Chapter Fourteen
Dinner with the Boss
Crew
The apartment smells incredible, and I’m losing my mind.
Emmie’s been in the kitchen since four o’clock, and whatever she’s making involves garlic, butter, and something roasting in the oven for the past hour. I offered to help twice, but both times she shooed me out of the kitchen with “look pretty and stay out of the way.”
So here I am. Looking pretty. Staying out of the way. Watching her move around my kitchen like she owns it.
Which, technically, she kind of does now.
She’s wearing a simple, navy blue dress that hugs her in all the right places, and her hair is half up, half down, with loose waves framing her face. I want to brush the tendrils from her face and turn her lips to mine.
I take a long sip of wine instead.
“Stop staring at me,” she says without turning around.
“I’m not staring.”
“You’ve been staring for twenty minutes.”
“I’m supervising.”
She snorts, glancing over her shoulder with a grin. “You’re useless, is what you are. Come here. Make yourself useful and open this.”
She hands me a bottle of red wine—something Italian I can’t pronounce—and I twist in the corkscrew while she checks on whatever’s in the oven. We move around each other easily now. Two days ago, this felt awkward. Now it feels like breathing.
“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” I say.
“I know.”
“Are you nervous?”
She straightens, wiping her hands on a towel. “A little. Are you?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Yeah. She’s got me there.
The doorbell rings at 6:00 PM. Daniels is nothing if not punctual. Emmie smooths her dress, takes a breath, and nods at me.
“Showtime,” she murmurs.
I open the door.
Daniels is in slacks and a button-down, casual for him. Margaret’s in something flowy and floral, holding a bottle of wine and a bright smile.
“Crew!” She pulls me into a hug before I can react, and I stand there stiffly while Emmie hides a laugh behind her hand. “So good to see you. And Emmie—oh, it smells divine in here. What are you making?”
“Braised short ribs with garlic mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables.” Emmie takes the wine bottle, ushering them inside. “And for dessert, a chocolate lava cake that I’m really hoping doesn’t collapse.”
“I’m sure it’ll be perfect.” Margaret is already surveying the apartment, taking in the details—the throw pillows on the couch, the fairy lights visible through the open door of Emmie’s room, the cat tree in the corner that Emmie bought last week without asking.
She stops at the photos on the bookshelf—those Emmie printed and framed. Us at the gala, the movie night Instagram shot, a candid she took of me scowling at Murphy.
“These are adorable,” Margaret declares. “Rich, look. They’re adorable.”
Daniels grunts something noncommittal, but I catch the slight curve of his mouth.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Emmie asks. “We’ve got wine, beer, sparkling water—”
“Wine would be lovely.”
I move to pour while Emmie handles small talk, and it strikes me how natural this feels. She asks Margaret about her garden. Margaret asks about the cookbook. They’re laughing within minutes, trading stories about kitchen disasters and stubborn husbands.
“He won’t eat anything green,” Margaret says, jerking her thumb at Daniels. “Thirty years of marriage, and the man still picks the peppers out of everything.”
“Crew’s the same way. Or he was.” Emmie shoots me a look. “I’ve been working on him.”
“She force-feeds me vegetables,” I confirm.
“Someone has to.” She pats my arm as she passes, heading back to the stove, and the touch sends warmth spreading through my chest.
Daniels sidles up next to me while the women are distracted. “You look different,” he says quietly.
“Different how?”
“Relaxed. Happy, even.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod.
“Hold onto her,” he adds. “Women like that don’t come around twice.”
The words hit harder than they should, but I do my best to file them somewhere far, far away.
Men like me—foster kids who no one wanted—who even the Army eventually rejected—don’t end up with women like Emmie.
That’s just a fact. Why would she want a broken, anxiety-ridden version when she could have any man she wanted.
Dinner is perfect.
And I don’t use that word lightly. I don’t use it ever, actually. But Emmie’s short ribs melt on my tongue, the potatoes are creamy and rich, and even the vegetables taste like something I’d voluntarily eat again.
Margaret moans around her first bite. “Oh my gosh. Emmie. This is incredible.”
“It’s just braising,” Emmie says, but she’s flushed with pleasure. “Low and slow. Anyone can do it.”
“I cannot do this,” Margaret insists. “Richard, we’re hiring her. I don’t care what it costs.”
“You can’t hire my girlfriend,” I say, and the word slides out so easily I almost don’t catch it.
Girlfriend.
I called her my girlfriend. Without hesitation. Without the mental air quotes.
Emmie’s eyes meet mine across the table, and something passes between us. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. Like we both just noticed the line we’ve crossed without meaning to.
“Well,” Margaret says, oblivious to the moment, “at least promise you’ll give me this recipe.”
