Page 92 of The Emma Special

His wife was in his kitchen. Their kitchen. He could tell she was trying to be quiet. But he’d awoken to the running water from the shower forty-five minutes ago and hadn’t been able to turn off his brain.

He closed his eyes, wishing for a few more minutes of subconscious bliss. How was he supposed to ignore the fact that the woman who’d filled his dreams for years was now humming a gentle song on the other side of his bedroom door?

Flinging the quilt off, he resolved to join the party. Why did she feel the need to get out of bed when she didn’t have to go to work this morning? Hmm, maybe that’s why she was so happy. She didn’t have to go to work anymore. For some reason, that made him smile.

His wife didn’t have to go to the office because he was taking care of her.

He slipped on his glasses and stopped with a hand on the doorknob. No shoes. No shirt. Yesterday and every day before this, he’d walked into the kitchen, pressed the buttons for mediocre coffee, shuffled into his bathroom for a shower. Shuffled back into the kitchen for a mediocre breakfast.

This was still his home, and he could walk around without a shirt if he wanted to. Would she think he was… trying something? Showing off?

He pulled on a white T-shirt.

Emma made it clear she wanted things to be as normal as possible, but some things were bound to change. Married people made accommodations. Roomies, she’d said. The word made him want to throw things.

He’d had roommates before. He’d never felt the need to put on a shirt for them. Should he start now? Just because she was a woman? He took the shirt off and immediately put it back on.

Fine, so he’d start sleeping in a shirt. It wasn’t like she would know he’d changed his routine for her. So what if she did? She needed to learn that it was okay to take up space. And he was going to make sure she felt comfortable here, which meant wearing more clothes because he was a gentleman, or something.

There… one decision handled. The next order of business was to go push the buttons for the coffee—he didn’t want her to think he was always expecting her to make his drinks.

As soon as he opened his bedroom door.

Which he could absolutely do.

All he had to do was turn that little handle and step through.

“God, help,” he whispered, then sank to his knees in humility. “Dear God, I need your help. I’m in way over my head. I thought I was doing a good thing. The right thing. I’m lost and overthinking everything now that we’re married. It seemed so simple, but I know it’s not. Have I messed it up?”

James pressed his forehead to the door and arranged his mind to refocus on the King. “Lord, you are good when I am not. You know all things when I do not. You know the path when I am lost. Bless Emma and me today. Fill us up with all joy and peace as we trust in you.” He waited until his breathing calmed and his heart slowed before rising to his feet.

Opening the door slowly, he was finally ready to greet the morning and his new wife. He walked down the hallway toward the kitchen with false confidence.

She stood by the island in the most distracting jean shorts and tank top. Her damp hair spilled down her back and around her shoulders in a mass of waves. He hadn’t expected to catch her with pink cheeks and bright eyes so early in the morning.

“Ah!” Emma screamed and dropped a spatula onto the stove. “Who are you?”

“Um, I’m James. I believe we’ve met.”

Emma drew a loud breath and piled her hair on top of her head, securing it with a band from her wrist. “There was a James Moore who entered that room last night. Who, pray tell, are you?”

“Well, good morning to you too.”

His wife was crazy. She was acting. Probably. So he stood there, one step into the room, and resolved to watch the rest of the show.

Coming closer, her smile wasn’t quite hidden. Emma hopped across the room on her strong leg and narrowed her eyes. “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”

She was inches from his face, and he could smell the strawberries she’d been sampling on her breath.

Then her hands were in his hair. His eyes closed of their own accord, momentarily tranquilized while she finger--combed his hair, then slipped off his glasses.

“Oh!” Her smile grew, then she leaned away and out of focus. “There you are.”

He put his hands on her waist and pulled her closer. “There you are. Give those back, please. I can’t see two feet without them.”

Her outline sharpened when the glasses returned, and she left her hands on his shoulders.

“Good morning, Emma.” He gently tugged her to him, craving a closeness with her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck just like she’d done when they danced at their wedding reception yesterday.