Chapter 2
Emma
The hostel is totally fine. Perfectly adequate for what I need. It’s not the Portrait but… whatever.
I drop my bag, splash water on my face, and stare at myself in the tiny mirror above the sink. My cheeks are flushed. I look like someone who just spent nine hours sitting next to a man she shouldn't be thinking about the way I'm thinking about Grant Cross.
My phone buzzes.
Grant: Dinner at 7?
My heart jumps. I should say no. I should tell him I'm busy, that I'm here to work, that whatever happened on that plane was just proximity and recycled air and sleep deprivation.
Me: Sounds good.
I press send before I can overthink it.
The day passes in a blur. I meet Daniela at her small laboratory on the outskirts of the city—a converted farmhouse surrounded by lavender fields.
She's in her sixties, with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun and hands that move with the precision of a surgeon as she demonstrates her distillation process.
I take notes frantically, inhale every scent she offers, ask a thousand questions.
This is what I came for. This is my future.
But underneath it all, humming through my veins like an electrical current, is the anticipation of seeing him again.
By the time I get back to the hostel that evening, I'm exhausted and wired all at once. I shower, change into a simple black dress—one of the only nice things I packed—and wait.
At 6:58, my phone buzzes.
Grant: I'm outside.
I grab my bag and head down, my pulse hammering.
The Audi is parked at the curb, and Grant is leaning against it, hands in his pockets. He's wearing dark slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. The setting sun catches in his hair, and when he sees me, his entire face transforms.
"Hi," I say, suddenly shy.
"Hi." His eyes move over me slowly, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. "You look beautiful."
Heat floods my cheeks. "Thanks. You look—" I gesture vaguely at him, words failing. Like everything I shouldn't want.
His mouth quirks. "I clean up okay."
The driver opens the door, and I slide in. Grant follows, and suddenly we're in that intimate cocoon again, the city moving past the windows in a wash of golden light.
"How was your day?" he asks.
"Incredible. Daniela is a genius. She showed me her entire process, from harvesting to distillation to aging." I realize I'm gushing and forcing myself to slow down. "What about you? How was your meeting?"
"Productive. The building is even better than the photos suggested. But—" He shifts, and his knee brushes mine. Neither of us moves away. "I kept thinking about you. Wondering how you were doing, if you were getting what you needed from Daniela."
The confession steals my breath. "Grant—"
"I know," he says quietly. "I know this is complicated. But I can't seem to stop."
The car pulls up in front of a restaurant tucked into a narrow side street, all warm light spilling from arched windows. But Grant doesn't make a move to get out.
"Actually," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes my skin prickle with awareness, "I was thinking we could skip the restaurant. Have dinner at my hotel instead. I have a balcony that overlooks the river. We can have dinner brought up from the restaurant downstairs."
It's a terrible idea. Dangerous and reckless and exactly what I shouldn't do.
"Okay," I whisper.
The ride to the Portrait takes less than ten minutes.
The hotel is as stunning as I imagined—all Renaissance elegance and understated luxury.
Grant's hand finds the small of my back as we cross the lobby, a touch that feels both protective and possessive, and I'm sharply alert to every glance that follows us.
His suite is on the top floor.
Of course it is.
He unlocks the door and steps back, letting me enter first. The room—suite, actually—is breathtaking.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Arno, the Ponte Vecchio visible in the distance, the city painted in shades of amber and rose as the sun sets.
The furnishings are elegant, expensive, the kind of effortless luxury that comes from old money and excellent taste.
"This is—" I turn in a slow circle. "Grant, this is insane."
He shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over a chair. "It's just a room."
"It's about twelve of my hostel rooms."
His jaw tightens. "Emma—"
"I'm just saying… it's beautiful." I move to the windows, looking out at the city. "I've just never—."
I hear him move behind me, feel the heat of him a second before his hands settle on my shoulders. "Never what?"
I turn to face him, and the look in his eyes makes my knees weak. We're inches apart now.
"What are we doing?" I ask.
"I don't know." His hand comes up, cups my cheek, thumb brushing across my lower lip. "But I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the moment you looked up at me on that plane."
"Grant, this is crazy. My father—"
"Isn't here. It's just you and me."
I should say no. Should remind him of all the reasons this is the worst idea ever. But his eyes are dark with want, and I've spent ten years wanting this man.
"Yes," I breathe.
He kisses me.
The kiss is slow at first, almost tentative, like he's giving me space to pull away. But I don't pull away. I lean in, my hands fisting in his shirt, and he makes a sound low in his throat that makes me melt.
His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the kiss deepens. He tastes like scotch and mint, and I can't get enough. My fingers find his hair, and he groans again, walking me backward until my back hits the wall.
"Tell me to stop and I will," he says against my mouth.
"Don't stop," I whisper. "Please don't stop."
His hands are everywhere—sliding up my sides, tangling in my hair, skimming down to grip my hips. I arch into him, and he tears his mouth away from mine to trail kisses down my neck, finding the spot where my pulse hammers.
"Tell me this is a bad idea, and I'll take you to dinner and we'll pretend this never happened," he murmurs against my skin.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "I don't want to pretend."
Something fierce flashes across his face. Then he's kissing me again, deeper this time, more demanding. His hands find the zipper of my dress, and he pauses.
"Yes," I say before he can ask. "Yes."
The zipper slides down with a whisper, and then his hands are on my bare skin, tracing the line of my spine. I shiver, and he smiles against my mouth.
"Cold?"
"No." I'm burning up, every nerve ending on fire. I tug at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons until he takes pity on me and does it himself, shrugging out of the fabric and letting it fall to the floor.
