Emma stares at the empty doorway of her office long after she can no longer hear Killian Jones' footsteps retreating down the corridor. Finally, she slumps back in her chair, feeling as though she's just gone three rounds with her boxing instructor. Her heart is beating too fast, the palms of her hands damp with sweat, her pulse thrumming dully in her ears. Picking up her bottle of water, she downs half of it in one hit, then screws the cap back on with fingers that are suddenly beyond clumsy.
Seriously, what the hell just happened here?
It's bad enough that she'd barely managed to get any sleep on Friday night after that outrageous kiss he'd planted on her (okay, technically she'd kissed him, too) and had spent the rest of the weekend wandering around her apartment in an idiotic stupor that had gotten on her last nerve long before she'd gotten the disgruntled text from her out-of-town superior. It had actually been a relief when she'd had to rush into the office to get that urgent application done, because then at least her mind was occupied with something other than how she'd barely been able to put one foot in front of the other to find a taxi after sharing nothing more than a single kiss with someone she couldn't stand in any way, shape or form. She'd methodically drafted responses to their client's ex-life partner's outrageous claims and for a few hours, she'd stopped having to cross her legs every time she remembered the way Killian Jones had kissed her.
And then, because apparently the universe likes to see her squirm, he'd showed up in the doorway of the copy room, dressed in faded jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt that confirmed (not that she'd been wondering, of course) that he was put together exactly how she liked men to be put together. Lean but not skinny, with nicely muscled shoulders and a chest that made her think that maybe he made a habit of swimming (not that she'd been thinking about that, of course). He'd smiled at her, and the bottom had dropped out of her stomach. Then he'd asked if she needed any help, without a single hint of sarcasm or innuendo, and she felt as though someone had flipped a mirror and everything was back to front.
Idiot, she thinks darkly to herself now, but isn't really sure if she means him or her. So they'd shared a half-drunken kiss and she'd found out that he wasn't quite the shallow manchild she'd pegged him as, but that doesn't mean anything. It's not as though they're in danger of becoming A Thing. After all, he's just vanished into the night without such much as a backwards glance, and she tells herself that she's not disappointed. It's not as though she'd wanted him to kiss her again.
Pushing aside the voice in her head telling her what a terrible liar she is, she closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths, then turns her attention back to the work in front of her. She needs to finish the application and email it through to Katherine for approval, then she can drive herself crazy thinking about Killian Jones and how she really wishes she still hated the sight of his stupidly handsome face, because hating him was so much more simple that whatever the hell it is that she's feeling now.
She doesn't get home until after nine - Katherine had been in a particularly pedantic mood, and the amendments to their client's affidavit had been many and complicated – and as she stands in front of her nearly empty refrigerator, she realises that she should have followed her temporary office assistant's lead and picked up a few things on the way home. After scowling at its uninspiring contents (an ancient wedge of cheese, some limp kale and an unopened bottle of Krug do not translate into dinner in anyone's language), she slams the refrigerator door shut and reaches for the kitchen drawer where she keeps the takeout menus. Maybe she should be embarrassed that the drawer in question is so crammed full of menus and flyers that she can barely get it open, but she accepted a long time ago that being a fully-functioning adult when it came to food was a lost cause as far as she was concerned.
She orders pizza, unearths a bottle of red wine from the top cupboard (she's briefly tempted by the bottle of bubbles in the fridge, given the weekend she's had, but she is not going to polish off a bottle of expensive champagne by herself on a Sunday night) and settles down on the couch to desultorily press buttons on her television remote and try not to analyse why she feels so down. Working the long hours she does, she's always been content to retreat to the sanctuary of her apartment on the weekends, but tonight the solitude she usually finds comforting just isn't cutting it.
It's all his fault, she decides sourly as she pours herself a small glass of red. Killian Jones and his beautiful accent and his beautiful face and his goddamn tragic life story that almost brought her to tears before she'd managed to get a grip on herself. When he'd been telling her about his brother, he'd seemed like a completely different man from the one she's been watching swaggering through the hallways for weeks, and definitely a different man to the one who'd assumed on Friday night that an enthusiastic response to a kiss (no matter how freaking earth-shatteringly good it had been) meant that she was on the verge of jumping into his bed.
