And yet, not.
Sean sucked in a harsh breath and slowly blew it back out, pinching the bridge of his nose with fingers that no longer felt “normal.” No, these fingers had touched Emma’s face, her lips, swept the contour of her back, her waist, her hips. Fingers that had twined in the silk of her hair and caressed cheeks as soft and fragrant as rose petals. Unexpected explorations all, now haunting his mind and tormenting his body. Each touch, each memory . . . convincing his heart with brutal clarity that “normal” would never be normal again.
“Headache?”
Sean spun around, the air stalled in his chest. He slowly released it and scoured his forehead with the ball of his hand, attempting a smile at Bert, whose usual gruff tone actually held a note of sympathy. “No, no, just lost in thought, that’s all.” He glanced at his watch. “Hey, it’s almost six on a Friday and you’re still here? Alli left ages ago, and you should be gone too.”
She strolled in and tossed a stack of papers on his desk, dark brows pinched in a frown as she parked a hand tipped with scarlet nails on ample hips. “I’m going, I’m going. And trust me, I’d be a distant memory if it wasn’t for this report you’ve been yapping about all day. Heaven knows as crabby as you’ve been, Monday would be a nightmare if I didn’t finish it for you.”
Chuckling, Sean reached for the report and flipped through it, spiking a brow. “Crabby? Nightmare? Tell me, Mrs. Adriani, as the Mistress of Grump, can you actually sleep at night after pointing the finger at me?”
She buffed her nails against a navy wool suit that actually slenderized her voluptuous frame while a lazy grin stretched across ruby-red lips. “Like a baby feeding on a bottle of warm cream, sir,” she said with a wink, “. . . laced with rum, of course.”
He grinned. “You know what, Bert? This place would be mighty dull without you.”
She surprised him by fishing bars of Snickers from her suit pocket and plopping them on his desk, dark eyes suddenly somber. “You mean like this week . . . with you in the dumps?”
He caught his breath and slowly exhaled, folding his arms with a slack of his hip. “I’ve been busy, Mrs. Adriani, or haven’t you noticed?”
“Oh, I’ve noticed, all right,” she said, countering with her own cross of arms while she studied him with a squint. “But that’s never made you crabby before . . .”
A huff of frustration leaked out as he reached for a Snickers. “I’m not crabby, Bert, trust me. My mood is just fine.”
“Mmm-huh . . . and I’m Pollyanna’s sweet maiden aunt.” She eyed the Snickers as he ripped it open. “How many is that today?”
“Pardon me?” He paused, the candy halfway to his mouth.
She hiked her chin. “Candy bars, Mr. Sweet Tooth. You usually limit yourself to one a day except this week when you tore through ’em like Horace through Milk of Magnesia.” She blinked. “Usually means you’re stressed or . . . ,” the smile slid into a smirk, “crabby.”
Sean bit off the candy with a vengeance, figuring it was better than biting off Bert’s head. She meant well, he knew, but it annoyed him all the same that she’d seen through his façade.
She eased into one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk, allowing no chance for rebuttal. “And seeing that Miss Emma’s been holed up in that office of hers all week and the two of you have barely said ‘boo’ to one another, well, it just gets me thinkin’, you know?” She cocked her head, elbows propped on the arms of the chair and hands folded. “Kind of makes a body wonder if your ‘crabby’ isn’t connected to her ‘solitude’ somehow.”
Heat crawled up the back of his neck, and it was moments like this that he wished he had Pete’s knack for bluffing. Never had he seen a better poker face on anyone—unreadable, cryptic, downright mysterious when he wanted to be. Sean’s lips flattened. Unlike me at the moment.
