Anger still prickled under his skin at how he had left Emma out there in the garden. He could have just told her how he felt. Hell, he could have kissed her. But he didn’t. He walked away.
Afterward, he had wandered that ridiculous house until he found Davina in the dining room, chatting with a group of people he didn’t know and didn’t want to. All he cared about was that Montgomery was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Emma. It felt like a punch low in his gut.
“Ready?” he had asked Davina, leaning close so she would hear him over the music.
“Right now? The party’s just getting started,” she had said, offering him a playful frown. It hit him then that he didn’t reallycare if she stayed without him or not. That he would rather go home alone tonight. But he didn’t say it. Instead, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek and asked her to text him when she left so he could send a car.
It was only when he descended the front steps to the sidewalk, when he inhaled the sharp bite of the cold air into his lungs, that he realized he couldn’t go home. Because Emma might be home too, right across the yard. Or worse, she might not come home at all. If he went back to his house, he would simply sit there and brood, stare at her dark window, and wait until she returned. So he had walked the empty streets of the Upper East Side, replaying the night over and over in his head. His own personalized brand of torture.
When he finally ended up back at home hours later, he had barely closed the front door before stripping off his clothes, leaving a trail from the foyer to the wet bar in the sitting room. Then he downed three fingers of whiskey and collapsed into one of the armchairs, waiting for the alcohol to do its job. But his mind refused to shut off, wandering back to the place he was trying to avoid: that window waiting for him across the yard, the one he could see if he went upstairs to bed. And after a few hours of fitful sleep in that chair, he went for a run to avoid it further.
Knightley picked up the pace now, widening his strides toward the reservoir’s South Gatehouse as if it would erase the moment that had been replaying over and over again in his memory: those wide green eyes looking up at him, those lips slightly hovering near his own. The smell of her skin and the warmth of her body, how it had all made his blood hum.
Even now in the bracing cold, as he stopped to catch his breath at the park entrance on 85th Street, he could feel the mix of desire and guilt itching under his skin. But regardless of what almost transpired at the party, he should have known better. She hadno idea how his feelings had changed, and instead of talking to her about it, he had almost crossed a line that would have made this all so much worse. He would have to admit everything, apologize, and try to salvage what was left of their friendship at the end of all this. Simple as that.
With new resolve, he headed back home, barely looking up as he crossed Fifth Avenue and started down 84th. He entered his house, headed upstairs, and turned on the shower. The water was scalding, but he needed it, staying in long enough for his skin to feel raw. Then he got dressed in worn jeans and a sweater, barely running a towel over his head before he started downstairs and out to the backyard.
He saw Emma through the Woodhouses’ French doors as soon as he crossed the threshold to their garden. He paused at the door, watching as she poured a cup of coffee, idly stirring in some milk. Relief flooded his body, loosening the tension that was still holding tight to his chest. Perhaps she hadn’t stayed at Montgomery’s last night after all.
Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun and a robe hung over her oversized T-shirt and flannel pants. She must have just woken up, but she looked agitated. Her skin was flushed and her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth as if distracted by whatever thoughts were swirling in her mind.
He cleared his throat and knocked on the glass before opening the door, but she still jumped slightly, turning and facing him with wide eyes.
“Morning,” he said.
“Hello. Hi,” she replied, tripping over the words as she darted her eyes away from his. Somehow her cheeks became even more ruddied, and it took her another moment before she recovered enough to add, “Good morning.”
“How was the rest of your night?”
“Great. Super,” she said, trying to shrug and take a sip of her coffee at the same time. It caused her to almost choke on it.
Something was wrong. He opened his mouth to ask her what, but then he clamped it shut. This was about last night. He had almost kissed her and then hadn’t even bothered to say good night. How the hell could she not feel awkward right now? Then another possibility snaked its way into his head: maybe it had nothing to do with him at all. She spent the night with Montgomery and had just come home afterward to find her neighbor awkwardly hovering at the back door.
“Can I grab some of that?” he asked, nodding to the coffeemaker.
She blinked. “You’re asking if you can have a cup of coffee?”
“Should I not?”
“I just don’t think you’ve ever asked permission.”
He scoffed, grabbing a mug and pouring from the carafe as an excuse to avoid her gaze.
“So, how late did you stay out partying last night?” she asked.
“I wasn’t out partying. I was at a party.”
“Okay, then how long did you stay at the party after…” Her voice trailed off.
He took a sip of his coffee. It was hot and bitter, and he felt it run the full course from his lips to his stomach. “Not long.”
“Oh,” she said in the tone of voice she used when she was trying to sound nonchalant. “Does Davina live nearby or…”
Shit. Did she think he left the party and went home with Davina?
“No, she didn’t… I didn’t…” His words failed, and suddenly the silence between them was like a weight against his chest. “I need to talk to you about last night, Emma. I have to apologize and tell you—”
“Good morning, George,” Mr. Woodhouse proclaimed as he entered the kitchen. “You already got a run in?”