When he'd finished speaking of his brother, he'd looked at her across her desk with a smile that was more than a little sheepish. He'd then made a show of tidying the last document he'd crosschecked for her, looking almost embarrassed that he'd shared something so personal, and she'd tried not to dwell on the fact that her bullshit radar (so finely tuned after so many years of dealing with the best bullshit the world had to offer) hadn't had a single ping since he'd appeared in the doorway. As he'd slid the document across the desk to her, she'd found herself thinking that maybe he wasn't the man she'd thought he was. Maybe there was a lot more to him than just being the pretty office Romeo, and for some reason that had scared the crap out of her.
Earlier, when he'd asked her why she'd chosen to immerse herself in Family Law, the urge to tell him about her own less-than-stellar history had almost burned a hole in her tongue, which had shocked her. (She doesn't talk about her life in the foster system anymore, not for years, and certainly not with him.) She'd swallowed the impulse and instead he'd shared his own story. Then, a few minutes later, he'd said goodnight, and the moment had been lost. She should have been relieved, but instead she'd just felt unsettled. Hovering in her doorway, his gaze had met and held hers, and the air around them had seemed to ripple with a weird static energy, making the hairs on her arms stand on end. When he'd finally left, after giving her another one of those sheepish smiles, her office (normally satisfactory in every way) had seemed strangely drab, as though the lights had been dimmed by an unseen hand.
Oh yeah, she thinks with faint desperation, wondering if the memory of his mouth on hers will ever stop making her heart feel as though it's about to leap out of her chest. Her life was definitely simpler when she hated him.
To her surprise, she doesn't see him at all on Monday, not even at a distance. Refusing to admit (even to herself) that she'd made an extra effort with that morning's wardrobe, she strides resolutely through the hallways, determined not to spend her day scanning the horizon like a damned meerkat with a crush. She's seen it happen time and time again since he'd joined the firm, and by now she was almost an expert in pinpointing the moment when one of her colleagues set their sights on him. She refuses to become one of them. She also refuses to entertain the idea that she might already be one of them, because no.
It's the middle of the afternoon when she hears his name mentioned, dropped into conversation in the break room by one of the secretaries in her team. Peering over the coffee machine (yes, like a damned meerkat, God help her) her heart sinks, because it's the irritatingly attractive redhead from her department, the one who had apparently slept with their British import after yet another team bonding exercise months ago, or so the office rumour mill went. Torn between escaping and staying to finish reheating her belated lunch in the microwave, Emma stays, telling herself that if she doesn't eavesdrop or join in the conversation, it won't get weird.
"Oh, come on."
"I'm not seeing Killian." There's the sound of coins dropping into the vending machine, then the beeping of buttons being pressed. "Believe me, if I was, you'd know."
Her friend scoffs loudly. "So you slept together once and now you're just friends?"
Okay, so that got weird pretty fast, Emma decides as she chances another quick glance over the coffee machine. The other two women are studying the contents of the vending machine, not exactly bothering to keep their voices down, and despite all her best intentions every single word reaches her ears. She busies herself with pulling her lunch from the microwave, but it does nothing to stop the conversation from washing over her.
"Pretty much." The secretary's name is Holly, which Emma supposes is charming enough. "We agreed going in that it would just be a one-time thing."
The other secretary (she works in the Managing partner's office, Emma thinks) scoffs even louder this time. "I can't believe you let him sell you such a bullshit line."
"It was my idea as much as his." Holly's tone is even, and if she's lying, she's a damned good liar. "I just wanted to blow off some steam after splitting with Cam."
Emma hears more dropping of coins, more beeping of buttons being pressed, then the thud of a can of soda being dispensed. "I wouldn't have been happy with just once, not with Prince Perfect."
"It's funny, at first I thought he was the same as all the other career-obsessed desk jockeys in this place." Emma holds her breath as she hears the sound of heels clicking slowly across the hard break room floor towards the door. "Who knew he'd turn out to be a nice guy?" Holly laughs, a delicate lilting sound, and Emma suddenly feels a hot wave of something she desperately doesn't want to be jealousy churn through her stomach. "He actually came and apologised to me that people had found out and were gossiping about me. Seriously, who does that?"
"What did he expect?" She hears the sound of a soda can being opened. "From what I heard, half the 29th floor saw you two leave the bar together."
