The Forbidden Throb Chapter 28

Emma's POV:

Grandma's words hung in the air between us, gentle but weighted with meaning.

The guilt hit me like a physical weight.

For a moment, I wondered if she somehow knew. If she'd seen through every careful lie I'd told, every forced smile when Nicholas's name came up.

I looked up at her face. She was watching me with that careful, gentle smile—but I could see through the facade.

The way her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her teacup. The slight tension in her shoulders despite her relaxed posture.

She was nervous. Trying so hard not to show it.

My throat tightened. I forced my lips into what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Well," I said softly, setting down my teacup before my shaking hands could betray me. "Since you've already figured out something's wrong..."

I took a breath.

"The engagement—there have been some... changes."

Grandma went very still. For just a heartbeat, her whole body tensed.

Then she forced a smile onto her face, bright and determined. When she spoke, her voice was measured, deliberately calm.

"That's all right, sweetheart." She paused, choosing her words with care. "As long as you're happy. That's all that matters to me."

The fierceness in her tone—the immediate, unquestioning support—made my chest ache.

In that moment, looking at her careful composure, at the love she was trying so hard to wrap in calm acceptance, I felt the last of my hesitation crumble.

"What about the veil you've been working on?" I asked, my tone deliberately light.

Grandma was caught off guard by my word. "What?"

"The one on the dress form over there." I nodded toward the corner. "All that beautiful lacework. It would be a shame to let it go to waste."

Grandma glanced toward the dress form in the corner, at the delicate lace draped over it, then waved a dismissive hand.

"Oh, that old thing?" She shrugged. "It's not even finished yet. I'll just... keep working on it. Slowly. Take my time."

Her eyes softened. "Someday, when you meet someone you actually *want* to marry, you'll need it. No rush."

"Well, you'd better not take *too* long with it," I said, my smile widening slightly.

Grandma blinked. "What?"

"I never said I was calling off the engagement."

She stared at me for a long moment, her expression frozen between confusion and hope. Then her hand flew to her chest, pressing against her heart as she let out a shaky breath.

"Emma Johnson," she said, half-laughing, half-scolding. "You're going to be the death of me, child."

She shook her head, still catching her breath. "I'm not as young as I used to be. My heart can't take these kinds of scares anymore."

But her eyes were bright, and the tension had finally melted from her shoulders.

"So it's still happening?" she asked carefully, as if afraid to believe it. "The wedding?"

I nodded, the smile still playing on my lips.

"It's still happening. Just... not exactly the way everyone expected."

Grandma let out a soft laugh, shaking her head with affectionate exasperation.

"Well, that's perfectly normal," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "You young people always want to do things your own way. Try new things, break with tradition."

Her eyes crinkled with warmth. "Don't you worry about what the rest of us think. It's your wedding, sweetheart."

"You said it yourself, Grandma," I teased gently. "So you can't take it back later."

She reached over and patted my hand, her touch warm and reassuring.

"I promise," she said firmly. Then her expression softened. "So... will you be staying here tonight?"

I raised an eyebrow, my smile turning playful. "Of course I'm staying. What, you're going to throw me out? Make me wander the streets of Portland?"

Grandma laughed—a real laugh this time.

"Don't be ridiculous." She stood, gathering our teacups.

" Your room's always ready. I keep it clean, change the sheets every week." Her voice carried quiet pride. "You can come home anytime you want, sweetheart. "

The word *home* settled warm in my chest.

"Thank you, Grandma," I said, letting my voice turn deliberately sweet and playful, tilting my head against her shoulder like I used to do as a child.

She swatted my arm gently, but I could see the smile tugging at her lips.

"Oh, stop that," she said, though there was no real scolding in it. "Save your sweet talk for someone who doesn't know you better."

"Those dark circles under your eyes tell me you haven't been sleeping properly. Go on upstairs and rest. You look exhausted."

Her hand pressed gently against my back, steering me toward the stairs.

"But it's still early—"

"Emma." Her voice was firm now, the tone that meant there would be no argument. "Upstairs. Now."

I couldn't help but smile.

"Yes, ma'am."

---

The stairs creaked under my feet, familiar and comforting.

My old room sat at the end of the hall, facing the ocean. Grandma had kept it exactly the same—the same white eyelet curtains, the same pale blue walls, the same patchwork quilt on the bed.

I lay in bed, listening to it patter against the windows. The ocean roared in the distance, waves crashing against the rocks.

Daniel's words kept circling in my mind.

*Think about it. Take your time.*

Before I could second-guess myself, I reached for my phone on the nightstand.

My finger hovered over Daniel's contact for a moment—just his name, no photo, the way he'd entered it himself when we'd exchanged numbers.

*Dr. Daniel Prescott.*

I took a breath.

And pressed call.

The phone rang once. Twice.

"Emma?" Daniel's voice was calm, professional. But I caught a note of surprise. "Is everything all right?"

Rain drummed against the window. I pulled the quilt up to my chin.

"Your proposal," I said quietly. "The arrangement you mentioned at the hospital."

A pause.

"Yes?"

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Does it still stand?"