Chapter 3

The number on the caller ID was unfamiliar, and Emma frowned at the phone for two rings before answering. If it was a collection agency, she’d be screwed, even though she didn’t think her bills had reached collections yet.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Emma?”

She couldn’t place the voice for a minute; it wasn’t like she dealt with many men on a day-to-day basis. After a moment, she took a guess. “Ian?”

“Yeah. I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home.”

“No, it’s fine.” It was strange, though; they’d always had an “in-store only” kind of friendship. Out of her professional environment, she felt off-balance. She thought back to their encounter two weeks before. “How was Ohio?”

“It was Ohio.” She could hear the smile in his voice, and it put her at ease. Sinking down on the couch, she put her stockinged feet up on the coffee table. “Am I catching you at a bad time?” he asked.

“No, now’s fine. Well, as fine as it can be. My cat’s been throwing up all morning, so I get to spend my day off watching her. It’s wonderful.” Emma looked over at Minerva, the offending tabby, currently curled up on the rug.

“I can’t believe anyone lets you have a day off.”

“The benefits of highly overworked and underpaid employees. I get a whole Saturday off a week.” She played with the tassel on a throw pillow. “So what’s up?”

“I have a business offer I want to run by you, but I’d rather talk about it in person.” There was a long pause. “You can’t leave your cat, though?”

A business offer? Her interest piqued, Emma sat up straighter on the couch. “You want to come over here?”

“You don’t mind?” He sounded hopeful.

“No, it’s fine. As long as you don’t freak out if the cat throws up.”

“As long as she doesn’t throw up on me, we’ll be fine.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Was this weird? Ian hesitated outside Emma’s door for nearly a full minute without knocking. He hadn’t thought twice about showing up at her house, but now, as he stood at the top of the narrow stairwell, it suddenly seemed uncomfortably intimate. He didn’t know Emma that well, not really. Yes, they had a history, but you could hardly call it friendship. Casual acquaintanceship, sure, but two months as lab partners and a few years of occasional book-buying hadn’t engendered intimate friendship.

If she’d heard him come up the stairs and she opened the door now, he was going to look like a creep just standing there. He rapped twice and waited.

She opened the door almost immediately, and her casual demeanor made his presence seem practically normal. Her blue sweater was baggy but gave just a hint of the body she hid beneath it. Ian found himself wishing she wore something that fit her more snugly, something to show off the curves that he’d once spent whole class periods in high school imagining.

Ian realized he was staring, but she had clearly been staring, too. He looked down at his gray henley and jeans, overly aware of his informal garb. Maybe he should have shaved this morning? He rubbed the stubble on his jaw and pushed the glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Were they just going to stand there? He’d give anything to read her mind. This whole visit was probably a terrible idea. If he weren’t desperate, he wouldn’t have called.

“Come on in.” Emma stepped aside.

Her apartment was more spacious than he’d imagined; it seemed bigger than the bookstore below. The door opened into the kitchen/dining room, through which they passed to reach the expansive living room with its matching green velvet couch and armchair set.

“That’s some couch.”

Emma grinned, tucking a long brown curl behind her ear. “Salvation Army. I couldn’t pass it up. Do you want a drink?” She paused. “I’ve got . . . water. And orange juice.”

“No, I’m good, thanks.” He sat on the velvet couch as she took the armchair. “This place is a lot bigger than I thought.”

“Yeah, it spans both shops, Prologue and the one next door. I think it all used to be one shop, and then somebody divided it into two along the way. So what’s this business offer?”

Ian rubbed his chin again, the stubble rough on his fingertips. He’d rehearsed a few dozen ways to say it during the walk over, but he couldn’t predict how she’d react. Worst-case scenario, she’d throw him out, and . . . well, he didn’t want that. “I want to rent the back room of your shop for a workshop. For an evening. Maybe more in the future.”

“What, like a tax thing? Isn’t it late for that?” Emma glanced up at the calendar on the wall, one of the free ones they give you at the bank with pictures of chickens on it.

“No, not a tax thing. I teach classes sometimes.”

“Oh.” Emma tilted her head to the side, puzzled. She was going to ask, he knew it. “Like financial literacy classes or something?”

