Chapter 3: She's Trying To Kill Me

Emma's POV

Saturday morning. I sleep in until nine on purpose. Standing in front of my closet, I skip the cashmere sweaters and reach for the very back. Gray yoga pants and a white athletic tank. The sports bra stays on the shelf.

In the mirror, the thin fabric shows everything. My pulse picks up.

If yesterday at his office made him that crazy, let's see what this does.

I head downstairs barefoot, hair still damp from the shower. Morning light floods the tall windows.

Typing sounds from the home office. He's working on a Saturday.

I stop in the doorway.

Nate's at his desk, laptop open, wearing a dark henley and jeans. When he looks up, his fingers freeze on the keyboard.

Fuck. Holy fuck. What is she wearing? That tank. She's not wearing... she's definitely not wearing a bra. I can see... don't look! You pervert, don't fucking look! Email. Focus on the email. Quarterly projections. But her nipples... NO! Stop it! Look at your screen. Look at your goddamn screen!

"Morning." I lean against the doorframe. "Already working?"

His Adam's apple bobs. "Just catching up on some reports."

"Want coffee? I'm making some."

"You don't have to."

"I'm making it anyway."

Ten minutes later I'm back with two mugs. His is black with two sugars. Mine is an oat milk latte.

When I walk in, Nate's standing by the window, hands in his pockets. Creating distance.

"Here." I set his cup down. "Black coffee. Two sugars."

He stares at the mug. "You remember how I take my coffee?"

"Of course I remember."

I sit in the leather chair across from his desk, crossing my legs slow. His eyes flick down, then snap back to my face.

"You've been working a lot lately. Even Saturdays now?"

"Just busy. Market's volatile." His hand reaches for the coffee. "Thanks."

I lean forward to set my cup on his desk.

Too far forward.

My elbow hits his mug. Coffee splashes everywhere. Soaking papers, hitting his clothes. Dark liquid spreading across the gray fabric.

"Shit!" I jump up. "God, I'm sorry!"

Nate stands fast, coffee dripping down his chest. I grab tissues from his desk drawer, rushing over.

"Take it off! The coffee's hot, it'll burn!"

Before he can react, my hands are on his chest, pressing tissues against the wet fabric. Through the soaked henley, I feel him. Solid. Warm. Hard muscle.

She's touching me. Emma's hands are on my chest. On my fucking chest. This is an accident. Just an accident. But I can feel every finger. Every point of contact. Her palm pressing against... God, she just brushed my nipple. Can she feel how fast my heart's beating? I'm going to have a heart attack. And I'm hard. No no no. Not now. Think of something else. Tax law! Bankruptcy proceedings! But she's not stopping. Her fingers everywhere. I can feel her breath on my neck. Coconut and vanilla. Like all my fantasies. Does she know what she's doing? Stop. You're disgusting. Your wife is helping you and you're hard like a fucking teenager.

"It's fine." His voice cracks. "I can..."

"Don't move." I keep wiping, hands moving slowly. His breathing gets heavier.

"The shirt's soaked." I look up at him. Our faces are inches apart. "You need to change."

"Yeah. I'll..."

But I'm already reaching for the hem, fingers curling under the fabric. "Let me help."

I pull the shirt up over his head. He doesn't move, arms raised, completely frozen.

His chest is right there. Defined muscles. Pale skin. A small scar near his ribs.

"I need to change." He grabs the wet shirt from my hands, backing toward the door. "I'll just..."

He's gone before I can respond, practically running out and up the stairs.

I count to ten. Then follow.

His bedroom door is open. He went straight into the bathroom. I can hear water running. I walk in.

Three years. I've never been in here.

The room is minimalist. Clean. King bed with dark sheets. Everything in its place.

But there's a photo on the nightstand. I walk over.

It's me.

In the photo, I'm on a bench in Boston Common, reading. Spring. Last year. I'm wearing that yellow dress, hair blowing in the wind.

I never knew this photo existed.

My pulse pounds.

How long has he been watching me?

The nightstand has a drawer. I shouldn't. But I'm already pulling it open.

Inside: my scarf. The burgundy one I lost last month.

Not lost. Stolen.

I pick it up. There's a strong scent on it. His. My heart races.

Something crashes in the bathroom.

I walk to the door, still holding the scarf. Lean against the frame.

"Nate? You okay?"

"Fine. Just dropped something."

"Your drawer was open."

Silence.

Then: "Oh."

She found it. She found everything. The scarf. The hair tie. God, did she see the nightgown? The one that still smells like her? It's over. She's going to think I'm a creep. She'll move out. Ask for divorce immediately. Maybe call the cops. I should explain. But how do I explain stealing her clothes? 'Sorry, I wanted a piece of you so badly I took your things and...' No. There's no explanation that doesn't make me sound insane.

"Nate, what exactly are you hiding in that drawer?"

My voice is soft. Almost teasing.

"I can explain."

"Can you?"

The bathroom door opens. Nate's changed into a black T-shirt, hair still wet, face pale.

I'm sitting on his bed now, the burgundy scarf draped across my lap.

"This is mine." Not a question.

His jaw tightens. "Yes."

"I've been looking for it."

He won't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry. I know that's... I shouldn't have..."

"Nate, what else is in that drawer?"

His face gets redder. "Nothing important."

"Show me."

"Emma..."

"Show me."

I stand up, walk to the nightstand. He doesn't stop me.

Inside: the scarf in my hand. A black hair tie. And a white nightgown. Mine. The one I thought the dryer ate.

I pick up the nightgown. Hold it up.

"You kept this."

"I was going to give it back."

"Liar."

The word hangs between us.

I walk toward him slowly. He backs up until he hits the wall.

I push the scarf into his hands. Then the hair tie. The nightgown.

"If you want them..." I move closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off him. "Keep them."

His breathing stops. "What?"

"Keep them, Nate."

I step back, heading for the door.

"Emma, wait. I need to explain..."

"You don't." I stop at the door, looking back. "But next time you want something of mine? Just ask."

I leave him standing there, frozen, items clutched in his hands.

In the hallway, I cover my mouth to keep from laughing.

Nathaniel Sterling. Financial genius. Cold-blooded businessman.

Collecting my things in his nightstand like a lovesick teenager. How cute.

Behind me, I hear him slide down the wall.

What just happened? Did she just... did Emma just give me permission to keep her things? No. She's being sarcastic. Mocking me. But her voice. The way she looked at me. 'Next time just ask.' What does that mean? Ask? Ask for what? Her clothes? Her attention? Her? This woman is going to kill me. She's literally trying to kill me, and I'm going to let her.

I close my bedroom door, leaning against it, heart racing.