Bless his sister’s heart, she bought his favorites. Salami and ham, and provolone and cheddar.
“Salami or ham or both?”
“Ham.”
“Provolone or cheddar, and mayo or mustard?”
“Cheddar and mayo.”
Her voice had softened some. Was she on her way to forgiving him?
When he finished making the sandwiches, he put them on plates along with a dill pickle spear and some baby carrots. He carried the plates into the living room and handed Emma hers, and set his on the end table next to the recliner.
“Thank you.”
“You bet. What would you like to drink?”
“Just water.”
He filled two glasses with water, handed her one, and then sat in the recliner.
The air was thick, and the silence was excruciating. He wanted to apologize to her for being an ass, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to. If he let things end with her right here, he’d be off the hook and could go on with his life as normal. The way he’d intended since the moment Blythe stomped on his heart, shattering it into a million pieces. Water sloshed in his glass when he picked it up. He hoped Emma wouldn’t notice his nerves were shot. An unfocused protector was the last thing she needed.
His gaze found its way back to her. She’d just taken a bite of her sandwich. A little mayonnaise clung to her lip, and he watched as her tongue darted out of her mouth and wiped away the mayo. In that instant, he recalled how her warm tongue had felt against his. His heartbeat quickened. He should say something now to smooth things over, or all would be lost. Wait! That’s what he wanted, right? If he just let this ride without saying anything now, he was in the perfect position to just walk away from her when this was all over. The damage had been done. She already thought he wanted to end this romantic relationship by the way he treated her at the lake.
Coward. His inner voice yelled at him.
Emma’s questioning gaze bore into him.
He should tell her everything. Explain why he was a dick to her when all she did was ask a simple question as to why he wasn’t in a committed relationship at his age. If he were to be honest with himself, he wanted to tell her. Surely she could understand and be able to relate.
She blinked and tilted her head slightly to the side as if recognizing he suffered from some type of internal conflict. Her plump reddish-pink lips pulled into an inquisitive pout. His brain begged him to jump up, run to her, and kiss that pout away.
For chrissake, he was thirty-seven years old. Why was he feeling so insecure and giddy about his feelings for Emma?
He took a large bite of his sandwich to prevent himself from saying or doing anything stupid or regretful. Then, mistakenly, he met her gaze.
“I’m sorry,” they both said in unison.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he quickly countered.
“I obviously said or did something you didn’t like. Whatever it was, I didn’t mean to hurt or upset you,” she replied.
He moved to her, dropping to one knee.
“It was all me, sweetheart. All me and I’m sorry. I just, it’s a long story, and I’m sorry.”
He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, and then, for a distraction, reached over and lifted the icepack from her ankle. The bruising and swelling didn’t appear to get any worse.
“How’s it feeling?” he asked.
“It’s fine.”
Cap’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and found a text from Chief Mertz.
His heart sank even though he knew the answer to the question he’d asked in an earlier text to the chief. Now, how to tell Emma. Shoot it straight.
“The text is from Chief Mertz. I’m sorry, but it’s a no-go to see Jonathan at the hospital. It’s too dangerous.”
