The Forbidden Throb Chapter 33

Emma's POV:

Daniel turned to look at me, and his eyes held depths I couldn't read.

"Not entirely fabricated," he said quietly, his voice measured but carrying an undertone.

My mind scrambled to parse the meaning behind those words. Which part wasn't fabricated? The beach meeting? The birthday? The cupcake?

*Had we actually met before?

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, the question already forming on my tongue, when a new sound cut through the quiet of the room.

*Drip. Drip. Drip.*

The rhythm was soft but insistent, each drop striking with perfect regularity. In the silence Daniel's story had left behind, it sounded almost deafening.

I turned toward the source—the far corner of the living room, near the old bay window that overlooked the ocean. A small puddle was forming on the hardwood floor, spreading slowly beneath the familiar ceramic bowl Grandma kept there for exactly this purpose.

*Oh god.*

Heat crept up my neck.

I'd never noticed how worn the house looked until this moment. The faded wallpaper with its nautical pattern. The threadbare armchair cushions. The water-stained ceiling where decades of coastal storms had left their mark.

Through Daniel's eyes, it must look so *small*. So shabby.

The Prescott mansion in Beacon Hill had marble floors and crystal chandeliers. Fresh flowers in every room. Staff to maintain every surface to perfection.

And here was Grandma's house, with its leaking roof and mismatched furniture and the faint smell of salt air that no amount of cleaning could quite eliminate.

"When did that start?" Daniel's voice pulled me from my spiraling thoughts.

He'd stood and crossed to the corner, examining the ceiling.

"I..." My throat felt tight. "It's been like that for a while. The roof's old."

Daniel crouched down, inspecting the bowl—a simple blue ceramic piece, chipped at the rim. "Has it always leaked in this spot?"

I moved to stand beside him, wrapping my arms around myself. "Since I was little, actually."

The memory surfaced unbidden, pulling me back.

*I must have been six, maybe seven. It had been raining for days—one of those autumn storms that rolled in from the Atlantic and settled over Portland like a grey blanket.*

*I'd discovered the leak one evening, the rhythmic dripping drawing me to this exact corner. Grandma had set out the blue bowl, and I'd been fascinated by the sound, by the way the drops created ripples in the growing pool of water.*

*"Can I play with it?" I'd asked.*

*Grandma had smiled, that soft expression she reserved for my childhood whims. "Just be careful not to make a mess, sweetheart."*

*I'd spent hours there, floating bits of paper like tiny boats, watching raindrops shatter the surface. Making up stories about ocean voyages and far-off lands.*

*When Grandpa noticed, he'd frowned. "Grace, we should fix that. I'll get to it this weekend."*

*But I'd protested, suddenly possessive of my rainy-day entertainment. "No! I like it!"*

*Grandma had laughed, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Let her enjoy it a while longer. We'll fix it when she's tired of the game."*

*But then Grandpa died that winter. Sudden. Unexpected. A heart attack while shoveling snow from the driveway.*

*And the leak remained, unfixed. A small testament to a promise that could never be kept.*

"Emma?"

Daniel's voice brought me back to the present.

"Sorry." I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at the bowl without speaking. "I was just... remembering."

I swallowed, then continued, "Grandma wanted to keep it unfixed because I liked playing there when it rained. She told Grandpa to wait until I grew tired of it."

My voice dropped. "But Grandpa died before that happened. And afterward, Grandma never had anyone to fix it for her."

The silence that followed felt different—weighted with understanding rather than judgment.

"She loves you very much," Daniel said quietly.

Something in his tone made my chest tighten.

"Yes," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "She's the only person in this world who truly loves me."

Daniel looked at me, his expression unreadable behind those precise glasses.

"You should—" I cleared my throat, forcing a lighter tone. "Feel free to look around. I'll go help Grandma in the kitchen."

I turned quickly, but my eyes caught on the mantelpiece as I moved toward the kitchen door.

There, on the mantle, was the photo of me at seven years old. Gap-toothed smile. Pigtails. Clutching a stuffed lobster.

Without thinking, I veered slightly off course, reaching out to casually adjust the frame so it faced more toward the wall.

When I straightened, Daniel was watching me from the corner of his eye. His mouth twitched—barely perceptible, but unmistakable.

*He saw.*

My face burned as I hurried back to the kitchen.

---

The kitchen was warm and filled with the scent of butter and herbs.

Grandma stood at the stove, stirring something in her old cast-iron pot, humming a tune I recognized from childhood.

"Need help?" I asked, moving to wash my hands at the sink.

"Oh, sweetheart." She glanced over her shoulder, her face lighting up. "Yes, please. Could you set the table? Use the good china—the set with the blue pattern."

I opened the cabinet, carefully lifting down the plates Grandma reserved for special occasions.

"So," Grandma said, her voice taking on that particular tone. The one that meant she was about to say something significant. "Daniel seems very nice."

I concentrated on arranging the plates. "He is."

"Handsome too. Those eyes behind those glasses—very intelligent looking."

"Grandma..."

"I'm just saying." She tasted the chowder, added a pinch of salt. "Your judgment has improved considerably."

I paused mid-reach for the silverware. "What do you mean?"

She set down the wooden spoon and turned to face me fully, wiping her hands on her apron. "Nicholas was charming, I'll give him that. But there was always something..." She made a vague gesture. "Hollow about him. Like a beautiful shell with nothing inside."

The observation was so accurate it made my throat tight.

"But Daniel." Grandma's expression softened. "That young man has substance. You can see it in how he carries himself. How he listens when you speak."

*He does listen, doesn't he?*

"And the way he looks at you, Emma." She moved closer, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "It reminds me of how your grandfather used to look at me."

My hands stilled over the napkins.

"Grandpa?"

"Mmm." Her eyes had gone distant, seeing something beyond this small kitchen. "That same focus. That same tenderness underneath the careful manners. Like you're the only person in the room worth noticing."

I thought of Daniel's gaze across various moments—in the coffee shop, at the hospital, earlier in the living room.

*Was there anything different about how he looked at me?*