The Forbidden Throb Chapter 79

Emma's POV:

I studied Daniel's profile in the dim light of the parking garage, trying to understand the subtle shift in his tone.

"He's very likable," I said honestly. "I think being friends with him would be... nice."

Daniel's fingers flexed slightly on the steering wheel, and I watched his expression soften, though he kept his gaze forward.

A moment of silence stretched between us, comfortable yet weighted with something unspoken.

"I only got one grape," he said finally, his voice carrying a hint of something that might have been amusement or complaint.

Understanding dawned, and a small smile touched my lips.

"Next time," I promised, "I'll bring extra. Just for you."

The corner of his mouth lifted—barely perceptible, but there.

He started the engine, and as we pulled out of the garage, I found myself understanding why Luke and Daniel were friends.

They seemed so different on the surface—Luke's theatrical warmth against Daniel's measured composure—but there was something similar underneath.

---

The apartment felt different when we arrived—warmer, somehow, though the temperature hadn't changed.

Daniel set his briefcase down with practiced precision, then turned to me.

"I will cook dinner," he announced. "To thank you for today."

I blinked. "You don't need to—"

"I insist." His tone was final, but not unkind. "Let me show my appreciation."

The truth was, Daniel had somehow claimed authority over cooking in this apartment—always finding some reason or another to take charge in the kitchen.

And he'd spoiled my palate completely. One day without his cooking and I found myself craving it, though I'd never admit that out loud.

"Well," I said, trying for reluctance, "if you *insist*."

His eyes gleamed with that subtle amusement I was growing fond of. "Go relax. I'll call you when it's ready. Mrs. Prescott."

Before I could formulate a response to the way that title made my pulse stutter, he was already moving toward the kitchen.

"Yes, sir," I muttered, heading for the stairs.

---

My laptop screen glowed in the dimness of the guest room.

I'd been putting off checking my inbox, not wanting to face the mounting evidence of my professional inadequacy.

The numbers were damning: forty-seven applications sent over the past week. Response rate? Dismal.

I scrolled through the list, my chest tightening with each familiar subject line. *Thank you for your interest, but...* *We've decided to pursue other candidates...* *Your qualifications don't align...*

The big organizations hadn't bothered with rejection emails. Just silence.

The ones that *had* replied? Small publications in towns I'd never heard of, offering wages that wouldn't cover Boston rent. Or spam—endless spam about miracle job-finding services and resume workshops.

I was about to close the laptop when a subject line caught my eye: *Opportunity in Portland - Are you available?*

My heart stumbled. Portland. The sender: Eve.Miller

*Eve.*

I clicked so fast I nearly knocked over my water glass.

*Dear Emma,*

*I hope this email finds you well. It's been too long since we last worked together. I'm reaching out because I have a project that immediately made me think of you.*

*Would you have time for a quick call? I'm attaching my personal number.*

*Best regards,*

*Eve Laurent*

Eve. I hadn't heard from her in over a year—not since she'd abruptly left EventPro International to deal with what she'd vaguely described as "family matters."

But I remembered her vividly: long waves of honey-blonde hair, makeup that looked effortless but probably took an hour, and heels that clicked with authority down every hallway.

She'd been the PR director who'd given me my first real journalism gig when I was still a nervous sophomore with more enthusiasm than skill.

I added her number to my contacts with shaking fingers. The approval came through in seconds.

*Hi Eve! So wonderful to hear from you. How are you recently?*

Three dots appeared immediately.

*Perfect! Quick version: I've started my own event coordination company. Currently planning the Portland International Instrument Exhibition. One of our exhibitors needs a journalist who's fluent in French for on-site coverage and interviews. Three days, November 25-27. Interested?*

Eve's style was as straightforward and efficient as ever.

*I'm interested! What would the role entail exactly?*

*On-camera work this time—interviewing craftsmen, recording demonstrations, some live social media coverage. I know you usually work behind the scenes, but I've seen your council hearing video. You're a natural.*

On-camera. My stomach flipped for a moment, but then I thought about everything that had happened—Morrison, James Hayes, the video that had somehow gone viral.

After all of that, I wasn't going to run from this.

I wanted to find out what else I was capable of.

I stared at my calendar, my reflection ghostly in the darkened laptop screen. *I can do it. What are the details?*

The response came rapid-fire: *Three days, all expenses covered including travel and accommodation. The pay is $2,000.*

I read the number three times, certain I'd misunderstood.

Two thousand dollars. For three days of work.

*That's... Eve, that's incredibly generous. Are you sure? I'm not exactly a well-known journalist.*

*Emma, stop. I don't pay for names—I pay for competence. You're thorough, professional, and you make sources comfortable. That's worth every penny. Besides, I remember your French is impeccable.*

I thought about my empty job prospects. About the way my confidence had been slowly eroding with each rejection email.

*Yes. Absolutely yes. I won't let you down.*

*Check your email in ten minutes—I'm sending the contract, materials, and a 30% deposit for your time.*

The deposit notification arrived before I could respond, and I stared at the number with something approaching disbelief.

I leaned back in the chair, a giddy lightness spreading through my chest.

And the best part? After weeks of drowning in Daniel's medical journals, trying to understand cardiac procedures and surgical innovations for the Paris project, the thought of covering violin craftsmanship and musical instrument design felt like *relief*.

Like coming up for air after being held underwater too long.

I was still grinning when Daniel's voice drifted up the stairs.

"Emma? Dinner's ready."

I practically floated down to the dining room, and Daniel noticed immediately.

His eyes tracked my expression as I took my seat, something careful and assessing in his gaze.

"You look happy," he observed, setting a plate of what appeared to be perfectly seared salmon before me. "Did something good happen?"