"I think he wanted me to know that he hadn't told anyone," Holly laughs, and Emma finds herself scowling. "He said something about bragging being bad form, whatever that means."
"So you're definitely not interested in hooking up with him again?" The question is put forward in an avid, almost eager tone, and Emma decides she doesn't really like the Managing Partner's secretary.
"No." Emma can hear the smile in Holly's voice. "Cam and I are sort of seeing each other again."
"I knew it. You two are hopeless." Her friend laughs, then drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So you wouldn't mind if I asked Mr Jones out for a drink?"
"Be my guest."
With that, the two women walk out of the break room, soda cans in hand, leaving Emma staring at the reheated pasta dish she no longer wants and the unhappy certainty that not only has she been wrong about Killian Jones, but that the thought of him going out for a drink with someone else makes her want to punch something, quite possibly the Managing Partner's secretary.
This, of course, would not be the best career move, so she drops into the gym on her way home from work that night. Her boxing instructor is lounging against the reception desk, and his eyes widen comically at the sight of her. "Is it Tuesday already?"
"No, still Monday." Emma gives him a grim look of appeal. "I just need to hit something very hard for an hour or so."
Unfazed, he nods and pushes himself away from the reception desk, practically rubbing his hands together in anticipation, the bastard. "In that case, follow me."
Her instructor almost kills her, but it doesn't work. That night, she still has trouble falling asleep, still restless despite her aching arms and shoulders. "Fuck it,"she announces to her empty bedroom just after midnight, then punches her pillow very hard, wincing at the faint shock wave that travels up her arm. This, she thinks furiously, is exactly why she doesn't get involved. She doesn't do dating, and she doesn't do yearning and crushes and looking for people in the corridor. Not since Neal, and that's worked for her for ten years and there's no reason for her to start changing now.
Except she can't stop thinking about how she'd felt when Killian Jones had kissed her, and how the idea that he might never kiss her again makes her feel as though she's messed up without even trying, and how she's spent so long running from everything she's feeling right now, she hasn't the faintest idea how to stop
The feeling of being in limbo carries over into Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday. She finally hears that the Maritime lawyers are out of town all week, involved in a site inspection for a claim, and she feels a brief flare of resentment that he hadn't mentioned it to her on Sunday when he was helping her prep her application. Then she gives herself a mental shake, because there was no reason for him to do so, and even less reason for her to expect it.
It's a trying week, and Friday morning proves to be the most trying of all.
Given her area of specialisation, she's spent the last ten years learning how to be detached and professional when it comes to the cases she's working, but every now and then, something comes along that makes her feel as though someone's reached into her chest and squeezed her heart to the point of bursting.
She spends the morning bringing herself up to speed on the new file she's been assigned, doing her best to keep the information she's absorbing on the surface, not letting it sink down into her head and her heart. But just before midday, she knows she's had enough, and if she doesn't take a break soon, she might just toss the file into the shredder.
She escapes to the coffee shop in the bottom of their building, finding a seat at one of the outside tables, wishing that she smoked, or maybe drank during a work day. Anything to dull the sharp edge of anxiety that's currently digging into her heart.
When she feels the gentle tap on her shoulder a moment later, she almost jumps out of her chair. She looks up to find Killian Jones looking down at her, sympathy swimming in those bright blue eyes of his. "Rough morning?"
Later, she'll marvel that the thought of brushing him off didn't even occur to her. "You could say that." She pauses, feeling as though she's on the cusp of the proverbial great unknown, and she has the sudden suspicion she's not the only one holding their breath. "I thought maybe some caffeine might help, but now I think I might end up bouncing off the walls."
He smirks, and she presses her lips together into a tight line, but it's too late to take the words back. It's as though her mouth and tongue have decided to take charge of the conversation, because she certainly wasn't planning on being quite so chatty with him.
"I must confess, I'd pay good money to see that," he teases, and she allows herself a mild eyeroll. He might not deserve the sleazy bastard label she'd pinned on him when he'd first started at the firm, but apparently he's still the type of guy not to waste the chance to flirt with her. Still smiling, he gestures towards the barista. "What's your alternate poison?"
Maybe she should say no - he's a can of worms she really shouldn't open, not with her head full of the file from hell - but something reckless washes over her, and she smiles back at him. "I wouldn't say no to a hot chocolate."
