The Forbidden Throb Chapter 182

Emma's POV:

The name landed between us like a stone dropped in still water.

For a moment, I felt a strange dislocation—as if "Nicholas" were a word from another language, belonging to another life entirely. Someone I'd known once, in a story that had ended long ago.

I reached for Daniel's hand, lacing our fingers together. "Well then," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my own voice. "I suppose we should go see how our brother is doing."

The corner of Daniel's mouth lifted. His thumb brushed across my knuckles. "Yes, our brother," he said gently.

Grandma appeared in the doorway and said. "You two need to go on—don't keep the family waiting."

I hugged her tightly. "Thank you," I whispered.

"Go on now." She patted my cheek. "Show them what a Johnson woman is made of."

Daniel helped me into my coat, his hands lingering on my shoulders for just a moment. "Ready?"

I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and nodded.

---

The car glided through Boston's winter streets.

Through the windshield, Beacon Hill's brick townhouses rose like sentinels, their gas lamps already glowing against the gathering dusk. Old money. Old families.

"Daniel?" My voice came out smaller than I intended. "What do I... I mean, is there anything I should know? Anything I need to be careful about?"

He glanced at me, and something in his expression softened. "Just be yourself."

I watched the houses grow larger, more imposing, until we turned onto a private drive lined with bare-branched trees.

That's when I heard them.

Two voices, both carrying the unmistakable authority of people accustomed to being heard, were engaged in what could only be called a spirited argument.

"The wreath is crooked, David. Anyone with eyes can see it's crooked."

"It's perfectly straight, Eleanor. You're just being difficult."

"I am being *accurate*. There's a difference."

I grabbed Daniel's arm, my fingers digging into his sleeve. "Is that—"

"My grandmother." A smile tugged at his lips, the kind I rarely saw—fond, exasperated, almost boyish. "She just got back from Florence."

"Florence?" I stared at the elegant townhouse ahead, its windows glowing with warm light. "As in... Italy?"

"She's an art history scholar. Retired from Harvard, but she still consults for museums all over Europe." Daniel brought the car to a stop, but made no move to get out. "She and Grandfather... they bicker. A lot. But he flies out to see her every month, even though he pretends he doesn't."

The revelation was so unexpected, so *human*, that some of my tension eased. "Really?"

"Really." Daniel turned to face me fully, his gray eyes warm behind his glasses. "They've been married forty-seven years. She drives him crazy. He adores her." He paused. "When you see them arguing, just... smile and nod. It's how they show affection."

Despite everything, I felt my lips curve. "That's kind of sweet."

"Don't tell them I said that." He unbuckled his seatbelt. "Ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

But Daniel didn't lead me to the front entrance where his grandparents were still debating the merits of symmetrical wreath placement. Instead, he guided me around the side of the house, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back.

"There's something I want to show you first," he said.

We emerged into the back garden, and I stopped breathing.

A glass conservatory stood at the far end, its panels catching the last rays of winter sunlight. But it wasn't the structure itself that made my heart stutter—it was what I could see through those crystal-clear walls.

Weathered driftwood benches. Sea glass wind chimes catching the light. Blue and white striped cushions. Hand-woven fishing nets draped artfully along one wall.

And there, on an easel in the corner, a watercolor of a lighthouse that could only be Portland Head Light.

"This is..." My voice broke.

"Grandfather had it designed for you." Daniel's voice was quiet, almost tentative. "He said you might get homesick for Maine. Wanted you to have a place that felt familiar."

The tears I'd been fighting spilled over. I turned away, embarrassed by my reaction, but Daniel's arms came around me from behind.

"Hey," he murmured into my hair. "It's okay."

"It's not okay." I wiped at my cheeks with shaking hands. "I haven't even met them properly yet."

Daniel turned me to face him, his hands gentle but insistent on my shoulders. "Emma Johnson Prescott." He said my full name like a vow. "You are worth this and so much more."

He kissed my forehead, soft and reverent, and I let myself lean into him for just a moment.

"Come on," he said finally, taking my hand. "They're waiting."

We walked back around to the front of the house, where the argument had—mercifully—ceased. As we rounded the corner, I saw them.

David Prescott Sr. stood at the base of a ladder, silver hair immaculate despite his exertions, holding what appeared to be an evergreen wreath. Beside him, a slender woman in a charcoal cashmere suit was adjusting her gold-rimmed glasses to better glare at the offending decoration.

They both turned as we approached, and the wreath was immediately forgotten.

"Well." Eleanor Prescott's sharp blue eyes swept over us, and I felt myself being catalogued, assessed, *judged*. "I can see Daniel and Emma are clearly a match made in heaven."

She turned to her husband with the air of someone delivering a decisive blow in a long-running argument. "Unlike your ridiculous age-based matchmaking scheme, which showed absolutely no consideration for actual compatibility."

My face flamed. Beside me, I felt Daniel tense.

But Eleanor wasn't finished. She glanced toward the house, where I now noticed Nicholas standing in the doorway, his expression carefully blank.

"If you'd actually succeeded in matching Nicholas with Emma, David, Grace's husband would be cursing you from heaven every single day."

Nicholas's face went through several shades of red. Behind him, Sophia pressed her hand to her mouth, her green eyes dancing with barely suppressed laughter.

"Grandmother," Daniel said, his voice warm. "This is Emma."

Eleanor's expression transformed. The sharp academic assessment softened into something warmer, though no less intelligent. "Of course it is. Come here, dear."

I stepped forward. "Happy New Year, Mrs. Prescott. Mr. Prescott."

Eleanor was already moving toward me, and before I could prepare myself, she'd linked her arm through mine with surprising strength for such a delicate-looking woman.

"None of this 'Mrs. Prescott' nonsense," she said firmly. "I'm Eleanor. Or Grandmother, if you prefer." She patted my arm.

On my other side, Sophia appeared like a whirlwind, her bright green eyes warm with genuine welcome. "Finally! I've been dying to talk to you properly."

I was surrounded, swept up in a tide of Prescott warmth that left me dizzy and disoriented. My carefully prepared speeches evaporated. All I could do was let them guide me toward the house, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"I—" I managed, then stopped. Tried again. "I brought something. For you all."

"It's perfect. But you didn't need to bring anything, Emma. You're family now. This is your home."

The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made my throat tight.

"Nicholas." Eleanor's voice turned crisp, businesslike. "Make yourself useful and take Emma's things inside."

Nicholas moved forward stiffly, his jaw tight as he accepted my gift bag. Our eyes met for a brief, charged moment.