The Forbidden Throb Chapter 179

Emma's POV:

The afternoon light filtered through the windows as I hunched over my laptop, squinting at the dense French medical terminology in Professor Laurent's latest email.

My capstone project was finally taking shape, but the technical jargon still made my head spin sometimes.

*Insuffisance mitrale dégénérative avec prolapsus du feuillet postérieur...*

I'd gotten better at this, though. Much better than I ever thought possible.

The girl who'd struggled through freshman French lit seminars could now parse complex medical journals, thanks to countless late nights and Daniel's patient explanations. He'd sit beside me at this very desk, his glasses perched on his nose, breaking down concepts until they clicked.

I found myself scrolling through my feed more carefully now, second-guessing what to share. The photo from last night—Daniel and me attempting to bake gingerbread cookies, flour somehow ending up in his hair—sat in my drafts folder.

Too domestic? Too couple-y? Would people think I was showing off?

*Stop it*, I told myself firmly. *This is your life. Your happiness. You're allowed to share it.*

I hit post.

The response was immediate and overwhelmingly positive. Olivia's comment appeared first: *FINALLY some wholesome content from you two! Also Daniel has flour on his glasses in pic 3, I'm deceased*

I was still laughing when my phone rang. Grandma's contact photo—her standing on her front porch in Portland, waving at the camera—filled the screen.

"Grandma!" I answered, warmth flooding through me. "I was just thinking about calling you."

"Were you now?" Her voice carried that familiar mix of affection and gentle teasing. "Or were you too busy being married and forgetting all about your poor grandmother?"

"Never," I promised, smiling. "How are you feeling? Did you go to your follow-up appointment?"

"Clean bill of health, sweetheart. My doctor says I'm tougher than most of his patients half my age." Pride colored her tone. "Now, are you going to tell me what you and that handsome husband of yours are doing for New Year?"

I hesitated, fork halfway to my mouth. "We... haven't really talked about it yet. Daniel's schedule has been crazy with year-end surgeries, and I've been finishing my project—"

"Emma Johnson-Prescott," she interrupted, using my full married name with deliberate emphasis. "You are *not* spending your first New Year as a married couple holed up in that apartment working."

"We're not—"

"I saw your Instagram story yesterday. You were translating medical journals at eleven PM on a Saturday night."

Busted. "The Paris conference deadline is coming up..."

"And it will still be there after New Year," Grandma said firmly. "Listen to me, sweetheart. I know you're both ambitious, brilliant people. But you're also newlyweds. This first year... it matters. The memories you make now, they set the foundation."

"You're right," I admitted quietly.

"Good girl." Satisfaction warmed her voice.

I seized the opportunity to fuss over her a bit. "And Grandma, please promise me you'll keep the heat on properly. I know you like to save on the electric bill, but it's going to be freezing in Portland, and that old house gets so drafty—"

"Emma, I'm perfectly capable of—"

"I'm serious. Turn up the thermostat. Use the space heater in the bedroom. Don't try to tough it out with just blankets and tea." I was on a roll now. "And if the furnace makes that weird clicking sound again, call someone to look at it. Don't just ignore it because it's expensive. "

"Emma," she interrupted, but I caught the smile in her voice. "I promise I won't freeze to death. Now, I really do have to go. I'm... busy."

I frowned. "Busy? Busy with what?"

Silence.

"Grandma?"

"Nothing important! Just... things. I'll see you soon, Emma. Love you!"

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, bewildered. That was... odd. Grandma never rushed off calls with me. And "busy"? She was retired. Her idea of busy was reorganizing her yarn collection or trying new soup recipes.

But Grandma wasn't the only one acting strange—Daniel was too.

I'd gone to bed the night before with Daniel's promise of a "little surprise" ringing in my ears. He'd been almost playful about it, that rare, soft smile on his face as he'd kissed me goodnight and told me to get plenty of sleep.

So I'd dutifully washed my face, changed into pajamas, and climbed into bed by ten, my mind spinning with possibilities. What kind of surprise required me to be well-rested?