He opened his mouth, ready to defend his so-called crabbiness with anything other than the truth, when Bert rose to her feet and smoothed out her skirt. For one of the first times he could remember, there wasn’t a hint of guile to be found in her face. Instead, dark eyes stared back while her gruff voice lowered to a whisper. “You and Miss Emma mean the world to us, Sean—especially to Alli, and God knows that sweet, little thing is about as tenderhearted as they come. So this . . . this distance . . . between you and Miss Emma, well, it has her pretty worried.” She shifted, and her chin jutted with the motion. “But me? I’m gonna tell you right now that I’m not a woman prone to sentimentality, and nobody knows that better than you.” She leaned in then, one fist flat on his desk, and he could have sworn he saw a glint of moisture in those hazel eyes. Leveling a finger, she stared him down. “But if you and that woman don’t come to terms and smooth out whatever’s going on right now, I don’t mind saying that the two of you will be responsible for making this tough old bird break right down and cry.” Without another word, she wheeled around and barreled for the door, stopping only to intimidate with a glare over her shoulder. “And leave your crabby mood at home next week, will ya? There’s only room for one of us, and I was here first.” She scowled and flailed a hand in the air. “I’m going home.”
The outer door slammed, and he blinked. “G’night, Bert.” He cut loose a weighty sigh and gouged his fingers through his hair, painfully aware of the awful silence throughout the office. Which meant only one thing. Emma had her door closed again, preferring to hide away rather than face the problem at hand. Him. Her.
Them.
Retrieving Bert’s report, Sean dropped into his chair and forced himself to read it before delivering it to Mrs. Malloy. Truth be told, that was the primary reason he rushed Bert in the first place, because he needed an ironclad excuse to actually sit down and talk to Emma. He wasn’t sure how or when she’d done it, but somehow the woman had conveniently arranged her workload so that their interaction was scarce, choosing to deal primarily with Alli since Monday while Bert had been allocated to him. He thought about Bert’s crusty mood all week, which had obviously been exacerbated by his, and his lips twisted. Thanks a lot, Emma.
Twenty minutes later he finished the report and blew out another sigh, running a thick finger along the inside of his collar. Heat over the task ahead stifled him despite the cool of the day, and he rose and straightened his tie. He tucked the papers under his arm and headed for her office, his steel jaw as formidable as Emma’s closed door. Not leaving till we talk, Mrs. Malloy, whether you like it or not.
Resisting the urge to pound on the door, he knocked, waiting on her response before he twisted the knob. Upon entering, he flashed his usual easy smile, carefully calculated to put most people at ease, but somehow it had little effect on the pale woman behind the desk. Seldom had he seen Emma less in control than now—jumpy, jittery, and throat shifting while she fiddled with an ink pen in her hand. The bruises were mostly gone, but the fear was not, deeply etched into the tented slope of her brows and the tiny lines above her nose. Her chin lifted the slightest degree, and somehow it drew his gaze to the curve of her regal neck, the delicate lines of her heart-shaped face, the pale pink blush of parted lips. He swallowed hard as his eyes met hers.
Looking away, she quickly signed the sheet before her, hand trembling and voice too. “H-heading out?” she asked, offering a cautious smile before she signed the next sheet.
“Soon, but first I have that report you wanted to see.” He started to close the door.
“No!” She jumped to her feet, hands knuckle-white on the desk. Her chest rose as she drew in a harsh breath and slowly released it with a nervous smile. “I mean, I prefer you left it open . . .”
His temper flared along with the heat in his face, and he closed the door anyway, venting with a hard slam. He took a step forward. “For pity’s sake, Emma, I’m not going to attack you—I’m a man of my word.”
He could hear her shallow breathing as she put a quivering hand to her eyes. She sank back into her chair, visibly shaken. “Forgive me, Sean, I’m just . . .”
�
��Scared, I know.” He took another step forward, his voice wounded. “You have nothing to be afraid of, Emma, because I won’t let anything happen—I promised, remember?”
She nodded and pushed the hair from her face, finally meeting his gaze with a guarded one of her own. “You’re right—I’m being silly.” She straightened her shoulders and managed a stiff smile. “Your breakdown on product lines?” she asked, extending her hand.
