She looks at the painting, then back at me. “Ask me now.”
“What?”
“If it’s life-changing.” She smiles, and it is the most real thing I’ve seen in years. “The answer is yes.”
I don't want her to walk away yet.
“There is a café upstairs,” I say. I hope I don't sound as awkward as I feel. “Let me buy you a coffee. To thank you for the ticket and to celebrate your news.”
She hesitates. I brace for the no.
“Okay,” she says. “But I’m getting a pastry too. I think I’ve earned it.”
“Let’s see what we can find.” The word comes out steady. The rest of me isn't.
I gesture for her to lead the way. As she moves past, I catch her scent for the first time. It isn't a heavy perfume. It’s something clean, like orange blossom and soap. I am too close. I know I am crowding her, but I can’t seem to put distance between us. We weave through the galleries toward the stairs. A group of tourists blocks the walkway, and I angle my body, positioning myself between her and the crowd. She glances up at me before quickly looking away.
She speeds up. I match her. She slows down. I do the same. I am tracking her movements like a predator.
We reach the stairs, and she hits them too fast. Her foot catches the edge of the first step, and she pitches forward.
My arm is around her waist before I know it’s moving. I pull her back against my chest. She weighs less than she should. Her heat bleeds through my suit like it's not there.
“Careful.”
My mouth lands closer to her ear than I intended. She turns her head. Gold flecks in her big hazel eyes. Her breath hitches.
“Sorry,” she whispers, shaking herself free. “I’m clumsy. It’s a whole thing. Thanks for the... catching.”
I release her slowly. My hand lingers on the curve of her waist for a second too long.
“Anytime,” I say.
She continues going up the stairs at a careful pace, one hand brushing the rail.
I’m in trouble.
CHAPTER 5
THE JACKET
EMMA
The café is tuckedinto a corner of the top floor, all warm lighting and mismatched chairs. My legs haven't stopped shaking, and it has nothing to do with the stairs. I can still feel the ghost of his hand, a lingering grip that makes my skin prickle.
“What would you like?”
Kai’s voice pulls me back to the present. He is studying the display case as if the pastries were a tactical problem he needs to solve.
“Hot chocolate,” I say. “And that one.” I point at a chocolate croissant. “Actually, no. That one.” I shift my finger to the lemon cake. “No, wait. The croissant. Final answer.”
He doesn't look annoyed. He doesn't check his watch or huff with the impatience I’ve come to expect.
He turns to the barista. “A hot chocolate, a chocolate croissant, a slice of lemon cake, and a black coffee.”
“You don’t have to get both.”
“You couldn’t decide.”
