Knightley cared for Nadine, too.
He had given Nadine smiles that Emma had never received. Attention and affirmation that Emma didn’t even recognize. Perhaps she could have laughed it off if he were someone else, like Montgomery. But Knightley wasn’t a self-obsessed playboy—he wasn’t in the habit of leading women on or being anything other than honest.
Maybe that was the reason he left. He would never just run off with her friend, but that didn’t mean he didn’t harbor feelingsfor her. And now he was avoiding Emma because he didn’t know how to tell her the truth. Oh God. Is that what was happening?
She walked ahead like she was on autopilot, freeing her ponytail, then shedding her coat, her bag, her scarf in a trail that led downstairs to the kitchen. The room was silent, and suddenly the loss of him was immediate. She didn’t know the next time he would be in this kitchen. He had moved on before she had a chance to realize what she had lost at all.
And she could never tell him. She would never do that to Nadine. She would have to swallow this and pretend.
Yes, she would just have to pretend.
Except that she couldn’t pretend. Not with him. She had learned at an early age not to even try. He was probably the only person on earth who could see through her. So how could she possibly do this? How could she keep him from knowing?
Because he’s in Los Angeles.
The thought came over her like a wave, cold and calming. Yes, he was gone. And as much as she missed him, at least he wasn’t right there as a constant reminder. She could do this.
She let out a deep breath, lifting her chin as if it would steel her resolve. Yes, she could—
BAM BAM BAM
The sound of someone knocking on the garden glass doors filled the room and Emma screamed.
She gripped the edge of the island and turned around, ready to lunge for the knife block until she realized that the looming figure on the other side of the glass wasn’t a murderer.
It was Knightley.
Her body was frozen in place, her eyes wide with shock as her heart tripped over itself. Meanwhile, he looked at her like she had grown a second head. Then he pointed down to the doorknob.
Oh. Right. It was locked.
She approached slowly and flipped the dead bolt, immediately hit by a blast of cool air and him: that familiar smell—a mix of pine and leather—and his body, tall and broad and inches from her. He was in a pair of worn jeans and that navy cashmere sweater she loved so much, the one that hugged his chest and arms and—
Oh God.
She tried to look away but there was nowhere to look. He consumed everything.
“Why is the door locked?” he asked, his voice hitting some deep part of her chest.
Pretend pretend pretend.
“Why wouldn’t it be locked?” she countered, shrugging.
“Because it’s never locked.”
“It’s never locked when you’re here.”
He seemed to pick up on the subtext.You’re not here now. He only nodded once.
Silence fell and she realized again how close he was standing, his face near enough that she could feel his warm breath on her skin as she looked up to meet his gaze.
Too close, much too close.
She took a step back, and then another, trying to look like it was a natural movement, something she would just casually do, until she bumped into the kitchen table. It shuddered from the impact, and she turned just in time to catch the vase in the center before it toppled over and spilled its pink peonies all over the floor. She whirled back around with the vase still in her hands, a smile plastered on her face.
“Are you okay?” Knightley asked, narrowing his eyes on her.
“Fine. I’m fine,” she said, putting the flowers down and flipping her chestnut hair away from her face. “I just didn’t know you were back. From LA. You know, since you haven’t answered any of mytexts. Or emails. Or… anything. So, yeah, I didn’t know you were back. When did you get back?”
