The Forbidden Throb Chapter 103

Emma's POV:

Olivia pulled out her phone, opening the notes app with the focused intensity of someone planning a military operation.

"Alright," she said. "Here's what we're going to do. First—"

---

Twenty minutes later, my face was burning so hot I was certain the entire restaurant could see.

"Absolutely not," I said firmly, cutting off Olivia mid-suggestion. "I am not 'accidentally' walking out in lingerie when he gets home from work."

"It's a classic move!"

"It's mortifying."

Olivia sighed dramatically, scrolling through her notes. "Fine. What about bringing him a late-night snack when he's working? Something casual but thoughtful—"

"That just sounds like I'm being a good roommate."

"See, this is the problem." Olivia set down her phone, fixing me with an exasperated look. "You need to be bolder, Emma. "

And then she was off—her suggestions growing increasingly daring, increasingly *explicit*.

My face progressed from pink to red to what must have been the color of a ripe tomato. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and clapped my hand over her mouth.

"Olivia, *stop*!"

The worst part wasn't what she was saying—it was that her words were making me imagine things I'd never let myself think about before. My heart was pounding so hard I thought my eardrums might burst.

Olivia came from an artistic family, always dressed boldly, and apparently her advice followed suit.

Everything she suggested belonged on some late-night channel I'd never dared watch.

Only when she saw my distress did she take pity on me, offering some slightly more practical suggestions: compliment him constantly, create casual physical contact, help him with his tie and let your fingers brush his throat, sweep your hair forward and ask him to zip up your dress...

These at least sounded *somewhat* doable. Even if they made my heart race just thinking about them.

"Now," Olivia said, pulling out her phone again. "Let's talk about your wardrobe."

An hour later, we'd moved from the restaurant to walking down Newbury Street, stopping at boutique after boutique.

Olivia guided me through racks of clothes I'd never normally consider—form-fitting dresses, soft cashmere that begged to be touched, colors that made my eyes pop.

"This one," she said decisively at Anthropologie, holding up a deep emerald wrap dress. "Try it on."

"Olivia—"

"Emma. Trust me."

The dress was nothing like my usual style—form-fitting where I usually chose loose, sophisticated where I typically went casual. But when I emerged from the fitting room and saw myself in the full-length mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back.

The emerald fabric brought out the blue-green of my eyes. The wrap style accentuated curves I usually hid under oversized sweaters.

I looked... grown up. Confident.

"This is the you he needs to see," Olivia said.

We left the store with two shopping bags—the dress, a new pair of heels I'd probably never wear, and a cashmere cardigan Olivia had insisted "completed the look."

Outside on the sidewalk, Olivia checked her phone and groaned.

"I have to get back—professor moved up our group meeting to three." She gave me a quick hug. "Good luck tonight. Text me updates!"

"I will," I promised, watching her hurry toward the T station.

Alone now, I stood on Newbury Street with my shopping bags, afternoon sun warm on my face.

My mind drifted to Grandma Grace, to lazy Sunday mornings in her kitchen in Portland, the smell of blueberry pancakes and her weathered hands guiding mine as she taught me to cook.

*"Emma, sweetheart,"* she'd said once, flour dusting her apron, *"if you want to capture a man's heart, you first need to capture his stomach. Good food, made with love—that's a language everyone understands."*

I looked down at my shopping bags, then pulled out my phone to check the time. Two-thirty.

*I could make dinner first.*

The thought made my heart race with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

*Haymarket.* The farmers' market would still be open for another hour or two. I could get fresh ingredients, take them home, and have everything ready by the time Daniel got back from the hospital.

My fingers moved before I could second-guess myself, typing out a text to Daniel:

**Don't worry about picking me up today. I have something to take care of.**

The response was almost immediate—my phone lit up with an incoming call. Daniel's name flashed across the screen.

My heart jumped into my throat.

I took a breath and pressed the green button, lifting the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Emma." Daniel's voice was warm but carried a hint of concern. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," I said quickly. "I just—I need to run a few errands. I can take the T home."

A pause. "Are you sure? I can rearrange my schedule—"

"No, really. You don't need to do that." I glanced at the sky. "I'll see you at home."

Another pause, longer this time. I could almost hear him thinking.

"Alright," he said finally. "But text me when you're leaving, okay? I want to know you got home safely."

Something warm bloomed in my chest. "I will."

---

Three hours later, I stood in Daniel's kitchen—*our* kitchen—surveying my work with a mixture of pride and panic.

The apartment smelled incredible.

Roasted garlic and herbs from the chicken I'd prepared, the rich aroma of the mushroom soup simmering on the stove—Grandma Grace's recipe, the one she'd taught me when I was twelve. Fresh bread warming in the oven. A simple arugula salad waiting in the fridge.

I'd changed into the emerald dress, my hair falling loose around my shoulders instead of pulled back in my usual ponytail. The cashmere cardigan was draped over a chair, ready if I lost my nerve.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I stirred the soup one more time, adjusting the heat.

*What if he thinks this is too much? What if he reads too much into it? What if—*

The sound of a key in the lock froze me in place.

The door opened.

Daniel was home.