The ground underneath me shifts.
Emmy stands in the hallway, looking exhausted. Dark circles underline her red-rimmed eyes. Has she been crying? Her hair escapes from a messy bun, framing her face. An oversized burgundy cardigan slips off one shoulder, revealing the strap of a black tank top beneath. Worn jeans, ankle boots, that messenger bag slung across her body.
For a second, my mind goes blank. This keeps happening around her, and it's both unusual and concerning.
I'm never the type to stutter or lose focus. Yet I find myself needing to concentrate fully just to form a coherent sentence in her presence.
Why does she affect me like this?
"This better be important, Adrian. I'm not in the mood for more bad news about Violet's estate."
Her voice sounds tired, defensive. She walks past me into the apartment, and when her shoulder brushes my chest, I stiffen. That brief contact has my blood rushing down south. Fuck, this is so not the time.
Struggling to keep my heartbeat within normal range, I close the door and turn to find her surveying my living space, her expression a barely concealed judgment.
I see my apartment through her eyes: too sterile, too cold, too much like me. The Italian leather sectional, untouched. The glass coffee table displaying nothing but her grandmother's will. The Eames chair, where I sometimes read legal briefs. The kitchen appliances that look unused, because they are. Well, I do use them sometimes, I console myself.
Something about her assessment bothers me. I ignore it.
"Would you like coffee?" I ask.
She looks surprised at the offer but nods. "Yes, thank you."
I move to the kitchen area. "Black with one sugar, right?"
Her eyebrows rise. Her head tilts. "You remember how I take my coffee?"
"You mentioned it. Once." I don't add that I've noticed it four separate times—twice during probate meetings, once at the funeral reception, once during the will reading.
I pull out a paper bag from Sip O'Clock, her regular coffee shop. I've seen her there twice, both times when she didn't notice me. She always ordered the same things.
Her phone rings as I prepare the coffee. She checks it, sighs. "I should take this. My agent. Do you mind?"
I gesture toward the living room. "Not at all."
As I measure coffee beans, I can't help overhearing snippets of her conversation.
"I know, Soph... I've tried everything..."
"No, I can't just hire someone, he'd see right through it..."
"I can't let the library go, I just can't..."
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest. I grip the counter edge, processing the feeling. She sounds desperate, broken.
My resolve solidifies: I'm making the right call.
She ends the call and returns, walls back up. I hand her the coffee, and our fingers brush. Ah, fuck. Here we go again. She pulls back—she notices the electricity when we touch. I noticed she noticed. Her gaze drops to my mouth for less than a second, then away.
My pulse jumps, and to avoid making things more awkward, I hold out the pastry bag. "Croissant or chocolate twist?"
"No way. From Sip O'Clock? How did you know I like it there?"
"I noticed. You ordered the same thing during our second meeting."
She takes the chocolate twist, doesn't comment further. Good thing she doesn't ask why I'm creepily noticing things I shouldn't, because honestly, I have no answer. I've been asking myself the same question.
We sit—Emmy on the sectional, me in the Eames chair. The physical distance is intentional. The farther I am, the better I can think.
