“For fuck’s sake, Marge, have you ever heard of personal boundaries?”
She continues chewing. “What are those?”
“Christ. I’m not discussing this with you,” I say, going back to the fridge. It’s devoid of food. Of course it is.
That’s why Margaret is here. She knows me better than I know myself.
Her smile is thin as she watches me shut the fridge again. “Oh, I know. You don’t discuss feelings. You bury them under five AM workouts and a quarterly forecast.”
“Marge—”
“That girl is something special.” Her gaze thins. “You know that, don’t you?”
I do. Which makes all this even harder. Which makes my reaction last night at the pre-launch celebration even worse.
After a long silence, Margaret finally gets the hint, standing and smoothing her blouse. She collects her things.
“Just one more thing,” she says lightly, already halfway to the door.
I raise a brow. “God, please don’t.”
She glances over her shoulder. “If you’re going to continue to screw up when it comes to Miss Sinclair, Donovan… try not to do it where the photographers can see. The launch budget doesn’t account for CEO screw ups.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and I stare at the space where she stood, throat tight, one unbearable truth staring me in the face.
I can run all I want, but I’m not escaping this.
Not Emma. Not the baby.
Not myself.
Which is why twelve hours later, I’m standing in front of Emma’s apartment building, with enough sense to not come empty-handed.
The buzzer for her building on the westside is an impassive little bastard, blinking back at me like it knows how badly I fucked up. Bags of food in hand, I press it once, twice, and then a third time.
Leaning in closer to the intercom, I lay a palm against the wall like I might somehow absorb her silence through osmosis.
"You can ignore me tomorrow,” I say into the speaker. “Hell, ignore me next week. But not tonight. Not when I'm trying."
I wait. Then a click. The buzzer buzzes, the door unlocking, and I blink, halfway convinced it’s some sort of a trick.
Then I move. Fast. Up three flights of stairs, taking them two at a time because I can't wait for the elevator and I don’t trust myself not to explode if I stop.
I reach her door and knock immediately.
No answer.
I knock again, slower, and a second later, the door opens. Emma stands there, barefoot in leggings and an oversized NYU sweatshirt, her dark silky hair piled on top of her head, hazel eyes wary.
My pulse kicks like a starting gun.
"I told myself I wasn’t going to let you in," she says, arms crossed.
"And yet…" I glance at the open door.
"And yet.”
I swallow a thousand things I want to say.
