The entire time during Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, all I could think about was her.
Emma. Alone in her apartment, probably FaceTiming her family.
And I swear, at one point, Iheardher voice echoing from Lauren’s phone somewhere in my parents’ house, and I had to dig my fingers into the damn couch just to stop myself from asking to talk to her.
I wanted to get on the first available flight and make her mine.
I didn’t. I held back as long as I could.
But for now, I keep myself entertained by watching her like some unhinged stalker from my office. I watch her smile. Watch the way she explains something to her team; she insists on calling themcolleagues, but let’s be honest, she’s their boss.
“Mr. Walker?” Brenda’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a slap.
Right. I was in the middle of a meeting.
“Yes, Brenda?” I mutter, annoyed, eyes still locked on the woman who haunts my every waking thought.
My fingers toy with the pen fromGreat Ideas. I know it’s Emma’s. And yeah, I like knowing I have something of hers in my possession.
“I was going over your calendar. The New Year’s party is coming up.”
I finally glance at her. Brenda’s standing just inside the doorway, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. Her expression is that familiar blend of polite and petrified—always mildly terrified of me, even after all these months. Good.
“Right. Are all the guests confirmed?”
“Yes.” She swallows, shoulders straightening as if bracing for impact. “About ninety percent of the office will attend.”
“And the Great Ideas team?”
Her smile falters. Tightens at the edges. She grips the tablet harder, knuckles whitening, clearly trying to gauge if this is one of those moments where she’s about to get metaphorically dismembered.
“They… weren’t invited, sir. They’re not Property Group employees.”
Both my eyebrows go up. My chair creaks as I lean back slowly, fingers tapping once against the desk. Who the hell gets to decide who I can and can’t invite to my own goddamn New Year’s party?
“But if you’d like…” she rushes, words tumbling out, “I can send them the invitation.”
“Do it.” My voice is low, even—but sharp enough to cut glass.
Her chin jerks in a frantic nod. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s all.” My gaze flicks toward the door, a silent dismissal.
Like the terrified little mouse she is, Brenda scurries out, nearly fumbling the handle in her haste. The echo of her heels fades down the hall, leaving only the hum of the city outside the glass wall and the faint scent of espresso from the untouched cup cooling on my desk.
I hope it’s not too late to send the invite. I need to see Emma at that party. Maybe I’ll finally get an excuse to close the distance. Maybe it’ll be the first real step toward what I want.
My phone lights up, screen buzzing against the wood. A notification from LoveLamb’s Instagram.
I frown, thumb hovering over the screen. She’s sitting at her desk right now. Normally, she only posts from home.
It’s a black-and-white photo of her hand.
Delicate. Bare. No fucking engagement ring. And she’s holding the same sticky note I left on her desk on her first day at Property Group—the one that saysEmma.
Weird.
She’s always guarded about her name. Her socials are anonymous. Always.
