Chapter 2: I'm Basically Sexually Harassing Her In My Head

Emma's POV

The morning light is cold. I'm sitting in the armchair by the living room window, coffee going lukewarm in my hands. Haven't slept much. Every time I closed my eyes, those thoughts came back. Nate's thoughts. The ones he never said out loud.

Three years of torturing myself.

The words loop in my head like a song I can't shake off.

I stare at the window and suddenly I'm remembering. Things I thought I understood. Things that are starting to look different now.

Last summer. That night I went down to the basement gym around ten, wearing a sports bra and leggings. The treadmill was still warm. A damp towel thrown over the rail. Water bottle on the shelf. He'd just left.

Next morning, six a.m., I tried again. Same thing. Equipment warm. That faint scent of his cologne hanging in the air.

Back then I thought he was avoiding me. Now I'm wondering if he was avoiding temptation.

Then there's the charity gala last Christmas. Some investor put his hand on my waist, fingers sliding too low, and Nate appeared out of nowhere.

"We need to leave. Emma's not feeling well."

His voice was ice. In the car, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel, jaw locked tight. Didn't say a word the whole drive home. I sat there thinking he was pissed because I'd ruined his networking.

But that wasn't anger. That was jealousy.

And all those nights. Our bedrooms are on opposite ends of the second floor. Every night at eleven, his door closes. Like clockwork. I can hear it from my room, that soft click of the latch.

One night, maybe two in the morning, I got up for water. Saw light under his door. Stood in the hallway staring at that sliver of yellow light for way too long.

Eventually I went back to bed.

Three years of distance. Three years of careful politeness. Was he holding back the whole time?

Footsteps upstairs. He's awake.

I set down the coffee cup and stand up, heart already picking up speed.

Nate comes down the stairs in a navy three-piece suit, hair still damp from the shower. But his tie's crooked, obviously thrown on in a hurry.

I'm walking toward the staircase before I can think about it.

"Your tie's a mess."

Nate stops mid-step. His hand goes to his collar, eyes flashing with something like panic.

"I got it."

"Hold still."

I'm already in front of him, reaching up. My fingers touch the silk at his collar and he goes completely still. Frozen.

This close, I can smell him. Something clean, maybe his soap. A hint of coffee.

She's touching me. Emma's touching my collar. Her fingers are right there, brushing my neck. Calm down. CALM DOWN. This is normal. Normal wife behavior. Except she's not a normal wife, she's... Jasmine. That's jasmine. Or gardenia? I want to bury my face in her neck. No no no NO. She'll think I'm a fucking creep. I AM a fucking creep. Control yourself. She's almost done. She'll let go soon. Please let go. Please don't let go.

My hands are moving slowly, adjusting the tie with more care than necessary. Then my finger grazes his throat. Not on purpose. Totally on purpose.

His Adam's apple bobs hard. His breathing gets heavier.

I look up at him, keeping my voice light. "Your heart's going crazy."

"I'm..." His voice comes out tight. "Gonna be late."

She noticed. She can feel my heartbeat. Can she feel... NO. Don't think about it. Board meetings! Quarterly reports! Stock market trends! But her eyelashes. Why are her eyelashes so long? And she's biting her lower lip. Fuck. Why is she biting her lip? Does she know how goddamn sexy that is? No, she doesn't know. She's just nervous. I'm scaring her. I'm a piece of shit.

I let go, stepping back. His ears are red. He's still not breathing right.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Then he's grabbing his briefcase and practically running for the door. It slams shut behind him, loud in the quiet house.

I'm standing there staring at that door, pulse hammering.

By ten a.m., I'm in the home office pretending to work. Computer's open but I haven't read a single word. Just keep thinking about Nate's reaction. The way his throat moved when I touched him. Those red ears. That voice in his head, completely unraveling.

If one touch did that to him, what would happen if I pushed further?

I check the time. He's at his office now. Sterling Capital Management. I've never been there. Three years, not once.

Today could be the first time.

