Page 55 of Off-Limits Bad Boy
She shakes her head. “No, he just looked like he could be anybody’s grandpa.” Emma's voice is calm, her focus fixed on the envelope as she lowers herself onto the couch. Her fingers are hesitant as they pry open the flap, as if she’s internally steeling herself for whatever might be inside.
“Emma, what if—” I say, but the sentence dies on my lips. What if Alex and I have dragged her into something dangerous? What if this envelope is the beginning of an end I can't prevent?
She doesn't even look up, her attention glued to whatever’s in the envelope. She pulls out what looks like sheets of paper, and I wonder if maybe she got served papers, but the person would have had to verify who she was, so that idea is out.
For a heartbeat, there's only silence, punctuated by the soft rustle of paper as she moves one from the top of the stack to the back, and I try not to lose my mind.
“Emma?” I ask, feeling each second stretch on too long. She’s too quiet, and the color drains from her face as she takes in the news.
She doesn't answer me; she's transfixed, eyes scanning papers I can't see, and then pain sparkles in her eyes and her jaw tightens, a little tick that betrays she’s really, really upset. It's not the only subtle shift—I see a furrow in her brow, a slight parting of her lips, and I know I was right.
“Talk to me,” I say in as light a tone as I possibly can and moving closer to her.
Wordlessly, she lifts her gaze from the pages, and in her eyes, I see surprise, a deep ache, and fear. Her hand trembles as she turns the page toward me. But she’s trembling so hard I can’t make out what she’s holding. So I reach out and take the sheet as it bends in half on itself, concealing the image.
My fingers brush hers and even in the midst of this suffocating event, I'm so very aware of the warmth of her skin and her sweet scent.
I look down, and suddenly the room tilts. My breath catches, my heart slams painfully against my ribs as though trying to escape before it can be destroyed.
The photos glare of me, and each one is a punch to the gut.
It’s an image of Stella and I sharing an embrace, and I remember that day and how I’d awkwardly patted her back, wanting to offer comfort, but unsure how to do so without feeling like I was betraying Emma. The timestamp screams recent betrayal, and Emma's breathing is ragged beside me.
“Emma, listen—” I say, certain I can explain this to her. It really was an innocent moment, and she’ll understand that. “I didn’t and don't want anything to do with her.”
Emma won’t look at me, she’s still glued to the images. “I told her there was no chance for us to rekindle anything, and she was hurting, so asked for a hug. It was just a hug, nothing more.”
Her silence seeps into my soul, leaving me feeling hollow and aching. Her teeth worry her lower lip, tearing the skin there. She peeks inside the envelope, then turns it upside down. And a plastic card drops out into her lap. Did someone send her a credit card? This doesn't make sense.
I look closer and my heart stops. It's the room card, glossy and accusing.
“See? Why would they send the card to you?” My hand gestures toward her lap, then back to me. “If I were using it, wouldn't I have it?”
She’s still silent, her eyes serious and her expression one of deep consideration. I’m not even sure she’s hearing me.
“Think about it, Emma,” I say, “Why would they send you the room card if it was in my pocket or wallet all along?” My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to get acquainted with the face of whoever did this.
My guts twist as my mind races through the possibilities. Did Stella do this? Is she so desperate that she'd stoop this low? The idea of her orchestrating such malice to drive a wedge between Emma and me... it's nauseating.
“This is some kind of smear campaign,” I say more to myself than to Emma, as I try to solve this puzzle.
Emma's gaze is fixed on the incriminating photographs, her delicate hands shaking ever so slightly still. The room card rests on her thigh, abandoned and insignificant compared to the images before her.
“Kade...” she says, her voice unsure and hesitant, but at least she’s talking.
“Look at this positioning,” I say, pointing to the image she’s studying as if I have the answers... and maybe I do. Stella’s face looks calm, but despite the poor quality of the photos, I can see the way I awkwardly pat her back.
The morning light filters in the sliding glass door of her balcony where we’d enjoyed the rain last night. And here in the living room, we’d played, danced, and shared secrets.
My heart hammers away, each beat thudding against my chest as I internally beg Emma to see the truth. To see me.
“I wouldn't do this,” I say, standing up as if I can let out my nervous energy that way. I pace the length of her living room.
“Kade?” Emma says again.
“Yes?” I say, turning to face her and needing to say it again in case she didn’t hear me. “There's nothing going on with Stella.”
But even as I say the words with every ounce of conviction in my body, I know she’s sitting there, surrounded by incredibly damning evidence.