He's beautiful. Broad shoulders, defined chest, the kind of body that comes from long hours at the gym. There's a scar along his collarbone, old and faded, and I press my palm against it.
"Sailing accident," he says. "In college."
I lean in and kiss it.
His breath catches. Then he's lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me to the bed. He lays me down with a gentleness that contrasts with the hunger in his eyes, and for a moment, he just looks at me.
"You're so goddamn beautiful," he murmurs.
I reach for him, pulling him down to me, and he settles between my legs with a groan. We kiss until I'm dizzy with it, until I've lost track of where I end and he begins. His hands map every inch of my skin, and I do the same to him, learning the planes and angles of his body.
When he finally moves lower, pressing kisses down my stomach, I think I might combust. He looks up at me, asking permission with his eyes, and I nod. He hooks his fingers in my panties, sliding the fabric down slowly, and then his mouth is on me and I gasp.
He's incredibly attentive, learning exactly what makes me feel good. The pleasure builds and builds until I'm shaking with it, my hands fists in his hair, and when I come apart, I can barely contain myself.
He kisses his way back up my body, and I'm still trembling when he reaches my mouth again. I can taste myself on him, and it should probably embarrass me but instead it just makes me want him more.
"Grant," I manage. "I need—"
"I know." His voice is strained. "I know, sweetheart."
He reaches for his wallet, pulling out a condom, and I watch through hooded eyes as he strips off the rest of his clothes and rolls it on. Then he's settling over me again, braced on his forearms, his forehead pressed to mine.
"You're sure?" he asks.
I wrap my hand around the back of his neck. "I'm sure."
He pushes inside slowly, giving me time to adjust, and the feeling of him inside me is almost too much. I arch up, taking him deeper, and he groans.
"God, Emma."
We move together, finding a rhythm that quickly brings me to the brink again. He keeps his eyes on mine, and the intimacy of it—the connection—makes my chest ache. This doesn’t just feel physical. It's something deeper, something that terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.
The pleasure continues to build, different this time, winding tighter and tighter until I'm clinging to him, my nails digging into his shoulders. He picks up the pace, his breath hot against my ear.
“Fuck, I’m going to come. You’re so damn tight.”
When I come this time, it's with him inside me, and I can’t help how loud I am. He follows seconds later, his whole body shuddering, and he buries his face in my neck as he rides out his release.
For a long moment, we just lie there, tangled together, our breathing slowly returning to normal. I feel like I could stay like this forever, completely blissed out.
Grant finally lifts his head, brushing my hair back from my face with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.
"Hi," he says softly.
I can't help but smile. "Hi."
He kisses me, slow and sweet, then carefully withdraws and disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, and then he's back with a warm cloth, gently cleaning me with an attentiveness that makes me feel both cherished and slightly embarrassed.
"Come here," he says after, pulling back the covers.
I should probably leave. Should go back to my hostel, put distance between us, think about what just happened. But when he opens his arms, I crawl into them, letting him tuck me against his side.
"Stay," he murmurs into my hair. "Please stay."
I should say no. I should have said no several times today already. But it’s a little too late for that.
Instead, I press my face into his chest and whisper, "I’d love to."
I wake to soft gray light filtering through the windows and the slow, even sound of Grant's breathing.
For a moment, I let myself just lie there, memorizing how it feels to be in his arms. The solid warmth of his body beneath my cheek, the weight of his arm around my waist, the scent of him surrounding me. It feels like a dream, like something too perfect to be real.
And that's the problem.
Because this isn't real. It can't be. Back home, he's my father's best friend. I'm the little girl he watched grow up. This—whatever happened between us in this beautiful, impossible bubble—it can't survive the reality of our lives.
I think about last night, about the incredible sex, about how he ordered amazing food and the best red wine I’ve ever had from the restaurant and we ate it in bed, sharing more travel stories and laughing.
God, I don’t want to leave, but I have to. This can’t happen again.
Carefully, so carefully, I extract myself from his embrace. He stirs but doesn't wake, and I freeze until his breathing evens out again. Then I slip out of bed, gathering my clothes from where they're scattered across the floor.
I dress in the bathroom, catching sight of myself in the mirror. My hair is a mess, my lips slightly swollen, my eyes too bright. I look like someone who just had the best night of her life.
Someone who's about to make a huge mistake if she doesn't leave right now.
I find a notepad on the desk and scrawl a quick message.
Thank you for last night. For everything. But I think we both know this was a beautiful mistake. Take care of yourself, Grant.
I stare at the words, hating how inadequate they are, how much they don't say. But what else can I write? I've been halfway in love with you since I was fourteen, and last night just made it so much worse?
I'm terrified that if I stay, I'll lose myself the way my mother did?
This was perfect, and that's exactly why it can never happen again?
I set the note on the pillow beside him and let myself take one last look. He's beautiful in sleep, his face relaxed, one arm stretched out toward the space where I'd been. My body aches with the urge to crawl back into bed, to wake him with kisses, to pretend we can have this. All of this.
But I can't.
I won't.
I slip out of the room as quietly as I can, easing the door shut behind me. The hallway is empty, the hotel still asleep, and I make it to the lobby without seeing anyone. The morning air is cool when I step outside, Florence just beginning to wake around me.
I should feel victorious. Empowered. After all, I just spent the night with the man I've wanted for years.
So why does it feel like I'm leaving a piece of myself behind in that gorgeous hotel room?
I hail a cab, giving the driver my hostel address. As the city slides past the window, I press my hand to my heart, willing it to slow down, willing the ache to subside.
It was one night. One perfect, impossible night.
And it's over.
It has to be.