More silence. I watch his hands—those talented hands that touched me in Florence in ways that now make my thighs clench. He's gripping his knees slightly, like he needs something to hold onto.
"This is weird," I say finally.
"What is?"
"This. Us. Trying to have a mature conversation about OB-GYNs when—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence. When I can't stop thinking about the way you felt inside me? When every time you look at me, I remember Florence?
"When we can barely look at each other without remembering?" He says it quietly, his eyes finding mine in the dim interior of the car.
My breath catches. "Exactly."
"I know." His gaze drops to my mouth, then away. "I'm trying very hard to be respectful. To give you space. But Emma—" His voice roughens. "You're making it very difficult in that dress."
Heat floods through me. "I didn't wear it for—I mean, I just thought?—"
"I know what you thought." He shifts in his seat, still maintaining that careful distance. "And you're right. We should be having mature, practical conversations about doctor's appointments and living arrangements. We should be planning, strategizing, making rational decisions."
"We should," I agree.
"But all I can think about is how badly I want to touch you."
His admission steals the air from my lungs. I should say something sensible. Should remind him—remind both of us—that we need to keep things chill for now. That sex just complicates an already complicated situation. I mean… sex is how we got into this predicament to begin with.
Instead, I hear myself whisper, "Me too."
His hand finds mine on the seat between us. His fingers thread through mine, and the simple contact sends electricity up my arm.
"It makes sense to do this the right way," he says, still looking at our joined hands. "Take things slow. Build a foundation of trust before we?—"
"I know."
"But I don't think I can sit through an entire dinner pretending I don't want you."
My heart hammers. "What are you suggesting?"
He finally looks at me, and the heat in his eyes nearly undoes me. "I'm suggesting we have dinner. We talk about the practical things we need to talk about. And then—" He pauses. "And then maybe we stop pretending."
I should say no. Should tell him we need to keep boundaries, maintain distance, and not let physical attraction cloud our judgment about the very serious decisions we need to make.
But my body is already leaning toward him, drawn like a magnet.
"Okay," I breathe.
His grip on my hand tightens and the air feels charged now, heavy with promise.
The restaurant is as formal as he indicated—white linen tablecloths, hushed conversations, impeccable service, the kind of place where the menu doesn't list prices. We're led to a private room in the back, all dark wood and soft lighting, and themoment the door closes behind the host, I feel like I can breathe again.
"This is a gorgeous room," I say, looking around as I settle into my chair.
"I thought you might prefer privacy." Grant sits across from me, and even with a table between us, I can feel the pull. "Given that we're about to discuss some fairly personal matters."
A server appears with a bottle of fancy Italian sparkling water and wine menus. Grant orders mocktails for both of us without asking, and I try not to find it sweet that he isn’t drinking in solidarity with me.
I order the salmon on top of… something. Quinoa, maybe? It doesn't matter. I'm too nervous to eat.
Once we're alone again, Grant pulls out his phone. "I sent you the information about the OB practice. I’d like to join you at your next appointment."
"I already have an appointment with Dr. Byers," I say. "I think I’d like to stay with her unless there’s a reason to move to a different practice.”