"Sweets for the sweet?
She gives him the most exasperated look she can conjure up, but she has the feeling it falls short of her usual high standards. "Really?"
As she suspected, it's like water off a duck's back, because he still looks delighted by the simple fact that they're having a conversation. "Sorry, love, best pun I could manage on such short notice."
After placing their order, he takes the seat opposite her, his elbows on the small table between them, his mouth curved in an easy smile. "So, it appears you survived your Sunday spent in the office last weekend."
She doesn't want to be entranced by his melodic accent and the way his eyes light up when he smiles at her, but damn it, she is. "I did, and thanks again for the help."
He waves her 'thank you' away, but not before she sees the faintest hint of colour high on his cheekbones. Blushing? Seriously? "As I recall, one of the pillars of the firm's core values is teamwork." He dips one shoulder, leaning closer to give her a wink. "Just doing my bit, love."
She stares at him, the words who the hell are you dancing on the tip of her tongue, only the appearance of a waiter bearing their order saving her from herself. The instant they're alone once more, he gives her the same look – part concern, part curiosity – as he had when he'd discovered her in the copy room last Sunday. "Is it the same matter that's giving you grief?"
"No, that one's settled down, at least for now." She wants to rub her tired eyes, but her mascara isn't up to the abuse, and instead reaches for the steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of her. "I've been working on a new file this morning and it's doing my head in."
He takes a sip of his coffee, watching her with those unbelievably blue eyes over the rim of his cup. "I've got an appointment uptown in an hour, but I'm all ears now if you need a sounding board, Swan."
She looks down at the milky swirled pattern on the top of her hot chocolate, breaking away from his steady gaze. Every passing moment she spends with this guy, the pull towards him gets stronger and stronger, and it's scaring the crap out of her. But he'd been so helpful on Sunday, helping her unravel more than one figurative knot, so she takes a deep breath. "You know when you just know you're acting for the bad guy?"
He grins at her. "That's most of my client list, Swan."
She tries to smile, but she's not sure she manages it. "Okay, well, here's the thing." She keeps her voice low and the details anonymous, because although there's no one sitting near them, the last thing she needs is to be pulled up on a breach of client confidentiality. "A birth mother is contesting custody of the child she gave up for adoption ten years ago." As she talks, she almost swipes a fingertip full of foam from the top of her drink, then remembers where she is. "She claims that his adoptive mother is emotionally abusing him."
"And is she?"
"She says no." Emma sighs. "The child psychologist says no, too."
He's frowning, and she can almost see his thoughts ticking over. "What does the child say?"
There's a sudden lump in her throat, and she has to swallow hard. "The poor kid refused to say anything at all."
He sits back in his chair, his expression solemn. "That's quite the sad tale."
"We're acting for the adoptive mother. I haven't met her in person yet, but reading through her affidavit-" The knot in Emma's throat seems to grow larger, choking her voice. "I think she's lying."
His gaze is still steady, but now she finds it oddly calming. "What's your game plan?"
Somehow, the concern (concern for her) in his voice makes the words easier to say. "Either I suck it up and do my job, or I speak to Katherine about passing the matter onto someone else."
A small frown creases his forehead. "I would have thought you'd have to deal with such things on a regular basis, love. What's upset you about this particular situation?"
You're already told him too much, the familiar panicky voice in her head whispers, but she pushes it aside. "It's all just a little too close to home for me." He raises one dark eyebrow at her, and she takes another deep breath. "I was in the foster system until I was sixteen, and it wasn't a particularly happy experience."
For the first time since she's met him, he appears lost for words. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Swan," he finally murmurs, looking as though he's worried he's saying all the wrong things, which is definitely not a normal expression for him. "You seem to have triumphed over such a bleak start in life, though."
"Most of the time," she mutters, thinking of Neal and August and all the bad choices she's made and had made for her. "One silver lining is that I found my birth parents two years ago."
He nods, glancing down at his coffee as he speaks, as if to give her some breathing space. "A happy outcome, I hope?"
She hesitates, but only briefly, because it had been a happy meeting in a strange kind of way, happy and weird and unsettling all at the same time. "They're very nice people," she tells him, then looks at her watch in dismay. Crap. "I have to go, sorry. I only meant to take five minutes."