“Yes, ma’am.” With a silent exhale, he turned the report over while an attempt at a smile tipped his lips. “Bert will probably deny me all lemon drops in the foreseeable future, but I hounded her to get it done since I know we have decisions to make on inventory.”
“Thank you.” She flipped through the pages as he had, eyes scanning each sheet. “This looks good, Sean, and I don’t have to tell you how much it will help with trimming the waste.” She laid the sheets on the side of her desk and looked up, giving him that shy smile that always warmed his heart . . . and now his body too.
He looked away, drumming his palms on the arms of the chair before returning his gaze to hers, brows arched in question. “So, ready to discuss this?”
She swallowed hard while a hint of rose crept into her face.
His smile was tender. “I meant the report, Emma. You told me to put it together and we would discuss it, remember? Last month?”
A deeper blush stained her cheeks, and he grinned, feeling a little guilty that she was more uncomfortable than he. But not too guilty, he realized, because when she looked at him like that, with that soft, skittish gaze, she made him feel like he could bring the world to its knees. He was a man with plenty of flaws, but somehow when he was with Emma, all he noticed were his strengths, and he wasn’t quite sure how she did that. All he did know was that she was the only woman who ever had, and suddenly, the limitations to their love dampened his mood.
He sighed and stood to his feet, palms pressed to the front of her desk. “Look, Emma, can’t we put all this discomfort behind us? Yes, I kissed you, and yes, I’m in love with you, but we’re also friends who have to work together, peers who need each other’s help and support.” He rose to his full height and exhaled, feeling a lot like a little boy as he tunneled his hands in his pockets. “Besides,” he whispered, “I miss you.”
Tears filled her eyes, and he couldn’t handle it. He rounded her desk before she could object, lifting her to her feet with hands latched to her arms. “Emma, please—let’s get past this awkwardness.” He wove his hands into her hair, clasping her head in his palms. “I need you—as my friend, my companion, the woman I work with, talk with, bare my soul to. I need to be able to touch you, hug you, comfort you if you’re sad or swing you in my arms if you’re overjoyed.” He gripped her face in his hands, his eyes pleading with hers. “Like before, when we were friends—” a knot shifted in his throat—“and the heat of attraction didn’t get in the way. I swear I’ll never go over the line, no matter how much I want to, so you don’t have to worry. You can relax and be the woman I need you to be. Because I love you, Emma, and I need you in my life.”
“Sean . . .” Tears streamed her cheeks, and he pulled her into his arms, rocking her, soothing her, heartsick that he couldn’t love her as a woman, but terrified to lose her as a friend.
“Promise me, Emma, that we can go back to where we were, before our desire for each other got in the way.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know if we can . . .”
“We can, Emma—I swear.”
Her body shuddered as she sighed against his chest. All at once, she jerked away, arms clutched to her waist. Seconds passed like hours before she finally answered. “All right . . . I promise I will try. If . . . ,” she looked up, her gaze firm, “you promise me something.”
Relief flooded as he released the breath he’d been holding. “You have my word, Emma, I will never kiss you . . . or touch you . . . in an intimate manner, I swear.”
Her eyes sought his, gentle gray orbs that steadied his pulse. “Not just that,” she whispered. “I need you to promise something else.”
“Anything.”
She drew in a deep breath, as if gathering her strength. “I need you to promise . . . that you will continue to see Rose.”
“No!” He stepped back, his tone sharp. “You can’t ask that of me. I don’t want to see her anymore. I can’t be with her when I’m in love with you.”
A calm lighted upon her as soft as the haze around the moon, reminding him of just why he had fallen in love with her. The barest of smiles edged her lips, sad and peaceful at the same time. “It’s the only way I’ll agree to this, Sean.”
The temper he so rarely displayed nipped at him, stiffening his jaw. “But why? You’re pushing me at a woman I don’t want—a woman who tempts me in all the wrong ways.”
