He guided her back inside.
Grant stood on the empty terrace, his jacket still warm from her body. The October wind hit the sweat on his neck and he almost laughed—at Tyce's timing, at his own, at the sheer absurdity of standing alone on a museum terrace holding a jacket that smelled like someone else's perfume while the city carried on below like the ground hadn't just shifted.
Emmy Woodhouse had stopped being West's little sister.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harper arrived at Emmy's apartment at nine-thirty on Saturday morning carrying two coffees and enough energy to suggest she'd been awake since six.
"I know you said you were fine." Harper pushed past Emmy with the determination of a woman on a mission. "But you went radio silent at a museum gala where your star client was on a date, and for you, that's basically the bat signal. What happened?"
Emmy closed the door. Her hair was wet. Her robe was on inside out. She'd already walked Daniel twice around the block, left Callie's dry cleaning outside 3B, and returned Mrs. Jasinski's casserole dish with a note that saidthis was incredible, please teach me—all before 8AM, all on autopilot, hands busy while her brain replayed the terrace on a loop.
She'd been staring at herself in the mirror for twenty minutes trying to assemble a facial expression that didn't screamI am having a crisis.
It had not been going well.
"I was so busy all night I never even looked at my phone. Went straight to sleep when I got home."
"Uh-huh. That must be why you look so well-rested." Harper set the coffees on the kitchen island. October sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes. Everything felt strangely slow-motion.
"You went to a museum gala last night." Harper's voice was flat. "You texted me nothing. Not a single emoji. Not one 'OMG you'll never believe.' And now you have a tennis match against a Wimbledon quarterfinalist in—“ She checked her phone. "Two and a half hours. And you're 'fine.'"
Emmy reached for one of the coffees. Harper slid it toward her.
"Hazelnut latte. I remembered."
Emmy's throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Now spill." Harper hopped onto a barstool, pulling her legs up. The oversized cardigan she wore—marigold, another grandmother creation—swallowed her whole, and her hair was piled in a chaotic bun held together by what appeared to be a chopstick. "How was the gala? Did you schmooze? Did you network? Did you—” Her eyes narrowed. "Wait. How was Grant's date?"
Emmy's hand tightened on the cup.
"Fine. It was fine."
"Three 'fines' in under a minute." Harper leaned forward. "Something happened."
Emmy took a long drink.
"Grant ended things with Thea."
Harper's eyebrows shot up. "He did? Why? I thought you said she was perfect."
Emmy gave her the short version—Thea's dismissal, the donor who'd called athletes glorified gym rats, Emmy's very public defense. She left out the terrace. She left out the jacket.
"So you made a scene," Harper said when she finished.
"I made a point."
"At a museum gala. In front of your boss." Harper was grinning. "Emmy Woodhouse, chaos agent."
"It wasn't chaos. It was—“ Emmy stopped. What was it? She'd heard Thea's voice, that patronizing little laugh, and something in her chest had cracked open. Not anger exactly. Something worse. The feeling of watching someone she—someone she knew—be dismissed as less-than. "I couldn't just stand there."
"Because he's your client."
"Yes. And my friend."
Harper's face softened. She knew what it meant to have Emmy in your corner.
