What does she want to talk to me about? And why does it suddenly feel urgent?
I spend the next few hours trying to work, but my mind keeps wandering back to Emma. I try all the focus tactics I know, but nothing works for longer than ten minutes.
Finally, I grab my things and head out the door.
The elevator ride down feels endless. I try to slow my breathing, force my mind into the analytical mode that serves me well in negotiations and crisis management. But this isn't a business deal.
My driver is waiting, and I give him the address of the cafe as I slide into the back seat. Traffic is thick this time of day, and I watch the city crawl past my window while my mind spins through scenarios.
Maybe it's her father. David could have found out about Florence and confronted her. The thought makes my jaw tighten. I've been bracing for that conversation myself, knowing it's inevitable. Especially since I’m pretty sure Victoria knows we were together there.
Or maybe it's her business. She mentioned needing to finalize funding, secure investors. Perhaps something fell through and she needs help financially.
But knowing how determined she is to succeed on her own, I’m thinking if she needed money, she'd more likely avoid me than reach out.
Unless she's desperate.
The thought makes me uncomfortable. I don't want Emma to come to me out of desperation. I want?—
What do I want?
The question catches me off guard. I've been so focused on giving her space, respecting her boundaries, not pushing too hard, that I haven't let myself fully acknowledge what I actually want from this. From her.
But sitting in this car, watching Manhattan slide past while my heart pounds with worry, the answer crystallizes with uncomfortable clarity.
I want her. Not just for a night. I want to be part of her life. Want to see her smile when I wake up in the morning. Want to hear about her day, her struggles, her victories. Want to help without making her feel trapped.
Want to matter to her the way she's started to matter to me.
The realization should probably scare me more than it does. I'm forty-two years old, barely out of a bitter divorce, and I've somehow developed feelings for my best friend's daughter—a woman young enough that the age gap alone should make me pull back.
But I can't. Won't. Because Emma isn't just David's daughter or a younger woman or a mistake I made in Florence.
She's extraordinary.
The cafe comes into view—a corner spot with large windows and a reputation for discretion that makes it popular with people who need to conduct sensitive business. I've used it before for meetings that required privacy without the weight of a formal office setting.
The driver pulls up to the curb, and I'm out of the car before he can come around to open my door.
"I'll text when I need you," I tell him, and head inside without waiting for his response.
The interior is exactly as I remember—warm lighting, comfortable seating arranged to allow for private conversation, soft music that masks nearby voices.
Emma isn't here yet.
I choose a table in the back corner, away from windows and foot traffic, and sit facing the door so I'll see her when she arrives.
I order a coffee from the server even though I know I don’t need the caffeine right now. Then I wait.
The minutes stretch. I check my phone twice, but there are no messages.
I force myself to sit still, to breathe evenly, to look like a man waiting for a routine business meeting instead of someone whose entire afternoon has narrowed to this moment.
Then the door opens, and Emma steps inside.
The sight of her knocks the wind out of me. I haven't seen her since Florence—and that feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. She's wearing jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks beautiful and exhausted at the same time. Fragile in a way that makes something fierce and protective surge in my chest.
Her eyes scan the cafe, and when they land on me, I see her shoulders rise with a deep breath. Like she's bracing herself.