I go upstairs to change. Skip past the sweaters and jeans, pull out a cream wrap dress. The kind that ties at the waist, shows off the right things.

In the mirror, I look professional but definitely female. Hair loose over my shoulders, brown eyes steady.

I need an excuse. Can't let him know this is deliberate.

Sterling's building is all glass and steel in the financial district. Forty floors. I push through the lobby doors and walk up to the reception desk.

The woman behind it blinks. "Mrs. Sterling! Do you have an appointment?"

I smile, holding up a folder I grabbed from home. Some old contract Nate doesn't need. "Just dropping something off for my husband."

A young assistant knocks on Nate's door, pushes it open. "Mr. Sterling, your wife's here."

Nate's behind his massive desk, papers spread out in front of him. He looks up, takes off his glasses. Complete surprise on his face.

"Emma?" He stands up fast. "Everything okay?"

She's here. At my office. First time in three years. Something must be wrong. Is it her dad? Is she sick? But she looks fine. More than fine. That coat. The way it cinches at her waist. Don't stare. She's here for business. Be professional. But why is she here? Is she... is she going to ask for the divorce now? In my office? Oh god, she's going to do it here.

I walk in, closing the door behind me. His fingers tighten around the pen he's holding.

"You forgot this this morning." I hold out the folder.

He takes it, and our fingers brush. He jerks his hand back like he's been burned.

Her fingers. So cold. Is she nervous? Why would she be nervous? Unless... no, she's just here to drop off papers. Normal. Professional. But she's not leaving. Why isn't she leaving? Is she going to say something? Please don't say it. Please don't ask for divorce. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.

"You busy? I can come back."

I cross to the black leather couch in the corner and sit down. Cross my legs.

Nate just stands there, completely lost on where to look.

She's sitting on that couch. The couch. I dreamed about her on my desk last night. On this desk. Right here. Fuck, don't think about it! But her legs. Those legs. I remember that mole on her inner thigh. Saw it last summer by the pool. I remember every detail of her body. Every freckle. Every curve. I'm a pervert. I'm a stalker. I'm basically sexually harassing her in my head. If she knew what I was thinking right now, she'd call the police.

I look at him. Keep my voice soft. "What do you want for dinner?"

Nate stares at me like I just spoke another language. We never ask each other this. Three years, never once.

"You..." He's barely getting words out. "You don't need to..."

Why is she asking me this? Is this some kind of test? Or... is she trying to be nice before she drops the bomb? Like a last supper before execution? But her eyes. She's looking at me with those eyes. Don't look at her. Say something normal. Don't be weird.

I stand up. "I'll make something. Text me when you're heading home."

I walk past him to the door, leaving him standing there like he's been turned to stone.

I'm in my car in the parking garage, not starting the engine yet. Just sitting here with my head against the seat, replaying everything.

I dreamed about her on my desk.

I remember every detail of her body.

I'm basically sexually harassing her in my head.

My face is burning. Embarrassment and something else tangled together. Excitement, maybe. Can't tell which is stronger.

Nate Sterling. Ice-cold financial genius. Boston's most rational investor. And his head is full of me. Full of dirty thoughts about me.

I pull out my phone, open our message thread. Three years of conversations that look like business emails. "I'll be late tonight." "Okay." That's it.

I start typing.

I made lasagna. It's in the fridge. Heat it up when you get home.

Send.

I watch the screen. Waiting.

One minute. Two. Five.

The phone vibrates.

You didn't have to...

The message just sits there with those three dots, like he's hesitating. Then another one comes through.

Thank you. That's... really nice.

I'm staring at those two messages, can't stop the smile spreading across my face.

Really nice. He used the words really nice.

I start the car and pull out of the garage. Boston's evening sky is going purple, street lights flickering on one by one.

But I don't head home. I turn toward Newbury Street instead. The high-end shopping district.

If those thoughts in Nate's head are real, if he really has been holding back, really has been suffering through every morning watching me, then I need to make that suffering worse.

I need to buy some things. The kind of things that'll make Nate completely lose it in his mind.