The implication of his words made her flinch, and he hated the satisfaction that welled within. But she needed to know—know that Rose would be offering something that she never could. He stared at her, a nerve pulsing in his cheek. He could deny his passion with Emma because he was in love with her. He could never deny his passion with Rose because it was lust.
She distanced herself and squared her shoulders. “Then you need to marry her, because she’s in love with you and we both know it. I have a feeling you’ll grow to love her, have children with her, and then we can spend the rest of our lives as God intended—as friends.”
He shook his head in defeat. “Why are you making me do this?”
She stepped forward, as if this final condition had given her the strength she needed. “Because I refuse to stand in the way of all that God has for you. You’re a man, Sean, and you need a woman to love, to have children with, a family. You were created for that, I know that as surely as I know that I love you. Do this for me, please. Because when I see you happy with a woman who can love you as I cannot, my joy will be complete.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm, her voice a hushed appeal. “Promise me—please.”
Moisture filled his eyes, and he looked away. “I promise to try, Emma,” he whispered, unwilling to commit to something he wasn’t sure he could do. “But I don’t love her.”
“But you’re fond of her, I know.”
He looked up, all energy depleted. “Yes, I am fond of her.”
“Then try, Sean, please—that’s all that I ask.”
He nodded and turned away, moving toward the door with a heavy heart. He fisted the knob and glanced to the side. “You know, I don’t know whether to hate Rory Malloy or to thank him. Because without him, you wouldn’t be here.” He hung his head, lost in a hard stare. “But then again with him . . . you’re out of my reach.” He opened the door, never once looking back. “Good night, Emma.”
———
Her courage crumpled in her chest, convincing her that no pain had ever equaled this. Not Rory’s vile slaps, not his cutting words or his heartless philandering. Not the death of parents who didn’t care, or the loss of her beauty at the hands of a monster, transforming her into a monster herself. No, this was deep, touching the core of everything she’d ever hoped to be, everything she’d ever hope to have . . . everything she’d ever dreamed or prayed.
She slumped into her chair and closed her eyes, wondering why the God she depended on, the God who loved her, had brought her down to this—a pain so sharp that she could barely breathe. Why, God? Giving her contentment in living for him and only him, and then taking it all away with a taste of what might have been. A taste of something good that she could never have.
The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
Emma laid her head on the desk as Job’s words pierced, prayers streaming from her lips as quickly as tears streamed from her eyes. “I do bless you, God, because I know that all things work together for good to them that love you.” A heave shuddered through her as she begged God to give her the grace, the strength to praise him in this situation that tormented her soul, and when she finally spoke, he
r voice was no more than a rasp of pain. “No matter how hard, no matter how difficult, God, I will always say, ‘blessed be the name of the Lord.’”
“Emma?”
Head jerking up, she quickly swiped at her eyes. “Rose?” She glanced at the cherrywood clock on the wall. “It’s after seven, how on earth—”
“I hid . . . in the ladies’ bathroom . . . just like the last time.” The young woman hesitated at the door, a contrite look on her face and a beaded clutch in her hands.
“Oh.” Emma swallowed hard and rose to her feet. “I’m sorry, you just missed Sean.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to see him. I wanted to see you.”
“Me?” Emma sagged into her chair, ridges lining her brow. “Why?”
Rose indicated the chair where Sean sat earlier. “May I?” Emma nodded, and Rose perched on the edge of the seat, still fingering the beaded clutch in her hands. “I . . . know this may seem odd, Emma, but Sean respects your opinion so much that I thought . . .” She hesitated, as if the words pained her. “I mean he loves you a lot, so your word carries a lot of weight . . .”
“Rose, what are you trying to say?”
She breathed in deeply, gaze glued to Emma’s. “I . . . need your help.”
Emma shifted in the chair. “What kind of help?”
Her hands trembled as she folded them on top of her purse, all the while studying Emma through wary eyes as if deciding how much to reveal. “Emma, you already know that I’m desperately in love with Sean, have been since the age of fifteen, and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do—” she swallowed hard before forging on—“to convince him to marry me.”
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