Or me.
But Emma Jane doesn't need to know that I promised her father I’d take over the estate if Emma Jane ran off and got married.
No one else has made it here yet, but I walk inside anyway because Henry gave me a key eons ago. I hang my dress coat on the golden rack by the door and walk through the entryway until I arrive at the sitting room. Henry gives the housekeepers Friday through Sunday off, so I gather logs from the rack tucked away in the corner of the room and get the fire started. Maybe Henry won’t complain about random drafts if the fire is already hot and going.The rest of us are sure to begin sweating, but it’s his house, and we all care about the sensitive man greatly.
Before long, Henry and Emma Jane arrive, followed by my mom, who is on the phone with my brother, John. Henry takes a seat near the fire and closes his eyes while Mom and Emma Jane head toward the kitchen. Henry must be having an off day, so I lay a thin blanket over him and join the women to help prep our meal.
“Knightley, be a dear and grab the boiled eggs from the fridge. E. J. said they should be inside a blue container.” I look around for the short, platinum blonde firecracker, but she’s nowhere to be seen. After grabbing the eggs, I watch my mom, whose silver hair is fixed into a neat bun as she moves around the kitchen like she owns the place. This was our family’s second home after Dad passed away. When Henry’s wife died, he and Mom found companionship in one another. It’s never been romantic, but the two have a deep friendship like I’ve never seen. Something deeper than what I have with Emma Jane or what I had with Cami before she passed away. An understanding only grief can create.
The thought of Cami stuns me for a second as it always does when she pops up in my head without warning. And right as I’m staring into the past, as well as presently at the kitchen entrance where Mom just disappeared through, Emma Jane comes into view wearing a pretty pink sundress, her shoulder-length hair framing her face perfectly.
My gut clenches and my head spins.
Emma Jane looks stunning, and the guilt I feel over that thought while thinking of my deceased wife leaves mebreathless.
I shake my head then come to my senses as Emma Jane checks me as if I’ve lost it. “You okay?”
“There was a… bug,” I say, swatting at perfectly clear air. Maybe I have lost it. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed Emma Jane’swomannessover the past couple of years. But noticing it while having a moment of missing Cami… it feels wrong.
Which leads me to a ridiculous comparison of the two that I can’t help but make. Emma Jane is snarky and full of fight, whereas Cami was always the sweet and go-with-the-flow type, even when she challenged me. Emma Jane demands to be the center of attention, whereas Cami would shy away from it. I remember countless conversations where she would cry in my arms over feeling like she couldn’t step out of line even once because her town expected perfection from her.
Though they shared platinum blonde hair and tan skin, Cami was tall and slim whereas Emma Jane is short and curvy. Cami had sharp features whereas Emma Jane’s face is softer, her eyes more of an almond shape. Her lips are fuller. Pouty.
Something hits my forehead, and I rip my attention from her mouth. Emma Jane’s eyebrows are knitted together, and she holds a rag, which I’m assuming is what snapped against my forehead. “Why are you looking at my lips? Stop being weird.”
Heat crawls up my neck, deepening when I catch Mom across the kitchen island, sneaking glances our way while wearing a satisfied smile.
“You wish I was,” I mumble unintelligibly.
She quips back. “In your dreams, Squire.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to retort with “maybe tonight,” but I smack my lips together to hold it in. That’s crossing a line. A line I accidently pole vaulted over two nights ago when I invited her over to watch a movie with me.
I couldn’t tell you what came over me, and I surmise it’s the simple fact that I’ve begun tonoticeEmma Jane, and it’s been a long time since I’ve dated or even thought of a woman.
Emma Jane laughs. “See? You’re already wetting your lips thinking about it.” Then she casually calls over her shoulder. “Jane, come get your son. He’s hitting on me again.”
Mom shocks me when she says, “It’s about time he’s sticks his toe over the friendship line.”
We both tear our attention from each other and redirect to Mom. I screech, “I am not,” just as Emma Jane says breathlessly, “He is not.”
I motion toward her as if she alone verified the authenticity of my statement.
“Again?” Jane asks. “When did he hit on you the first time?”
My face flames with heat, and I cut my eyes to Emma Jane. Is she going to tell my mother that I told Emma Jane I wanted her toneedme?Oh, heavens… please no. Don’t do it, Janie. Don’t—
Emma Jane swallows, shifting her reddened face from me to my mother, and then she blurts, “I’m actually going to matchmake Knightley. I was simply testing out his flirting game.”
Thank you, Lord.
Wait,what?
At this statement, Mom exits the kitchen once more, and I stalk the short distance until I’m hovering over Emma Jane. “No. You are not meddling in my love life.”
She throws a saucy smile up at me. “Of course not. Your love life doesn’t exist. I’m helping you create one.”
I try to think of a smart remark, but… she’s right. Still not happening, though. “I don’t need a love life.”
