
Something crackles between us, sharp and electric.
Then—
"Just kiss me."
I blink. Hard. "I'm sorry—what?"
Henry crosses his arms, his infuriatingly smug expression not budging an inch. "Kiss me," he repeats, as if he’s asking me to pass the salt and not to press my mouth against his.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Why on earth would I do that?” My voice comes out more strangled than intended.
“Because,” he says, “if you kiss me now, I’ll get out of your hair for the rest of the day.”
I search his face for signs that he’s joking. Unfortunately, Henry Walker does not joke. He stares at me, all cool confidence.
“Do it now or you lose the chance.”
I take a step forward, tilting my head up. Henry doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches me with those ice-blue eyes, waiting.
This is fine. Totally fine.
Then I press my lips to his.
Oh.
Oh, hell.
I don’t know what I expected, but not this.
The second my lips touch his, he claims mine. He tastes like warmth and spice—like something dangerously addictive. His kiss is both soft and urgent, teasing and demanding, making my pulse race in a way that feels almost unfair. I should’ve known he’d be good at this. I should’ve been prepared.
But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for this.
His hands slide into my hair, fingers tangling at the nape of my neck, and he tilts my head back, deepening the kiss.
His tongue sweeps against mine, slow at first, coaxing, savoring, like he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth.
A shiver rolls through me, and I barely hold back the soft, needy sound threatening to escape my throat.
I want more.
My hands clutch at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as if it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
He groans against my lips, the vibration sending a thrill through me, and then he takes.
His mouth slants over mine with more force, more hunger, his grip tightening as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
The kiss turns desperate, raw, scorching. I can feel the heat spreading through me, pooling low in my stomach, making my knees weak. My body hums with awareness, every nerve ending hyper-focused on the way his lips move against mine, the way his body presses so perfectly into me.
I gasp when his hands slide down, gripping my waist and pulling me flush against him. I can feel him—solid, burning, needing—and the contact sends a bolt of pure desire straight through me.
“Henry,” I whisper against his lips, breathless.
He answers by pressing me back against the counter, his hands splaying wide over my lower back, keeping me locked against him. His mouth leaves mine only to trail along my jaw, his breath hot against my skin.
“You taste better than I imagined,” he murmurs, voice rough and dripping with want.
A delicious shudder runs through me.
He imagined this? He’s thought about kissing me like this?
The thought makes something tighten deep inside me.
His lips move lower, ghosting over the sensitive skin beneath my ear, and I swear I feel my legs go weak. I grab onto his shoulders, digging my nails into firm muscle, as his mouth claims mine once again.
And then—God help me—his teeth graze my lower lip before he sucks it into his mouth, and my entire body ignites.
A small, breathy moan slips out before I can stop it.
He freezes for a fraction of a second. Then he growls—growls—before his hand slides up my back, tugging me closer, eliminating any remaining space between us. My breasts press into his firm chest, my thighs brush against his, and every single place our bodies connect feels like a live wire.
I’m losing myself.
I can feel it happening—can feel the heat turning to something darker, something uncontrollable. My body is screaming for more. More friction. More pressure. More of him.
His hands slide lower, gripping the curve of my hips, and I know—I know—if we don’t stop now, there won’t be any stopping. I don’t think I want to stop.
But just as his hands start to roam higher—just as my fingers slide beneath the hem of his shirt, eager to feel his bare skin—
A throat clears behind him.
We freeze.
Every inch of me is still pressed against Henry, my lips swollen, my breath ragged, my body practically buzzing with heat. His hands remain on my waist, his fingers twitching slightly, as if he can’t believe we were just interrupted.
Slowly, I peek over Henry’s shoulder.
Grace stands in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in a way that shouldn’t be this intimidating coming from a fifteen-year-old.
“I’d say ‘don’t stop on my account,’ but…” She smirks. “That’d be weird.”
I swear the floor beneath me vanishes.
Henry exhales through his nose, his jaw clenching, before he steps back—just enough to put distance between us but not enough to let me go entirely. His grip on my waist lingers, possessive, reluctant, like he’s struggling to let me go.
I, on the other hand, want to die. Heat floods my cheeks as I untangle myself from Henry, smoothing my hands down my dress, avoiding eye contact at all costs.
Grace grins. “Maybe get a room next time? I don’t know how I feel about half the town witnessing my uncle eating someone’s face.”
The girl nods in the direction of a huge window of almost everyone in Rocker’s Cafe staring out at us. Henry pinches the bridge of his nose. I bury my face in my hands.
“Jesus Christ.”
Grace grins wider. “Carry on.”
She walks away, way too pleased with herself, and the moment she’s out of sight, I groan, finally daring to look up at Henry.
His eyes meet mine, still dark with hunger, his lips still swollen from kissing me senseless. “Did you do that intentionally? So, the crowd can see?”
He simply leans back against the wall, looking entirely unruffled. “What do you think?”
I want to combust.
“At least now, no one will doubt our engagement,” Henry nudges my phone out of my pocket, takes it from my hand before I can react, and taps something in.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Making sure you have my number on speed dial,” he says, handing it back. “Call me if anything happens.”
And just like that, he walks away.
I watch him go, my lips still tingling, my brain trying to restart.
What. The. Hell.