Chapter 7
Grant
Emma responds immediately.
Emma: Yes. That works.
I put my phone down on my desk and stand there for a moment, staring at it.
What does she want to talk to me about? And why does it suddenly feel urgent?
I spend the next few hours trying to work, but my mind keeps wandering back to Emma. I try all the focus tactics I know, but nothing works for longer than ten minutes.
Finally, I grab my things and head out the door.
The elevator ride down feels endless. I try to slow my breathing, force my mind into the analytical mode that serves me well in negotiations and crisis management. But this isn't a business deal.
My driver is waiting, and I give him the address of the cafe as I slide into the back seat. Traffic is thick this time of day, and I watch the city crawl past my window while my mind spins through scenarios.
Maybe it's her father. David could have found out about Florence and confronted her. The thought makes my jaw tighten. I've been bracing for that conversation myself, knowing it's inevitable. Especially since I’m pretty sure Victoria knows we were together there.
Or maybe it's her business. She mentioned needing to finalize funding, secure investors. Perhaps something fell through and she needs help financially.
But knowing how determined she is to succeed on her own, I’m thinking if she needed money, she'd more likely avoid me than reach out.
Unless she's desperate.
The thought makes me uncomfortable. I don't want Emma to come to me out of desperation. I want—
What do I want?
The question catches me off guard. I've been so focused on giving her space, respecting her boundaries, not pushing too hard, that I haven't let myself fully acknowledge what I actually want from this. From her.
But sitting in this car, watching Manhattan slide past while my heart pounds with worry, the answer crystallizes with uncomfortable clarity.
I want her. Not just for a night. I want to be part of her life. Want to see her smile when I wake up in the morning. Want to hear about her day, her struggles, her victories. Want to help without making her feel trapped.
Want to matter to her the way she's started to matter to me.
The realization should probably scare me more than it does. I'm forty-two years old, barely out of a bitter divorce, and I've somehow developed feelings for my best friend's daughter—a woman young enough that the age gap alone should make me pull back.
But I can't. Won't. Because Emma isn't just David's daughter or a younger woman or a mistake I made in Florence.
She's extraordinary.
The cafe comes into view—a corner spot with large windows and a reputation for discretion that makes it popular with people who need to conduct sensitive business. I've used it before for meetings that required privacy without the weight of a formal office setting.
The driver pulls up to the curb, and I'm out of the car before he can come around to open my door.
"I'll text when I need you," I tell him, and head inside without waiting for his response.
The interior is exactly as I remember—warm lighting, comfortable seating arranged to allow for private conversation, soft music that masks nearby voices.
Emma isn't here yet.
I choose a table in the back corner, away from windows and foot traffic, and sit facing the door so I'll see her when she arrives.
I order a coffee from the server even though I know I don’t need the caffeine right now. Then I wait.
The minutes stretch. I check my phone twice, but there are no messages.
I force myself to sit still, to breathe evenly, to look like a man waiting for a routine business meeting instead of someone whose entire afternoon has narrowed to this moment.
Then the door opens, and Emma steps inside.
The sight of her knocks the wind out of me.
I haven't seen her since Florence—and that feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.
She's wearing jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
She looks beautiful and exhausted at the same time.
Fragile in a way that makes something fierce and protective surge in my chest.
Her eyes scan the cafe, and when they land on me, I see her shoulders rise with a deep breath. Like she's bracing herself.
I stand as she approaches, fighting the urge to reach for her. To pull her against me and promise that whatever's wrong, I'll fix it.
But I know that’s the worst thing I could do right now.
So I wait, letting her come to me on her own terms.
"Hi." She stops a few feet away, twisting the strap of her bag between her fingers. Up close, I can see the shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. She looks like she hasn't slept.
"Hi." I gesture to the chair across from me. "Sit. Please. Do you want coffee? Tea?"
"Water. Just water."
I flag down a server and order two waters while Emma settles into her chair. She sets her bag on the floor but doesn't lean back, doesn't relax. Every muscle in her body seems tense, ready to flee.
The server brings the water, and Emma wraps both hands around the glass as if she needs something to hold on to. I watch her take a sip, then set it down carefully.
"Emma." I keep my voice gentle, quiet. "Whatever you need to tell me, just say it. I'm here."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and the fear in her eyes makes my heartrate spike. "I don't know how to—I've been trying to figure out the right way to say this, but there isn't one. There's no right way."
"Then say it the wrong way. I don't care about the words. I just need to know what's going on. Please."
Her hands twist in her lap. "Do you remember Florence?"
The question is so unexpected that I almost laugh. Almost. "Yes, Emma. I remember Florence."
She closes her eyes, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. When she opens them again, there are tears on her lashes. "We were careful. You were careful. We used protection, and it should have been fine, but apparently ninety-nine percent effective isn't the same as—"
Understanding hits me like a freight train.
No.
The word is instinctive, immediate, my brain rejecting the possibility before it can fully form. But Emma's still talking, her words tumbling out faster now, like she has to get them all out before she loses her nerve.
"I took a test and then I went to the doctor yesterday to confirm and she did an ultrasound and I know this is—I know this isn't what either of us planned, and I know the timing is terrible, and I know your ex-wife and my father and everything is already so complicated, but I couldn't not tell you because you have a right to know and—"
"Emma." I reach across the table, catching her hands in mine. They're ice cold. "Slow down. Breathe."
She sucks in air like she's been underwater. Her fingers grip mine with surprising strength.
