Page 40 of Playing for Keeps

“High bar,” I said, but I was relieved too. Emma leaned back to check the lamp from a different angle, not realizing how much table was behind her. Her heel slipped into nothing, and the sound she made – half gasp, half laugh – hit me a split second before instinct did.

“Emma!”

She wobbled and threw her arms out to keep her balance, but I was already moving. I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in before gravity could. Her hands gripped my shoulders, soft but desperate, and everything went still. The lamp swayed above us, the gold seams catching the light, but it held. And so did we.

Her sweater bunched up under my fingers, and she felt so warm. I could feel her breath brushing my jaw, quick and shaky from the adrenaline. I could feel the laugh inside her, waiting, stuck between relief and something else. And I wondered if she could feel how fast my heart was racing.

I steadied us by holding her firmly. She looked up to me, and her beautiful green eyes locked on mine, making it hard to remember what I was supposed to do next. I just knew I didn’t want to let go yet.

“You good?” I asked.

“Perfect,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Thank you. That would have been an embarrassing injury.”

“You know, if you’re gonna fall for someone, at least you picked a guy with good reflexes,” I said half laughing, which earned me another eye roll. I held her close for a moment longer, closer than I probably should have. I knew it. She knew it. The space between us was charged.

I should have let go right away.

Instead, I held on a bit longer before carefully guiding her off the table. I kept my hands on her just long enough to make myself nervous about it. I waited until she was on solid ground before I hopped down after her and took a deep breath.

“Okay, we’ve earned a cup of tea. I don’t have any coffee, so would you like some tea instead?”

“Sure,” I said. I could’ve gone for coffee, but I think tea was a better fit for the afternoon we were having. It also fit her. “I’ll, uh, have a seat?”

“Yes, sit,” she said, already heading into the kitchen. “Don’t touch the lamp.”

“I think I can manage,” I called back. “I’ve done enough heavy lifting for one day.”

Her place felt nice and warm. There were books stuffed into every nook and cranny. It was so Emma. I noticed a framed picture on the shelf of her on a bench somewhere green, London maybe, with her parents on either side. I didn’t stare, but I looked long enough to see she had the same smile as her dad and the same green eyes as her mom.

A few minutes later, she came back with two mugs. She put mine on a coaster, which of course she had, and asked if I wanted any milk.

“Yeah, thanks. And, uh, sugar?”

“Two?” she guessed.

“You trying to call me out?” I teased her, and she smiled and put in two. She then folded herself into the corner of the couch. I took a sip, while we sat in that calm, easy silence that didn’t feel like work. The lamp cast a soft, warm circle over the table, with all those golden seams turning into molten threads.

“So,” she said, and the word carried a little weight to it, but not too much. “While my mum loves to learn something new every couple of months, my dad has always loved reading. And he loves to read everything, from poetry to non-fiction to romance. It’s something we have in common.”

“That means I was right from the beginning. When we met in that bookstore, I guessed you liked romance and crime.”

“True,” she nodded. “I like different kinds of genres.”

“Then why did you keep me wondering?” I asked.

“Because I didn’t want to make it too easy for you.” Of course she did. She smiled, and her whole face lit up. “My dad made me fall in love with books in the first place and that made me want to write them myself. I was still in primary school when I wrote my first short story. It was about Bernard, the dog, going on adventures.”

“Bernard, eh?” I said, drinking. “Strong name.”

“He wore a bow tie,” she said, mock-serious. “Very dignified. He wrote letters to other dogs.”

“Pen pals?”

“Paw pals,” she corrected, then shook her head at herself, like you do when you’re both embarrassed and proud of the kid you were.

“It sounds like you had a good childhood.”

“I did,” she simply said. She tilted her head and looked at me. She didn’t ask the question, but I knew she wanted to know about mine. She didn’t push though. It felt as if she wanted to make room for an answer if I wanted to give one. And in some way, the quiet cracked open something in me that I thought would always stay closed. I put the mug down on the table and rubbed my thumbs along my knees once, a habit from the bench, and then I looked at her. I heard myself talk before I decided to.