Emma woke up alone.
For a disorienting moment, she thought last night had been a dream—the kiss, the vulnerability, the moment in the kitchen where everything between them had shifted into something new and terrifying and real.
Then she saw the indentation on the pillow beside her, smelled Alexander's cedar and citrus scent on the sheets, and knew it had happened. All of it.
She found him in the kitchen, already dressed for work in a charcoal suit, two coffee mugs on the counter. He looked up when she entered, and the expression on his face—careful, controlled, almost regretful—made Emma's stomach drop.
"Morning," he said, his voice too neutral.
"Morning." Emma pulled her robe tighter, suddenly self-conscious. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." He slid a coffee mug across the counter to her—made exactly how she liked it, because of course he remembered. "Emma, about last night—"