"You're pregnant," I say, making it a statement instead of a question. Trying to wrap my mind around the words.
She winces and then nods.
I'm going to be a father. Again.
The thought arrives with a strange sense of detachment, like I'm observing someone else's life. I already have a daughter who hates me half the time and barely tolerates me the rest. Who I've failed in ways I'm still trying to understand.
And now there's going to be another child. Mine and Emma's.
David's going to fucking kill me.
The thought crashes through my detachment like a wrecking ball.
I slept with his daughter, and now she's pregnant.
The betrayal is so massive, so complete, that my mind actually staggers under the weight of it. David has a temper—a volcanic one at that. He's going to see this as the ultimate breach of trust and he’ll be completely justified in that.
But looking at Emma's pale, terrified face, at the way she's holding my hands like I'm the only thing keeping her from drowning, I realize something with absolute clarity.
I don't care.
I'll deal with David. I'll deal with the explosion, the fallout, the probable end of our friendship. I'll deal with Victoria finding out and weaponizing it. I'll deal with Samantha's disgust and the social implications and every other consequence this news carries.
But first, I need to make sure Emma knows she's not alone in this.
"Okay," I hear myself say. My voice is steady, calm, even though my heart is hammering and my mind is racing. "Okay."
Emma blinks at me. "Okay?"
"You're pregnant. With my baby." I squeeze her hands gently. "We'll figure this out."
The tears that have been threatening finally spill over, tracking down her cheeks. "You're not angry?"
"Angry?" The word sounds absurd. "Emma, no. I'm not angry. I'm—" What am I? Shocked, definitely. Scared, absolutely. But angry? "I'm concerned. About you. About how you're doing with this."
She pulls one hand free to swipe at her face. "I'm terrified. I'm trying to build a business and putting all my energy into that, I live in an apartment the size of a closet, I wait tables to pay my bills and my father is going to disown me when he finds out. So I'm doing great."
The bitter humor in her voice makes my stomach twist. This is what she's been dealing with. Alone, for three days, while I've been in my office closing property deals and thinking the biggest problem in my life was Victoria's interference.
"You're not alone anymore," I say quietly. "Whatever you need—support, resources, help with your business—I'm here."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I see her face change. The vulnerability shuttering, walls going up. Shit.
"I don't need you to fix this for me," she says, looking away. "I can handle it."
"I know you can." I choose my words carefully, navigating terrain I can already feel turning treacherous. "But you don't have to handle it alone. This is my responsibility too."
"Responsibility." She pulls her other hand free, and I feel the loss of contact like a physical ache. "Right. Because I'm a problem that needs to be solved."
"That's not what I meant—"
She's leaning back now, putting distance between us. "I don’t need you to go into fix-it mode. Offering resources and support and help with my business like—like this is a deal you need to negotiate."
Frustration sparks in me. "What do you want me to say, Emma? That I'll walk away? Pretend this isn't happening? I can't do that."
"I want you to—" She stops, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I don't know. I don't know what I want. I just know that I can't let you take over my life the way my father took over my mother's."
And there it is. The core of her fear, laid bare.
I sit back, forcing myself to take a breath. To think instead of react. "I'm not trying to take over your life. I'm trying to be a partner in this."
"A partner with unlimited resources and the ability to solve every problem with a phone call." Her laugh is sharp. "That's not a partnership. That's a rescue operation, and I don't want to be rescued."
The server chooses that moment to appear, asking if we’d like to order dinner. I quickly wave her away. When I look back at Emma, she's staring at her water glass, her jaw tight.
"What do you want from me?" The question comes out quieter than I intend. "Tell me what you need, and I'll do it. But don't ask me to pretend I don't care about what happens to you and this baby."
"I need—" Her voice cracks. She takes a breath, tries again. "I need time to think. To figure out how to do this without losing everything I've worked for."
"Okay." I lean forward again, lowering my voice. "Take the time you need. But Emma, you need to understand something. I'm not going anywhere. This baby is mine, and I'm going to be involved in its life. That's not negotiable."
She looks up at me, and there's something in her expression that I can't quite read. Fear, yes. But also something that looks almost like hope. Like part of her wants to believe I mean it.
"You say that now," she says softly. "But when this gets messy—when my father explodes and your ex-wife finds out and everyone in both our lives has an opinion—you might change your mind."
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
"Yes," I say firmly, "I do. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, Emma.
A lot of decisions I regret. But walking away from my responsibilities isn't one of them.
And this—" I gesture between us, "—you and this baby—you're not a mistake.
Whatever happened in Florence, however complicated this is, I don't regret it. "
Fresh tears well up in her eyes, and she looks away, blinking rapidly. "There’s something else I have to tell you. It's not just one." Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "The doctor said... it's twins."
The word hangs in the air between us.
"Twins," I repeat, because surely I misheard. Surely she didn't just say—
"Two babies." Emma's watching me now, her eyes wide and bright with unshed tears. "Due in January."
Two babies.
Two children who will need everything—stability, security, love, guidance. Two more chances to fail as a father the way I've failed Samantha.
Or two chances to finally get it right.
Looking at Emma's face—at the sheer terror mixed with something that looks like desperate hope—I realize I have a choice to make.
I can panic. Can retreat into the same patterns that destroyed my marriage, the same emotional distance that pushed my daughter away.
Or I can show up. Really show up, in all the messy, complicated ways this situation demands.
I reach across the table again, and this time when I take Emma's hand, my grip is steady. Sure.
"Okay," I say with as much confidence as I can muster up. "Twins. We're having twins."