"We should go in," Emma said.
"We should."
But neither of us moved.
"Jennifer said lingering looks and coffee runs," I reminded her. "Nothing about sitting in parked cars like teenagers."
She pivoted to face me. "Are you calling me a teenager?"
"I'm calling myself one." I lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "Apparently I've regressed."
Her cheeks flushed.God, I loved that—the way color rose across her skin when I caught her off guard.
She shook her head, warmth dancing in her features. "Damien."
"Emma."
"We really should go in."
"One more minute."
She laughed, but didn't pull away. "You're impossible."
"You love it."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Love.
There it was again.
"Come on." She squeezed my hand once, then let go. "Back to reality."
We stepped out into the bustle of the lobby. Falkirk's polished stone and chrome and quiet power hummed around us as if nothing in my life had just shifted on its axis.
We walked side by side toward the elevator, maintaining the careful distance we'd perfected over the past weeks—close enough to speak, far enough to look discreet.
It felt wrong now.
Like wearing a suit that no longer fit.
The elevator climbed. Fourth floor. Seventh. Tenth.
Emma's stop.
She moved toward the doors, then paused, glancing back at me.
"Lunch?" I asked before she could speak.
She blinked. "What?"
"Lunch. The café downstairs. I hear they have a passable chicken Caesar."
"You want to buy me lunch? Here? In the building?"
"Jennifer said to stop hiding." I leaned back against the elevator wall, hands in my pockets. "Consider it step one."
Emma stared at me, a slow grin spreading across her face.
