The Forbidden Throb Chapter 125

Emma's POV:

The words hung in the air between us, warm and impossibly sweet.

I stared at Daniel across the breakfast table, my heart doing that strange fluttering thing it had been doing all morning—half hope, half warning.

The muffin in my hand suddenly felt heavy, the flaky pastry crumbling between my fingers as I tried to process what he'd just admitted.

He liked me. Had liked me for a very long time.

The words should have filled me with pure joy. Instead, they tangled with memories.

*"Childhood sweethearts,"* he'd told his colleagues, his hand resting so naturally on my shoulder that even I had almost believed it.

The smile he'd given me had been so genuine, so warm, that for a moment I'd forgotten we were performing for an audience.

I set down the croissant carefully, my eyes studying his face for cracks in the facade.

"You can tell me specifically when, right?" I heard myself ask, my voice steadier than I felt. "I mean, when you started... feeling that way?"

Because if this were real, there would be a real moment. A specific time. Not just a vague sentiment that sounded romantic but meant nothing.

I watched his hand pause mid-motion as he poured orange juice into my glass.

"A few days," he said finally, his tone gentle but maddeningly vague. "I'll tell you in a few days."

I set my fork down carefully.

"Is this like when people say 'sometime we should grab coffee'?" The words came out before I could stop them, tinged with a bitterness I didn't quite recognize in my own voice. "One of those things that sounds nice but never actually happens?"

It was the same tone I'd used when Nicholas had promised to meet my grandmother "soon" for three months straight.

The same defensive sarcasm I'd developed as armor against disappointment.

But Daniel's reaction wasn't what I expected.

He set down the orange juice pitcher with deliberate care, then reached for his napkin. Before I could process what was happening, his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth—a feather-light touch that sent electricity racing down my spine.

"You had maple syrup," he murmured, showing me the napkin.

His dark eyes held mine, serious in a way that made my breath catch. "I promise, Emma. Just a few days. I'm not avoiding the question."

If he wouldn't tell me the exact moment, maybe I could narrow it down. Grandma Grace had taught me this technique for bargain hunting at the Portland farmer's market—*start big and work your way smaller, honey.*

"Was it before we came to Paris?" I tried, keeping my tone casual.

Daniel's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That's a very wide timeframe, Emma."

I bit my lower lip, my heart rate picking up. "Before we got married? When I was still at BU?"

The words hung between us, suddenly heavy with implication. If he'd liked me when I was still Nicholas's girlfriend, when I was still tangled up in that mess of family expectations and broken promises...

My palm covered my mouth as the full weight of my question sank in.

Daniel shifted in his chair, those long legs crossing at the ankle in that elegant way he had. He was quiet for several seconds, studying me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Then, softly:

"Yes."

The word landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I understood.

My eyes widened until they felt impossibly huge. Both hands flew to my mouth now, as if I could physically contain the shock flooding through me.

In the morning light streaming through the windows, I knew my eyes must be showing that blue-green color they got when I was emotional.

My mind scrambled desperately for explanation, thoughts tumbling over each other like lottery balls in one of those transparent machines—spinning, colliding, finally spitting out a single possibility:

"Did you see me at some BU event?" I blurted out, grasping at the most logical scenario. "Were you a judge for one of my competitions?"

That has to be it.

It made perfect sense, didn't it? Men like Daniel—raised with that old-money Boston discipline, groomed from childhood to be future patriarchs—they didn't just... develop feelings for their brother's girlfriend at family gatherings.

Maybe Daniel had been a judge at one of those events. Maybe he'd seen me in my element—confident, competent, the version of myself I actually liked—and that had sparked something.

"Or..." Another thought struck me, and I kept talking, working through the logic out loud. "Did the Prescott Foundation fund some kind of scholarship for the Department of Journalism? And I happened to be one of the recipients?"

I watched his face as I spoke, and there—just there—something flickered. His long lashes dipped briefly, and his fingers paused for a fraction of a second on his coffee cup.

For a moment, I thought he might deflect, might give me one of those elegant non-answers that Boston elite specialized in.

But then his dark eyes held mine, and he said simply:

"Yes. There is."

The confirmation sent a rush of warmth through my chest, sweet and heady like the mulled wine we'd shared at the Christmas market.

But I also knew when to stop pushing. Some things, some answers, needed time to unfold naturally. Daniel had promised to tell me everything in a few days, and I believed him.

---

After breakfast, I changed into my cream-colored coat and the burgundy scarf Daniel had bought me at the Christmas market. We were planning to spend the day exploring Paris, maybe visit the Tuileries Garden or walk along the Seine.

But as we reached Le Meurice's elegant lobby, Daniel's phone buzzed.

I watched his expression shift as he glanced at the screen—subtle, professional, but I'd learned to read those micro-expressions over the past months.

"Dr. Hermann," he said, answering in French.

Even before he hung up, I knew our plans had changed.

"I need to go to Hôpital Européen Georges-Pompidou," Daniel said, his voice carrying that apologetic note I'd heard dozens of times before. "Professor Hermann is asking me to consult on an emergency case."

He reached out to adjust my scarf, his fingers gentle against my throat as he tucked the fabric more securely. "You should explore the area around the hotel, or you could stay in the hotel's café. They have excellent coffee."

"It's okay," I said, and meant it. "Go save someone's life."

His lips curved into that small, warm smile. Then he leaned down, and his lips brushed my forehead, brief and tender.

I watched until the car disappeared into Paris traffic, then turned back toward the hotel's interior.

The space felt suddenly vast, the elegant cream-and-gold décor somehow both beautiful and isolating.

*You're in Paris,* I reminded myself firmly. *In a five-star hotel. Stop moping.*