He watches in amusement as she hastily downs her hot chocolate (thankfully, cooled just enough so she doesn't scald her throat) and refuses the five dollars she tries to give him. "Consider it my treat, Swan."
"Thanks." She's on her feet, vaguely relieved for the excuse to escape from the disconcertingly intimate vibe that has wrapped itself around their little table. She may have been daydreaming about him all damn week, but now that he's finally with her in the flesh (God, don't) she needs to put some space between them so she can think. "I owe you one."
"Swan, wait-" He's on his feet now too, one hand on the back of his chair. "It seems we're both swamped this week, but perhaps I could still buy you that drink sometime?"
She needs to get back upstairs, but her feet seem to be glued to the ground and once again, a spark of recklessness loosens her tongue. "But then I'd owe you two drinks."
His smile makes her toes curl in the points of her stilettos. "You wouldn't owe me anything at all, Swan, not even the pleasure of your company." He quirks one dark eyebrow at her. "Although I have to confess, that wouldbe lovely."
And the ball is lobbed right back into her court, she thinks. Damn him. She thinks of all the time she's spent replaying that stolen kiss in her head, and she knows she wants more. The problem isn't the kissing, though. It's all the complications that come with it. He's watching her, looking for all the world as though he's holding his breath, and it's suddenly easy to shoot him a playful smile. "I'll think about it."
He dips his head in a little bow, his white teeth flashing in a smile. "Thank you, milady."
They head in different directions then (he's visiting a client and she's heading back to the file from hell) and she's still shaking her head as she steps into the elevator, because honestly, who talks like that? Catching sight of her reflection in the mirrored back wall of the lift, she blinks at the dreamy smile plastered on her face, and gives herself a mental shake. She's still got the small matter of talking to Katherine about their new client looming over her head, and she can't afford to drift around looking like a lovesick fool. Not that she's anything of the sort, of course. Sighing, she presses the button for her floor, and thinks maybe if she tells herself that enough times, it might actually be true.
Somehow, she doubts it.
Katherine reassigns the case with a minimum of intrusive questions, and Emma wonders – not for the first time – how much the other woman knows about her background. That's one problem sorted, she muses, but as for the other niggling issue, well, she has the feeling that's not going to be as solved as easily.
She doesn't see Killian again that week, and the strange stalemate between them leads to her indulging a weekend spent eating way too much sugar, inhaling some quality carbs and drinking that bottle of imported champagne by herself on Saturday night while watching a Hitchcock marathon. She could have gone out with friends (she'd knocked back more than one invitation) but after the week she's had, she's more in a wallowing mood than a sociable one.
Having a quiet weekend turns out to be a good decision, because by Monday she's got her messed-up head under control. At least, she thinks she does, until a distinctly accented shout of, "Hold the elevator please!" heralds Killian's dramatic entrance into the lift just before the doors close on the ground floor.
"Swan!" He beams at her as he runs a hand through his hair, making it even more dishevelled. "Fancy meeting you here."
She wants to roll her eyes as she presses the button for their floor, but just the sight of him has sent a bolt of warmth through her, and she can't keep the smile from her face. "I do work here, you know."
Darting a quick glance in the mirrored wall behind her, he straightens his tie, and her fingers itch with the urge to undo all his good work. He's dressed in the unofficial uniform of the male staff at their firm - black suit, white shirt, dark tie - but somehow it looks different on him. For one thing, he's wearing a waistcoat, and it's only when he smooths one hand down its buttoned front and gives her a mischievous smile that she realises that she's staring. "A fact for which I am eternally grateful."
She indulges herself in an eyeroll this time, because come on.Leaning back against the mirrored wall behind her, she grips the handles of her briefcase a little more tightly and tries not to notice that his gaze is sweeping over her from head to toe. Trying, but failing, and very glad she'd worn her favourite black suit and pair of killer heels today. By the gleam of admiration in his eyes, he approves of her wardrobe choices as well. Doing her best to ignore the way her stomach appears to be doing backflips, she clears her throat. "How was your weekend?"
"Blessedly dull."
She stares at him. Most of her colleagues would never admit to experiencing a dull weekend, with their Monday morning conversations filled of talk of trips to the beach and rock climbing and fine dining. They definitely wouldn't admit, and cheerfully at that, to a boring weekend. "Dull can be good sometimes," she agrees cautiously, and is rewarded with a grin.
