The Forbidden Throb Chapter 92

Daniel's POV:

"Emma."

She turned back, one hand still on the doorframe. "Yes?"

I let my gaze travel down to her coat, darkened where the rain had soaked through the shoulders despite my umbrella. In her nervous rush to get inside, to show me the room, she hadn't noticed.

"Your coat," I said quietly. "It's a bit wet."

She glanced down, finally noticing the dark patches spreading across the navy fabric where rain had seeped through. "Oh." A small laugh escaped her—embarrassed, self-deprecating. "I didn't even realize."

She began fumbling with the buttons, her fingers clumsy with cold and nervousness.

"Here." I reached for the coat as she slipped it off her shoulders. And I moved toward the entryway to hang it on the hotel's coat rack.

The room felt chilled. I moved to the climate control panel on the wall, adjusting the temperature upward. The quiet hum of the heating system filled the momentary silence.

When I turned back, Emma had retrieved a cream cardigan from somewhere and wrapped it around her shoulders, the oversized knit swallowing her small frame.

"Better?" I asked, noting the slight shiver she was trying to hide.

"Much." She smiled.

"Daniel, you won't believe how well today went!" Emma's voice bubbled with excitement. "The negotiation with the French delegation was incredible. Monsieur Beaumont was so impressed—he even gave me a hundred-dollar tip afterward. A hundred dollars! Can you believe that?"

I turned back to face her, schooling my expression into something appropriately pleased. She stood in the center of the sitting area, practically glowing with professional triumph.

"That's excellent," I managed. "You clearly made an impression."

"My friend told me afterward that I handled it perfectly." Emma's hands moved animatedly as she spoke. "Maybe I will be introduced to more contacts for report and translation work with French projects."

*Her mysterious friend. Again.*

"My friend is paying me really well for these three days," Emma continued, oblivious to the way my jaw had locked. "And with the tip on top of that—I'm definitely treating us to a nice dinner to express my thanks before we head back to Boston."

Thunder rumbled outside. Lightning flickered across the harbor. The storm matched my mood perfectly.

I kept my back to Emma as I removed my jacket, buying myself time to school my expression into something approaching neutral.

The fabric was damp in patches, nothing serious, but it gave me something to focus on besides the tight knot of jealousy coiling in my chest.

Three days. Three days of phone calls where every other sentence had been about *my friend*. How professional. How kind. How elegant. How *supportive*.

And now she wanted to take *him* to dinner.

I turned from the window, forcing myself to meet her eyes.

She looked so happy. Flushed with success, eyes bright, completely unaware that she'd been talking about another man many times to her *husband*.

"These few days in Portland," I said, each word carefully measured. "You seemed really happy?"

"Well, yes." She nodded, that innocent confusion crossing her face. "The work went well, and I earned—"

"The happiest part was meeting that friend you admire so much, wasn't it?" I kept my voice level, professional. "Even before you arrived, you couldn't stop praising."

Emma blinked, clearly puzzled by the shift in my mood. But she answered honestly, if hesitantly. "I... I suppose that's part of it, yes. "

*So coming to Portland to see this person could make her this happy.*

I looked at her face—the genuine excitement in her eyes, the animation in her gestures, the way she practically glowed when talking about her friend.

*When has she ever looked like this around me?*

The question lodged itself somewhere painful in my chest.

Maybe my personality was too reserved. Too serious. Perhaps I bored her with my surgical schedules and carefully controlled existence.

Or maybe—

*Maybe it's simpler than that.*

*Maybe she just prefers him.*

I tilted my head back slightly, studying her face.

I heard myself say, the words coming out with an edge I rarely allowed. "Why is every sentence out of your mouth about your friend?"

My jaw tightened. "How come you never ask about me?"

The petulance in my own voice startled me. In thirty-one years, I'd never allowed myself to sound this... *needful*. This exposed.

But I couldn't seem to stop.

Outside, the wind howled, gusting through the partially open window.

"You haven't even asked how I've been these three days," I added, my voice softer now but no less pointed.

Emma's face crumpled with immediate remorse. "I'm so sorry, Daniel. I didn't mean to—" She took a step toward me, her hands clasped together. "It's just that we haven't seen each other in a while, and I got carried away. I was excited."

She paused, searching for words, her expression earnest.

"This friend is really important to me—a true mentor who appeared at exactly the right time in my life. I guess I wanted to share that with you. "

I felt my jaw tighten, a muscle jumping near my temple.

I turned away slightly, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of my nose. The gesture did nothing to ease the irrational frustration building in my chest.

*Maybe she doesn't even realize I'm jealous.*

Emma seemed oblivious to the thundercloud gathering on my face. Her eyes brightened with a new thought.

"Actually, tomorrow at noon—" She looked up at me hopefully. "Maybe we could all have lunch together? If you're free, that is. I really want you guys to meet."

The invitation hung in the air between us.

I let out a long breath, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh that held no humor.

"Are you certain," I said quietly, each word deliberate, "that you want to bring your husband to meet a man who has ulterior motives toward you?"

Emma blinked at me, genuine confusion flickering across her features. "What?"