But when I woke to winter sunlight streaming through the curtains, Daniel's side of the bed was cold. Empty.

I sat up, confused, and spotted the note on his pillow immediately. His precise handwriting, just one line:

*Gone to pick up your New Year's surprise. Be back this afternoon. Love you. - D*

***

By early afternoon, the apartment was still empty.

I wandered into the guest bedroom—the one we rarely used—and found myself standing among the New Year gifts we'd carefully selected over the past few weeks. Everything was wrapped and ready, organized by recipient.

For Daniel's grandfather: premium tea, aged whiskey, and a set of antique porcelain from an estate sale Daniel had insisted was "exactly his taste."

For Sophia: the snowboard she'd been dropping hints about since October, complete with custom bindings.

And for Grandma, tucked carefully in tissue paper, waiting for our trip to Portland: a strand of perfectly round Mikimoto pearls, an assortment of cashmere yarn in soft, muted colors, and a set of custom-made bamboo knitting needles with gold-plated tips.

Most of these gifts had been Daniel's suggestions. He'd accompanied me to every shop, patiently helping me choose, offering opinions with that quiet certainty he brought to everything.

I was still lost in thought, reorganizing the gift boxes for the third time, when I heard it: the electronic lock on the front door beeping.

My heart jumped. I stood quickly, nearly tripping over a ribbon spool as I hurried toward the entryway.

Footsteps. Multiple footsteps.

I froze.

Daniel appeared first, tall and striking in his black down jacket.

A small, bundled figure emerged from behind him, wrapped in so many layers she looked like a walking quilt. A knitted hat covered most of her head, a thick scarf wound around her neck, and—

"Emma, sweetheart! Come help your grandmother with these bags!"

My breath caught.

*Grandma.*

She was here. In Boston. In our apartment.

"Grandma?" My voice came out strangled.

Daniel was carrying most of her luggage—a rolling suitcase, a large travel bag, both bulging at the seams. He set them down carefully, that soft smile playing at his lips as he watched me.

I couldn't move. Couldn't process. My grandmother was *here*, when she was supposed to be in Portland doing... whatever mysterious thing she'd been too busy to tell me about.

Daniel crossed to me, his hand coming up to gently pinch my cheek. "Breathe, baby," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.

That broke the spell.

I rushed forward, nearly knocking Grandma over as I threw my arms around her.

"You're here," I whispered into her shoulder, my eyes burning. "You're really here."

"Of course I'm here, silly girl." She patted my back, her laugh muffled against my hair. "Did you think I'd miss spending New Year with my favorite granddaughter?"

"I'm your only granddaughter," I managed, pulling back to look at her. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her eyes bright with happiness.

"Details." She waved a hand dismissively, then started unwinding the layers of scarves and removing her coat. "Now, let me get out of all this—your young man insisted I bundle up like I was heading to the Arctic, and honestly, between the car heater and the building's furnace, I'm about to melt."

I glanced at Daniel, who was hanging up Grandma's coat with the same careful attention he brought to everything.

Grandma's sharp eyes didn't miss our joined hands, the way Daniel's thumb traced absent circles on my wrist, or the way I leaned almost unconsciously into his side. Her smile softened.

"Well," she said briskly, "I brought half of Portland with me, apparently. Let me show you what I've got."

She directed us to her travel bag, which she unzipped to reveal an impressive array of containers. Homemade cookies in tins, carefully wrapped pastries, jars of her famous blueberry preserves, and—

"Is that your cranberry bread?" I asked, recognizing the distinctive loaf shape.

"I know how you love it." She started arranging everything on the dining table with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. "And I brought the ingredients for my seafood chowder—I thought I'd make it fresh tomorrow night. Daniel, you do eat seafood, don't you?"

"I do," he assured her. "And I'd be honored to try your cooking, Grace."

Grandma beamed at him. "Good boy. Now, Emma, stop hovering and sit down. You're making me nervous."