"You know, I keep saying that, but no one believes me."
It's 8:15am on a Monday morning and a single drop of coffee has yet to pass her lips, and later these are the only excuses she can come up with for what she says next. "Can I ask you something?"
He leans back against the wall behind him, mimicking her pose so they're there now eyeballing each other across the lift. "Ask away, love. I'm an open book."
She sucks in a deep breath, then blurts it out. "Why did you kiss me?"
For a few seconds, he just stares at her, his eyes overly bright, a muscle jumping in his stubbled cheek. "Because I've fancied you from the moment I first saw you," he finally tells her, as casually as though they're discussing the weather and not having a conversation that's making her feel as though every inch of her skin is sparking with static. "Actually, that's not quite true," he adds as he fiddles with the knot of his tie, and she realises with a jolt that he's not feeling as casual as he's trying to make out. "I fancied you from the moment I first heard you."
A dull flush creeps up the back of her neck, making her scalp prickle. "What do you mean, you heard me?"
He stops playing with his tie, running his hand through his hair again instead. "I was given the royal tour around the floor on my first day, learning how to escape the perils of a high rise office fire, and I head you on the telephone tearing strips off some hapless fool." He gives her an indignant look. "Most distracting of you, Swan, and now that I think of it, I still don't know where the fire exits are located."
Oh, it's way too early in the morning for this, she thinks with more than a hint of desperation, but the words just seem to keep falling out of her mouth. "That doesn't explain why you didn't bother speaking to me until we bumped into each other last Friday night."
He shrugs, but it's not dismissive, and he softens it with another smile. "Let's just say I sensed some hostility from the other party."
They're only two floors away from their destination, and she knows she should just shut the hell up, but it seems the floodgates have been opened and her brain has once again handed over the controls to her tongue. "Why did you sleep with Holly?"
Right on cue, the automated voice announces their arrival, and the elevator doors open. He puts out his hand to keep the doors from closing again, but doesn't move, his eyes locking with hers. "I was lonely."
She stares at him. He's not lying, not in the slightest, and her heart begins to thump hard in her chest. The thought that they might actually have more in common than just the whole kissing thing is more than a little scary. "You planning on sleeping with anyone else in the office?"
He raises his eyebrows at her as the lift door alert begins to beep, and he pushes himself away from the mirrored wall behind him. "Is that a trick question?"
Her face is flushed with heat as she obeys the silent 'after you' sweep of his arm, stepping out of the lift onto their floor, entirely too conscious of him following closely behind her. "You know what I mean."
He glances around them, obviously checking on their level of privacy, then leans closer, his voice barely above a whisper, his shoulder brushing against hers. "To be perfectly honest, Swan, the only plans I've entertained since our shared moment during the heady world of laser tag have involved courting you."
She feels herself swaying on her killer heels, and she's not sure if it's because of his voice or his words or the fact that he's standing so close. Oh, God. She can't remember the last time she'd gotten goosebumps simply from standing beside someone, and she's almost unbearably aware of his nearness. She can smell his aftershave - citrus and spice - and feel the subtle heat of him, and has to fight the urge to cross her arms over her breasts (her bra suddenly feels too tight, along with the rest of her clothes). Lifting her head, she meets his gaze head on. His expression is open and sincere and does very odd things to the pit of her stomach. "You want to court me?"
"Indeed." His smile is bordering on bashful, and again she feels that swoop of heat in the pit of her stomach. "Or perhaps even woo you, should the opportunity arise."
She lifts her chin, knowing she's clutching at straws, throwing the crumbling bricks of her resolve at him to see if he'll crumble as well. "And what if I don't want to be courted or wooed?"
A lightening quick flash of disappointment flickers across his face, then he sighs, his smile only slightly dimmed. "Then I would be thankful for that one shared moment and offer my substantial photocopying skills any time in the future should you have need of them."
She stares at him. "You really mean that, don't you?"
He shrugs. "I rarely say anything I don't mean, love."
Not one but two elevator bells ding, and she knows their privacy is about to come to an end. It's close to eight-thirty, and their colleagues who deliberately arrive at the very last moment are about to pour from the lifts. She steps away, walking slowly in the direction of her department, and she doesn't have to look behind her to know that he's following her. When they've moved away from the stream of co-workers now rushing towards their respective offices, takeout coffee cups clutching tightly in their hands, she turns to face him. "In that case, forget the drink."
