The Forbidden Throb Chapter 141

Emma's POV:

Maggie beamed at us, her eyes crinkling with genuine warmth as she handed over two leather-bound menus and a vintage fountain pen.

"You two look absolutely *perfect* together," she said, her French accent softening the words into something almost musical. "Like you stepped right out of a romantic film."

My cheeks burned. I wasn't used to this—being part of a couple that people *noticed*.

Daniel's fingers traced an absent pattern on the chair back, and I felt goosebumps rise along my spine despite the warmth of the café.

"What would you like?" I asked softly, turning to him. My voice came out smaller than I'd intended, almost shy.

"I used to get the *croque monsieur* and the hot chocolate. They make it with dark chocolate from a little shop in the Latin Quarter." He turned to me and asked. "Want to try what I had as a student?"

I nodded, my eyes full of anticipation.

Daniel picked up the pen Maggie had left behind and pulled the order pad toward him, writing our table number with his left hand.

I watched as he began scribbling our order—and my eyes widened.

The handwriting was barely legible. Not just *messy*, but genuinely chaotic—letters running together in a cramped, abbreviated scrawl that looked more like a secret code than actual French words.

"Will Maggie even be able to read that?" I asked, half-joking, half-genuinely concerned.

Daniel glanced up, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. "Harvard Med students all write like this," he said, his tone light but matter-of-fact. "We call it 'medical shorthand.' "

I studied the illegible script again. "It looks like... organized chaos."

"Accurate description." He set the pen down and leaned back, that hint of a smile still playing at his lips. "Should we test Maggie's expertise?"

Before I could respond, he turned toward the back of the café and called out, "Maggie? We've placed our order."

Maggie appeared at our table, wiping her hands on her apron. She picked up the order slip, squinting at Daniel's handwriting for exactly two seconds before nodding. "One croque monsieur, one French onion soup, two hot chocolates with extra cream."

She glanced at Daniel with fond exasperation. " You medical students' handwriting hasn't improved one bit. Still looks like a spider fell into an inkwell and had a seizure."

Daniel laughed—a real laugh, warm and unguarded. "This is one of our features."

Maggie swatted his shoulder affectionately before heading back to the kitchen, and I felt something shift in my chest.

I glanced at the slip again, then back at him. "But ... the way you just wrote that order, even with your left hand—" I gestured at the messy but clearly practiced scrawl. "You could definitely write beautifully if you wanted to. "

His lips curved slightly.

"So how did you learn to write so well with your left hand?" I asked.

Daniel was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his water glass. Then he said, very quietly, "Because I'm naturally left-handed, Emma."

I blinked. "What?"

"I'm left-handed." He picked up his water glass with his right hand, took a sip, set it down with precise control. "The right-hand writing is... trained. Learned."

He looked at me, and even though he was talking about something that had hurt him as a child, his voice had gone soft. Gentle.

"When I first learned to write, I used my left hand naturally. Eating, doing things—all left-handed. Then my mother mentioned it a few times. She didn't scold, just... expressed disappointment. So I forced myself to change."

"But it's just which hand you use," I said, frowning slightly. "Why would that be disappointing?"

I studied his face, trying to understand. "So after that, you just... always used your right hand?"

He shook his head, and something flickered in his eyes. "No. I was actually quite defiant about it, in my own way." His lips curved slightly. "I just learned to *look* obedient."

"What do you mean?"

"When people were watching, I used my right hand." His thumb traced an absent pattern on my knuckles. "But when I was alone, when I wrote in my journal or made private notes... I switched back to my left."

He paused, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"I suppose what I learned from that whole experience," he said quietly, "was that just because you can't do something openly doesn't mean you can't do it at all."

The café wasn't quiet.

The vintage speaker system played low jazz, dishes and silverware clinked, occasional bursts of laughter punctuated conversations. Behind us, the French students had moved from discussing their legendary American prodigy to more immediate concerns about final exams.

But sitting there in that noisy Parisian café, I felt like I was drowning in the depths of Daniel's gaze—sinking into something warm and infinite.

It was strange.

I used to dislike this about him—the way he wrapped everything in careful metaphors.

But now I loved it. Loved *all* of him. This old-fashioned, deliberate way of speaking felt endearing, intimate in a way I'd never appreciated before.

Under the table, I stretched out my foot and lightly kicked his shin—my patent leather Mary Jane playful against his perfectly pressed wool trousers. I tried to make my voice sound teasing, flirtatious.

"So," I said, tilting my head and letting my eyes go deliberately soft. "What other things did you do that you weren't supposed to?"

I paused, then added with what I hoped was an enticing smile, "Were you thinking about me?"

His eyes dropped to where my foot was still pressed against his leg. The corner of his mouth lifted in that barely-there smile that made my heart skip.

"Yes," he said simply, his voice quiet but steady. "Every moment.

I felt my cheeks flush.

Wait—I was supposed to be the one teasing *him*. How had he turned this around so completely?

I looked at him and admitted defeat in this particular battle.

Time to change the subject.

I wasn't usually a talkative person. Growing up, Victoria had criticized me repeatedly for being too quiet, too withdrawn. She'd said my dull, boring personality would make people reject me once I left home.

But with Daniel, I always seemed to have so much to say.

Random things, really. Scattered thoughts with no particular logic or importance. But he always responded, always listened like every word mattered.

"I saw a street performer dressed as Santa Claus outside the convention center the other day," I said, my words tumbling out. "It made me think about Halloween back in Boston—Olivia wanted me to go to this costume party with her and her boyfriend, but I felt weird being the third wheel, so I didn't go."

Daniel's expression softened. "Next year," he said quietly, "you can start planning your costume now. Whatever you want to do, wherever you want to go—I'll come with you."

My heart did a little flip. "Really?"

"Really." He took a sip of water.

I tried to picture it—Daniel Prescot, impeccably dressed surgeon and Harvard professor, wearing some ridiculous Halloween costume. A vampire? A pirate? The image was so absurd I almost laughed out loud.

"I can't even imagine you in a costume," I admitted. "You're always so... perfect. So put-together." I tilted my head, studying him. "Didn't you have any embarrassing moments growing up? Any awkward phases?"

He paused, his water glass halfway to his lips. Something flickered across his face—amusement mixed with resignation.

"Of course I did," he said finally, setting the glass down. His lips curved slightly. "Why? Want to hear about them?"