“Or something.” Ian adjusted his glasses and tried not to avert his eyes. This was definitely weird. He should have taken that drink of water, but to ask for it now would be stalling, and if he didn’t tell her the content of his classes right then, she was going to think it was something illegal. Best to get right to it. “I teach rope bondage.”

Ian expected some kind of reaction. He was prepared for her to laugh, or shrug, or roll her eyes, ask him questions, or ask him to repeat himself. Instead, she stared at him without speaking, her gaze completely blank and her jaw gone somewhat slack. Had she heard him? He felt his palms start to sweat and pressed them down on his jeans. He never got uncomfortable talking about his hobbies in casual situations, with the right people, but this felt different. It felt . . . significant. Her blank expression made him want to say, “Ha! Just kidding, I teach financial management classes.”

Finally, when the silence stretched from uncomfortable to really uncomfortable, she nodded. “Oh.” Then she licked her lips. The gesture was probably subconscious, but its effect on Ian was instantaneous. He hadn’t thought about Emma that way in years, had long since put aside his teenage crush, and all at once he was watching her pink tongue moisten the soft flesh of her lower lip and wondering what it would feel like in his mouth. Sweet, maybe.

“That’s it? Oh?” He folded his arms just to have something to do with them.

“Yeah. I . . . I’m not sure what I was expecting.” She laughed, a light, breathy sound, and looked off to the right. Was she . . . nervous? Interested? He wasn’t sure how to read her; they’d never been close enough that he’d know her tells. Not to say that he didn’t want to. “And you want to do that in my shop?”

“I need a space. I used to rent one of the conference rooms at the Marriott, but they’ve gotten too expensive. I’ve been calling around, but everyone’s rates are exorbitant. Then I remembered your back room, and I thought it would be perfect.” In reality, he’d agonized about the decision for days, had hemmed and hawed about bringing Emma into this side of his life in any capacity, before finally deciding it made too much financial sense not to at least ask.

“I don’t know, Ian.” Emma folded her hands in her lap, fingers intertwined, and looked down at them before meeting his gaze. “I don’t know how I feel about having . . . that in my shop. What will my customers think?”

“It’s a private event, Emma. You don’t have to advertise it. I’ll bring in my own group.”

Emma bit her lip and looked to the side again.

“I’ll pay, of course. The same as I was paying at the Marriott before they raised their price.”

At that, Emma’s head jerked toward him, but she still didn’t say yes.

“You don’t have to be there,” he assured her. Even as the words left his mouth, though, he regretted it. It was true, of course, but he wanted her there. Wanted to wind the rope around her skin, pressing a bit into the delicate flesh, wanted to feel her shiver beneath his hands. Where had this come from? He’d gotten past it. He knew it was ridiculous to want someone who didn’t want him, who wasn’t into what he was into. This was just . . . chemistry. Hormones. He was only feeling this way because she was right there, all soft curves, her light floral scent on everything in the apartment. As soon as he left and got some fresh air, he would remember that they were incompatible.

“When would this be?”

“Two weeks. End of April.” Ian sat forward a bit on the couch. “Please? As a favor?”

“It’s not much of a favor if you’re paying me.” But she laughed and then shrugged. “All right, what the hell? Sure.”

“Great.” Relieved, Ian pulled a business card out of his wallet. “You probably don’t have my number.”

Emma took the card and looked at it, then raised an eyebrow. “Ian Hawk?”

Ian shifted, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “It’s . . . my workshop name. Gives me some anonymity when I want it.”

“I see.” She continued to look down at the card, then slipped it into her pocket. When she shifted, the neckline of her sweater slid across her shoulder, and Ian was momentarily distracted by the rosy swath of revealed skin.

He brought his attention back to the present. Clearly he needed to get laid, and soon. “Thanks again, Emma. You’re a lifesaver.”

She shrugged, and he wished once more that he could read her body language. Did she really not care, or had he made her uncomfortable? “As long as I don’t have to be there.”

“No, you don’t.” Ian looked into her eyes, unable to stop himself from adding the next part. “But you’re welcome to be there, if you want.”

Emma held his gaze, and Ian wished he could interpret the expression in those eyes. “I’ll think about it.”