He sighed, cutting himself off. “You know what, I owe you a clear and honest answer. Just—not like this. Not when you’re running on fumes.”
His gaze slid to the bed, the laptop askew on the comforter. “Now turn that thing off. This is tragic. No one deserves this on a Saturday.”
Emma gave a tired shrug. “It’s my job, Darren.”
“It’s your prison.” Something shifted in his tone—half-tease, half-truth. “I’m here to spring you.”
“Way to be dramatic,” Emma muttered, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth.
“Oh, really?” He pointed at her laptop. “Are those little boxes not literally called cells?”
He looked far too pleased with himself. She let out a small laugh, shaky but real, brushing her fingers under her eyes. “Did you think of that one in the car over?”
“I did. I found it very clever.”
Emma shook her head, exhaling slowly. She untangled herself from his grip and took a few steps toward the window, needing a moment of distance. The nearness of him both steadied and unsteadied her.
She gestured at the computer. “It’s this board woman. She wants answers to exactly everything—probably next week’s lotto numbers too—and my boss thinks it’s a perfectly reasonable request.”
Darren tilted his head. “Do you want me to call her? Because I will.”
Emma huffed. “And say what? No offense, but I doubt she knows who you are. She’s the kind of person who claims to only read original-language French novels for entertainment while secretly bingingLove Island.”
Darren snorted. “She sounds delightful. No wonder you’re bending yourself in half to please her.”
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress beside him. “Come. Sit.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
His chin lifted a fraction. Something in his gaze darkened.
“Because I said so.”
Her pulse kicked. The authority in his tone hit a nerve. Sparked a quiet longing to just surrender, to stop holding everything together for once.
She obeyed, a thread of anticipation sliding down her spine as she lowered herself beside him. The command evaporated the moment she sat, leaving just Darren again.
He turned fully toward her, knee resting on the bed. Emma stayed stiff, looking down at the hands folded in her lap. The care, the attention—and from him of all people. It was almost unbearable.
“Emma. I get it. After everything you told me about your family, I understand why you cling so tightly to a normal life. But here’s the truth—you’re not your grandfather. You don’t have a family to carry on your shoulders. And the biggest difference?”
He leaned in slightly, his voice firm but gentle. “You’ve already made it. Look at you. Look at what your stories mean. Hell, there are thousands of people out there right now losing their minds over your weird octopus thing.”
A broken sound slipped out of her, caught between a laugh and a sob.
He didn’t look away. The teasing was gone; what remained was a steady, unwavering presence.
“Look, I’m not telling you to quit. I’m telling you not to let people like that board woman—or your boss—convince you that answering weekend emails is life or death. Right now, the only thing that matters is you. Breathing. Smiling, if possible. Have you eaten anything today?”
She considered lying. Then didn’t. He’d probably see through it, anyway. “Not really.”
He clapped his hands against his knees. “That settles it. You’re coming to lunch with me. Now.”
The pressure in her chest loosened, exasperation mingling with something close to relief. “You’re absurdly persuasive, you know that?”
“Side effect of playing manipulative bad boys.” He rose and held out his hand to her. “Tacos?”
Her eyes flicked from his hand to the accusing glow of the laptop, then back again.
