She looked up after a while, her gaze landing on Knightley’s house. Her eyes traveled from the motion-sensor light, picking up no signs of life, only the tree branches waving in the wind. Then her gaze traveled up to his bedroom window. It was pitch-black; she couldn’t see anything. But she still stared as her brain wandered. He probably hadn’t seen anything; he probably wasn’t even there. But the possibility still twisted her stomach as she turned off the kitchen light, the room matching the darkness outside.
CHAPTER 16
Emma slept in the next day. Even after she woke, she stayed in bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why she still felt so unsettled. Part of her knew she had to get up—there was a party to plan, after all—but even the prospect of that only made her want to hide under the covers. Thankfully it was Christmas break and there were no classes, so she could hide there forever—or at least for a couple of weeks. That was mildly comforting. But after a few minutes awake and alone with her thoughts, she got up and trudged to the bathroom. The shower hadn’t quite warmed up by the time she stepped in, but she didn’t care as she stood under the cool spray. The uneasy feeling was still there when she got out, so she tried to distract herself by concentrating on everything else: drying her hair and pulling it back, putting on a pair of black leggings and a long, cozy cashmere sweater, going downstairs to get some coffee.
She was concentrating so hard that she didn’t look up until she walked into the kitchen. When she did, she almost jumped out of her skin.
“Jesus!” she exclaimed, staring at where her father sat at theisland. And at Knightley sitting beside him. Because of course he was there. He was always there.
“Hello to you too,” Mr. Woodhouse replied, taking a sip of tea as he continued to read the paper.
Knightley was watching her with an unreadable expression, and her stomach dropped. Had he seen her and Montgomery last night? Was he judging her? Angry at her? Her rib cage suddenly felt like it could barely contain her pounding heart.
“Morning,” she mumbled, shuffling to the sink.
“It’s almost noon,” Knightley replied. He looked like he had stopped by on the way home from one of his runs around the Central Park reservoir. His face was flushed and a thin coat of sweat glistened on his skin, darkening the edges of his T-shirt.
She rolled her eyes as she filled a glass with water, hoping it would somehow dispel the flush in her cheeks.
“So, how was the rest of the night?” he asked.
There was no way to tell if the question was for her or her father, but Emma’s pulse still tripped in her veins. “I… um…”
Knightley hadn’t seen anything last night, she rationalized to herself. His windows were dark. He probably wasn’t even home! But she still couldn’t manage to look back over at him as she took a deep sip of her water.
“Oh, Emma, are you all right? You’re not getting sick, are you?” Mr. Woodhouse asked, finally looking up from theTimes.
“I’m fine,” she replied, filling her glass again.
Knightley raised a quizzical brow at her. “You sure?”
She donned a feeble smile. “Everything is fine. The night was great. You just left early.”
“Oh, I saw enough.”
Oh God. She took another sip of water.
“You’re probably not feeling well because you’re not getting enough B6,” her father interjected. “You should eat a banana.”
Emma made her way to the other end of the island and picked up a banana from the fruit bowl. She could still feel Knightley watching her, but she didn’t dare make eye contact.
“Fran’s at the store, I’ll have her pick up some buckwheat so I can make you some of my fortified porridge,” Mr. Woodhouse continued.
“It’s gruel, Dad.”
He ignored her, standing up and ushering her to his stool. “Here, sit down. Let me make you a kale smoothie. Don’t think I didn’t notice all you did to make it enjoyable for everyone last night. Sit, sit. George was just telling me about his LA trip,” Mr. Woodhouse said while he grabbed ingredients from the fridge.
“Oh, right. How was it?” Emma asked. LA was a safe conversation topic. She smiled, prepping herself to listen attentively like a true friend and feeling a bit guilty that she hadn’t asked about it last night.
“Constructive,” Knightley replied. She stared at him, waiting for more. He stared back. After a long moment, he sighed. “It was good, Emma. Our current deal is on track, and we don’t anticipate any hiccups.”
Mr. Woodhouse sliced into a mango. “And what is this deal exactly?”
“A friend of Ben’s started a hydroponics lab a few years ago to grow microgreens for a lot of the city’s restaurants. He ended up refining the technology in a way that meant he could mass produce these small self-sustaining farms, put them in shipping containers, and send them anywhere. We invested and now it’s being acquired by a large agricultural company in California. I’m trying to stay on top of the transition.”
“Is it going to see you out in LA permanently?” her father asked.
“I don’t think so, but you never know.”
