I turn off the string lights and head to my bedroom, trying not to think about the way Adrian's hands felt in my hair. The sound he made against my mouth. How my body fit against his like we were designed to slot together. Two flesh-and-blood puzzle pieces.
Trying not to think about how much I want him to come back. How, if he knocked on my door right now, I'd let him in without hesitation.
Trying, unsuccessfully, to convince myself this is still just pretend.
Because if it's not pretend—if what I felt in that kiss was real—then I'm in serious trouble.
And judging by the way Adrian looked at me before he left, the way his hands shook, the roughness in his voice…
He might be in trouble, too.
===
4
ADRIAN
Iarrive at Emmy's apartment exactly at seven, three days after our practice kiss. Three days of overthinking, overanalyzing, and completely failing to categorize what happened between us.
My attempts to file it away as "necessary preparation" have been unsuccessful. The memory intrudes at inopportune moments—during depositions, partner meetings, and my morning run. I recall the softness of her lips, the small sound she made when I deepened the kiss, how her body felt pressed against mine.
Completely unprofessional thoughts. Unacceptable. Yet they persist.
Our text exchanges since that night have been careful, professional. Neither of us has mentioned what happened. I've maintained the charade that everything is normal, that I haven't replayed that kiss fifty-seven times in my head.
I straighten my tie, adjust my cuffs, and knock.
Emmy opens the door wearing a different dress than the one she texted me a photo of fifteen minutes ago. This is the third outfit she's tried. The emerald green silk drapes perfectly across her curves, the neckline shows just enough collarbone to be elegant without revealing too much. Her hair is half-up in some intricate style I lack the vocabulary to describe, her makeup flawless.
But her hands are shaking.
"I don't know if this dress is right," she looks down, tugging at the fabric. "Too formal? Not formal enough?"
I've never seen her like this—uncertain, genuinely nervous. Emmy, who faces everything with unflinching confidence, who challenged me in my own conference room, is standing before me, biting her lower lip, doubt written across her features.
It does something to me, this vulnerability.
"You look perfect, Emmy."
Her eyes meet mine, searching for truth. I hold her gaze, letting her see I mean it.
She exhales. "Are you sure? Because my mother will notice if I'm underdressed. Or overdressed. Or if my shoes don't match exactly or if?—"
"The dress is perfect. Deep green suits you. Brings out the gold in your eyes."
Her lips part in surprise. I shouldn't notice that. I definitely shouldn't be thinking about kissing her again.
"I need to get my clutch," she says. "Come in for a minute?"
I follow her inside, past the living room where we kissed three nights ago, to her bedroom. I've never been in this space before.It's quintessentially Emmy—colorful throw pillows on an iron-frame bed, vintage quilt that must be Violet's, books stacked everywhere serving as makeshift furniture.
She rummages through her closet while I lean against the doorframe, trying not to stare at her, but failing completely.
"My mother has always been ... critical." She slumps, sitting on the edge of her bed. "Nothing I do is good enough."
I watch her twist her hands together, her knuckles whitening.
"My writing is frivolous. My lifestyle is bohemian. My singleness is a failure." Her voice drops. "A disappointment."