“I’ll do you one better.” Emmie pulls out her phone. “I’ll send you the whole chapter when the book comes out. You’ll be in the acknowledgments.”
“I’d love that.”
The conversation flows easily after that—Margaret’s prosecutor stories, Daniels’s dry commentary, Emmie’s animated tales of cookbook disasters. I mostly listen, adding a comment here and there, but I’m not anxious about the silence. Not trying to fill it. I’m just… present. Comfortable.
This is what normal feels like, I realize. Huh. Who knew?
After dinner, Emmie brings out the lava cake—which did not collapse—and we move to the living room with coffee and dessert. Margaret and Daniels take the loveseat, while Emmie and I end up on the couch, pressed together because Murphy has claimed the other cushion and refuses to move.
“Your cat is a menace,” Daniels observes.
“He’s not technically my cat.”
“He lives here. He’s your cat.”
Murphy yawns, stretches, and curls into a tighter ball, clearly unbothered by the accusation.
Emmie leans into me, her shoulder against my arm, and I drape my hand over her knee without thinking. Her skin is warm through the fabric of her dress. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she shifts closer.
“So,” Margaret says, her eyes bright with curiosity, “how did you two actually get together? I know you said you were roommates first, but there has to be more to the story.”
Emmie and I exchange a look.
“It’s, um.” She laughs, a little nervous. “Kind of a funny story, actually.”
“I put out an ad for a roommate,” I say. “She answered it.”
“And?”
“And she showed up with cookies.” I look at Emmie, remembering that first day—the chaos of her, the way she’d talked a mile a minute, dropped her keys, and somehow charmed me anyway. “Chocolate chip. Said she stress-baked.”
“I was so nervous,” Emmie admits. “He was so… intense. All these questions about noise levels and cleaning schedules. I thought for sure he was going to reject me.”
“But he didn’t,” Margaret prompts.
“He didn’t.” Emmie’s hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. “And then we just… started spending time together. Cooking. Talking. Watching movies.”
“She made me try Chinese food,” I add. “And crab rangoon.”
“He’d never had crab rangoon! Can you believe that?”
Margaret laughs. “I believe it. This man lived on protein shakes and sadness before you came along.”
“Hey,” I protest, but there’s no heat in it.
“It’s true, and you know it.” Emmie squeezes my hand. “Anyway, one thing led to another, and…” She shrugs. “Here we are.”
Here we are.
Sitting on my couch, holding hands, telling a story that’s half true and half fiction. Except the true parts feel truer than anything I’ve ever said, and the fiction parts don’t feel like lies anymore.
They feel like wishes.
Daniels and Margaret leave around nine, full of food and wine and promises to do this again soon. Margaret hugs us both—twice—and makes Emmie promise to text her the recipe. Daniels shakes my hand at the door and says quietly, “Good job, Jensen. I mean it.”
Then they’re gone, and it’s just us.
Emmie slumps against the closed door, exhaling. “I can’t believe it. We did it.”
“We did it.”
“They bought it. They totally bought it.” She’s grinning, bright and relieved. “We’re amazing. We’re incredible. We should win awards for this.”
I’m smiling too, I realize. Actually smiling. “You were incredible. I just sat there.”
“You called me your girlfriend. Without flinching.” She pushes off the door, moving toward me. “That was impressive.”
“It wasn’t hard.”
The words come out before I can stop them, and Emmie goes still.
We’re inches apart. I can see the gold flecks in her eyes, the slight part of her lips, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
I want to kiss her.
I want to kiss her so badly my hands are shaking.
“Emmie.” Her name comes out like a prayer. “Tell me to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Looking at you like this.” I lift my hand, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and she leans into the touch. “Wanting things I shouldn’t want.”
“What if I don’t want you to stop?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility.
I cup her face in my hands. She’s so soft. So warm. I stroke along her jaw with my thumbs. Her eyes flutter closed, and she tilts her chin up, and I’m right there, a breath away from finally—
My phone rings.
The sound shatters the moment like glass. We both jerk back, the spell broken, and I fumble for my phone with hands that won’t stop trembling.
Foster’s name flashes on the screen.
“I have to—” I gesture at the phone.
“Yeah. No. Of course.” Emmie takes a step back, then another. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing uneven. “I should, um. Clean up. The kitchen.”
“Emmie—”
“It’s fine. Take the call.” She’s already retreating, putting distance between us. “We can talk later.”
She disappears into the kitchen, and I’m left standing in my living room, phone buzzing in my hand, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to go back to pretending after that.
I answer the call.
“This better be important,” I growl.
“Well, hello to you too,” Foster says. “Bad time?”
I look toward the kitchen, where I can hear water running and dishes clattering. Emmie putting things in order.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You could say that.”
The worst part isn’t that we almost kissed.
The worst part is that now I know she wanted it too.
And I have no idea what to do with that.