"Did I overstep?" I ask quietly.
She turns, and I see tears tracking down her cheeks.
"No." She shakes her head emphatically. "You were perfect. Too perfect." She wipes at her cheeks quickly. "No one's ever defended me like that."
I step closer. "It wasn't entirely strategic."
"What do you mean?"
"Victoria's criticism made me genuinely angry. You don't deserve that treatment."
Emmy stares at me. We're standing close now, the cool evening air contrasts with the warmth radiating between us.
"Thank you," she whispers.
Then she rises on her toes and kisses me.
This kiss is different from our practice—softer, filled with gratitude and something else, something deeper. My hands move to her waist automatically, pulling her closer. Her lips are warm, tender against mine. Not heated like before, but somehow more intimate. Her hands rest on my chest, and I know she can feel my racing pulse beneath her palms.
A throat clears from the balcony door. We break apart, but I keep one arm around Emmy's waist, unwilling to let her go completely.
Marcus stands there, grinning. "Just wanted to say I like this one, Em." He shoots a finger at me.
He gives me an approving nod before disappearing back inside, leaving us alone again.
Emmy steps back, creating distance between us. "We just kissed. No audience."
"No reason except..."
My mind races for an explanation that doesn't involve admitting I wanted to kiss her.
"Method acting... You know, staying in character... No?"
"Right, of course," Emmy agrees too quickly. "Method acting."
Neither of us believes it. Both pretend we do.
We return to the dinner party, but nothing is the same anymore. Emmy's hand finds mine as we say our goodbyes, and I thread our fingers together without thinking.
The car ride to her apartment is silent, charged. Every traffic light feels like a countdown.
I should drop her off, go home, re-establish boundaries. That's the logical course of action. But when I park outside her building, and she turns to me, eyes dark and wanting, logic dissolves.
"Come up," she says.
I should say no. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember this is temporary, sixty days with a clean ending. Instead, I turn off the engine.
"Yes."
We make it to her apartment door. She fumbles with keys, hands shake. I steady her hand with mine—the contact electric. The door opens. We step inside.
She drops her clutch onto the coffee table. I step forward behind her, then stop as she turns to me. Our eyes meet. My hands rise as if holding her waist. She takes one step forward betweenmy waiting hands. My mouth opens to speak, but she raises one finger, placing it directly over my lips. "Shhh!"
And the last of our control snaps.
No pretense, no excuses. She removes her finger, and my mouth is on hers—hungry, desperate. Her hands are in my hair, on my shoulders, my chest. Mine are everywhere—her hair, her waist, the curve of her spine.
All logical thought is gone. There's only want, need, her. I can't think, can only feel. If this is a miscalculation, I don't care.
