Before Emma could answer, a shadow moved behind her.
Darren leaned into the frame, kissing the top of her head. “Hi, Leah. Remind me to explain time zones to you the next time we meet.”
Leah let out a strangled gasp.
“And Emma is right,” he added smoothly. “Itisway past her bedtime. Bye, Leah.”
“Wait—” Leah shouted. “London content, Emma, or I am firing you as a client—”
The call ended with a soft click. Emma drew up one knee, the worn leather of the chair giving a low creak as she looked back.
“Hi,” she said, smiling. “How was the gallery meeting?”
“It went perfectly.” Darren set down his portfolio by the couch. “They’ll host the exhibition starting next month. I’ll order ridiculous amounts of champagne for the opening. Get everyone drunk enough to love the photos.”
“You won’t have to,” Emma said, folding her arms over the back of the chair. “They’re amazing.”
Darren ran a hand through her hair. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “You’d better come back here for the opening. I’ll point you toward all the fancy art people so you can charm and dazzle them while I keep refilling their glasses. They won’t know what hit them.”
His cheeks were pink from the London autumn chill. A different kind of cold than Minneapolis, rawer somehow, like mist settling in your bones.
Emma hadn’t quite gotten used to it in the week she’d been here—their first real stretch of time together after months of FaceTime calls across time zones.
But she didn’t mind the cold so much. Darren’s cozy Hampstead townhouse felt designed for curling up indoors—and he was good at finding ways to keep her warm. Takeaway coffee with just a touchof hazelnut syrup. Promptly wrapping her in scarves for their walks around the Heath, even when she insisted she didn’t need one. Takeout boxes on the floor by the fireplace, turning dinner into an indoor picnic.
Other ways too.
“Of course I’ll be here,” Emma said. “What’s the dress code? I might wear one of your T-shirts.”
Darren made a sound resembling a growl. She met the dark look he gave her without flinching, barely holding back her smile. Anticipation coiled low in her belly.
“So,” he said, voice dropping. With one smooth pull, he dragged her chair toward him. Emma gasped as it scraped sideways. He ignored it, bracing his hands on either armrest. Caging her in. Her pulse stumbled.
“You finished the first draft. How come you didn’t tell me?”
Emma reached out to close the laptop, slow like a dare. She shrugged lightly. “Because the real magic doesn’t happen until the second draft.”
He lifted her chin with gentle fingers, keeping her gaze pinned to his.
“No, Emma,” he murmured. “The real magic happens when you put the pen down...and let someone else write for a while.”
She arched a brow. “Is that so?”
“Oh yes.”
“Fine,” she said, smirking. “Then write me a story, Darren Cole.”
His eyes glinted, turning wicked. “Oh, I can do one better.”
Emma yelped when he scooped her up without warning, like some shameless Harlequin cover model.
“Put me down, you maniac,” she laughed, clutching at him. “I wasn’t done with the scene. This is a clear violation of basic workplace safety protocols.”
He carried her toward the bedroom with effortless ease. “You told me you were done playing it safe, Emma. You don’t get to complain about protocols.”
Even so, he was careful as he eased her down on the bed, brushing stray locks of hair from her face.
“And besides,” he added, lips curving. “I’m just following the number one rule of good writing.”