His face falls at her words, but he just nods, apparently already making good on his promise to abide by her decision. "As you wish, love."
She waits until he's taken a step away, then grins. "You can take me out to dinner instead. I'm free on Saturday night."
People are still walking past them, the occasional curious glance being tossed at their way, but she doesn't care, not when he's looking at her as though someone's lit a candle behind his eyes. "Do you eat Thai food?"
"I'll eat everything as long as it's not raw."
He nods, his expression thoughtful, as if making a mental note, and she's almost disappointed he didn't latch onto the obvious double entendré. "There's an excellent Thai restaurant in my neighbourhood."
"Great." She's still clutching the handle of her briefcase so tightly she's lost feeling in her fingers, but it's better than embarrassing herself by reaching for the lapels of his suit jacket and planting the kind of kiss on him that might get both of them fired. "You can pick up some takeout on the way to my neighbourhood."
His gaze narrows. "You're inviting me to your apartment?"
"Well, that depends." She checks her watch, and knows that she really,really has to get to her office, but that doesn't stop her from taking a step closer to him. "I mean, the Thai food's a good start, but I still have no idea how you feel about watching old movies."
"Well, that depends," he parrots back at her with a smirk, taking a swaying step towards her. "Are you referring to the golden years of Hollywood, or what our young junior staff call old?"
"Think Hitchcock, not Home Alone."
He leans forward, close enough to make her breath catch in her throat, close enough for her to see the silvery flecks in his bright blue eyes. "In that case, Swan, I'd be delighted to accept your kind invitation."
"Good." Not trusting herself to say anything else without making an idiot of herself, she gives him a brisk nod, then turns on her heel and stalks towards the Family Law department, feeling the weight of his gaze on her back with every step. She can almost feel him smirking, the bastard, and it takes a considerable amount of willpower not to turn her head to see if she's right.
She smiles brightly at Katherine as she walks past the other woman's open office door, and refuses to feel guilty that she is actually arriving on time this morning, rather than two hours early. There's no sign of anyone at Holly's workstation, and Emma can't help but be relieved, given what's just transpired outside the elevators.
When she reaches the sanctuary of her own office, she shuts the door behind her, dumps her briefcase beside her desk and drops into her chair, feeling as though she's just run a gauntlet in more ways than one. Maybe life was easier when she hated Killian Jones, but this rush of adrenaline is potent and exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and to think all she'd had to do was stop running blind and let him catch up.
Telling herself she doesn't care that Saturday is six whole days away, she switches on her laptop and waits for the inevitable barrage of emails to download. If nothing else, she thinks with a grimace as she eyes the towering stack of files and documents piled in her in-tray, at least they'll be a busy six days.
The morning passes quickly (she manages to chat easily with Holly whenever their paths cross) and it's not until Katherine hands her a thick document that needs to be urgently proofread that before lunch that Emma realises she's not exactly flying under the radar. "You've been smiling since you arrived," the older woman remarks dryly. "Good weekend?"
Emma grins at her boss. "I spent most of it on the couch watching DVDs by myself."
Katherine's shrewd gazes lingers, then she nods. "Sounds like heaven." She points to the hefty document on the desk, dashing off her last instructions over her shoulder as she walks out of Emma's office. "Before you go to lunch, if you could?"
"Not a problem." In six days, Emma will be able to discover if being kissed by Killian Jones really was as amazing as she remembers, and not even the prospect of not eating lunch until 3pm (again) can stop the thrill of anticipation currently zipping through her.
Six days, she thinks as she begins to scan the first page, her brain already switching onto detached mode as she starts to read through the written history of yet another marital disaster. She's spent the last ten years dancing her way through one night stands and fleeting relationships that didn't last as long as her iPhone battery's lifespan. She can wait six days for a kiss.
Emma closes her eyes, desire lurching through the pit of her belly at the mere thought of it. She can wait, but it seems she'll be replaying those same ten seconds over and over again in her head until he knocks on her front door. Restlessly crossing her legs, she opens her eyes and starts to proofread once more, knowing that she is totally and utterly screwed.