He disappeared into his walk-in closet with them. When he reappeared, he was wearing a pair of sweatpants and no shirt at all. His broad chest was just… there, his tanned skin on full display. She knew she should look away, but she didn’t. Instead, she let out her breath, relieved her light was off and he couldn’t tell she was watching.
He picked up his glass and took a long sip as his gaze wandered to his window. He stared out at the darkness for a long moment, then his head fell forward as he ran his hand through his hair. Her eyes couldn’t help but track his movements, the tension in his arms, the line of his stomach down—
She shook her head. No. This was wrong. She needed to slink down to the floor and crawl out of her room and never think about this moment ever again.
But before she could do anything, he turned and stalked out of the room.
She closed her eyes and exhaled. What was wrong with her?
She got up, shaking out her limbs and taking a deep breath. This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. And it would never happen again. As if to seal the promise, she turned on her own desk lamp, illuminating her room.
Nothing to see here, she thought to herself as she turned back to Knightley’s window.
And then her mouth went dry.
Knightley was back in his room, looking up at her windowand registering her for the first time. There was no doubt he saw her; their eyes locked.
Oh God.
She gave him a small wave, the same she had done years ago when saying good night. Then she smiled: an olive branch.
He took a sip of his drink as he stared back. A long moment passed before he moved, and when he did, it was only to reach over and shut off his desk lamp.
His room went black.
Emma’s eyes narrowed at the darkness, the storm of feelings in her chest replaced quickly by righteous indignation.
Fine, she thought. He wanted to stay pissed? No problem. But he couldn’t ignore her forever. After all, Sunday dinner was just a few days away.
He would never miss Sunday dinner.
CHAPTER 9
Knightley missed Sunday dinner.
For Mr. Woodhouse, there had been a phone call with apologies that something had come up, and for his part, Mr. Woodhouse seemed unbothered. He assured Knightley that he would be missed, but that he hoped the lady keeping him from them was worth it. From where Emma sat across from her father in the study, she heard Knightley’s laugh on the other end of the phone. She had also heard how he didn’t refute her father’s assumptions. Only some more pleasantries before both men said goodbye.
For Emma, there had been nothing at all.
Of course, she didn’t care. She didn’t even think about it. Not while she sat around the house, waiting for Thursday and class with Nadine. And not when she stared out her bedroom window each night, making sure not to look across the yard to the house that sat just beyond it.
Nope, she was fine. Knightley barely occupied her thoughts at all.
Not until the following Sunday, anyway. But that was only because she spent most of the day convincing herself that he wouldn’tshow up for dinner that week either. Which was why that evening, as she poured herself a glass of Chardonnay at the kitchen island and listened to Mrs. Pawloski rave to Ben and Margo about their father’s new juicer, she was so surprised to hear the French doors to the garden open and a familiar voice say, “Hello there.”
The wine bottle was still midair as Emma looked up to see his entrance. Knightley didn’t seem to notice her as he peeled his coat off his shoulders and laid it over the back of one of the chairs, nodding to her father at the other end of the table. He hugged Margo and Ben, and it was only after he laughed at something Mrs. Pawloski had said that his amber eyes looked up to meet her gaze.
And it was at that moment, as they stared at each other from across the kitchen, that she had to remind herself that she wasn’t supposed to care about him at all.
“Emma, bring over that white for George, will you?” her father said, motioning her back to the table.
“Of course,” she said, recovering quickly. After years of Sunday dinners, she knew that Knightley hated Chardonnay—he preferred Viognier—which is why she donned a smug smile as she brought the bottle over to the table.
Knightley was seated at the end, opposite her father and next to her. It was where he had always sat, ever since the Sunday night dinner tradition had begun before she could even form complete sentences. Tonight it felt so different though, like a layer of familiarity had been replaced by something stiff and awkward. She tried to ignore the sensation, but it was only made worse by his blank expression as she set the bottle down in front of him with a loud thud and took her own seat.
Knightley didn’t say a word to her, and everyone else was too busy listening to Mr. Woodhouse list all the fruits he had discoveredhe could now juice, to notice anything amiss. But Emma knew. She could feel it.
She and Knightley had gone almost twenty-four years without an argument. Sure, they’d had disagreements, but an eye roll or a well-timed barb usually solved it. Nothing that lasted more than a few minutes. Nothing that ever made her feel like the foundation of their friendship had fundamentally altered. Not until now.
