Something to Talk About(66)

Jo squeezed Emma’s hand. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s fine. The milkshake will help.”

Emma glanced at the milkshake and bag of food still on Jo’s desk, then looked back to Jo. Her hand came up to cup Jo’s cheek, and Jo didn’t think before letting her eyes slip closed, leaning into the touch.

“Are you sure you’re all right, boss?” Emma whispered.

Jo opened her eyes. She nodded, Emma’s hand still on her face.

God, Emma looked so beautiful, her brows furrowed, her eyes full of concern and shining like dark honey. She brushed her thumb over the apple of Jo’s cheek before sliding her hand back to tuck Jo’s hair behind her ear. Jo swallowed. Emma let out a breath and Jo could feel it, soft across her face. She blinked slowly, and when she opened her eyes again, Emma was even closer, too close. Jo should’ve known better, Jo should’ve pushed her away, should’ve leaned back, but she leaned forward instead, her nose brushing against Emma’s and—

Jo’s desk phone sounded shrill, too loud.

It rang again before Jo forced her eyes open. Emma was on the other end of the desk by that point, fingers twitching at her sides. Her face was bright red.

“Yes?” Jo answered the phone.

“I wanted to let you know your father is out of the building and won’t be allowed back without your say.” It was Mason, the security guard.

Jo breathed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

Jo hung up her phone.

Emma was still there. Jo could see her throat work as she swallowed.

Jo wanted to—she wanted to talk about this and wanted to ignore it in equal measure. What she wanted more than anything was for her phone not to have rung.

“You should eat your lunch before it gets cold,” Emma said. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

She turned to leave and Jo couldn’t—she couldn’t let her go.

“Emma,” she said.

Emma looked back at her, eyes apprehensive. Jo looked away.

“Thank you,” she said. “For bringing me lunch.”

“Of course, boss,” Emma said softly.

She closed the door behind her when she left.

When Jo blinked, her eyes were wet.



* * *



—

At the end of the day, Emma hovered at the door to Jo’s office. It was only five o’clock, but Jo was exhausted. Emma looked at her, looked away.

“Is there anything else, Ms. Jones?” she asked.

Jo thought about when Emma had been mad at her, how she stopped calling her boss for a week.

“Emma,” Jo said. She wanted to apologize. Wanted to thank her. Wanted to kiss her. She sighed. “No, thank you. I’ll see you in the morning, Ms. Kaplan.”





16


    EMMA


Emma unlocked her apartment door.

She didn’t remember the drive home. She didn’t even remember where she had parked her car. Everything was on autopilot: keys on the hook on the wall, shoes toed off and left by the door. In the kitchen, she got herself a glass of water, took one sip, then set it on the counter.

She almost kissed her boss.

She leaned over the sink and thought she might throw up.

She almost kissed her boss.

But—well—that wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t have to be, anyway. She had kissed her boss, months ago by this point. If that wasn’t a big deal, this was even less of one.

Except this time hadn’t been an accident.

She hadn’t been drunk, hadn’t had bad depth perception. She’d been completely sober and aware of what she was doing. And it was all her—she stayed in Jo’s office, she rounded Jo’s desk, she cupped Jo’s cheek, she leaned in. But Jo had leaned forward, too—Emma was pretty sure.

Maybe she’d imagined it.

Last time, Emma would’ve done anything to avoid talking about it. Her primary feeling after the wrap party had been mortification. Now she just felt . . . want.

She wanted to talk about it. She wanted to do it, to actually kiss Jo. Not drunkenly, not in the heat of the moment. She wanted to kiss Jo hello and goodbye, to kiss her with garlic breath and in the morning before either of them had brushed their teeth.

But none of that was possible. Jo was her boss. Jo had created an entire organization against harassment in the workplace. Emma couldn’t go into their own workplace and tell Jo she wanted to kiss her.

Though Jo had probably figured that out by this point, given what happened today. Jo shrank around her father, always had. Jo—a towering giant no matter how short she was, Emma’s hero—was made small by this man. Emma hated him. Jo was the sun. Jo was gravity. Emma wanted to take the weight off her shoulders for a minute.

Avery’s voice popped into Emma’s head, asking how kissing Jo was what Emma came up with to take the world off her shoulders. Emma didn’t know. But she’d been desperate to do something, and there was a longing in her chest that hadn’t left, like a string was wrapped around her heart and connected to Jo. It pulled hard enough that she wanted to go to Jo still, drive to her house to tell her all the ways she was wonderful.

Emma picked up her glass and drained it. Left it sitting in the sink.

It hadn’t mattered before, her little crush. Jo was beautiful and brilliant, and she was fiercely protective of Emma after the whole Barry Davis debacle. Who wouldn’t have a crush on her? It had been weirdly normal when Emma had figured out her feelings. Nothing had really changed. Sure, she noticed the way her heart sped up and her face warmed in Jo’s presence more than she used to, but it wasn’t a big deal. It was like having a crush on a celebrity. No matter how gorgeous or smart or kind Jo was, there was no chance. Not to mention the fact that Emma had thought Jo was straight for so long, it had really seemed impossible.