CHAPTER 11:

Emma settled back into her chair, tucking her legs underneath her. "Okay. Let's see. I love old movies, the black and white kind, where everyone talks fast and wears amazing clothes. I dream about traveling, seeing the world, and maybe living in Paris for a year or two. And what keeps me up at night?" She paused, her eyes finding his. "Lately? You."

Marcus's throat went dry. "Emma—"

"Your turn," she said quickly, not letting him retreat. "What do you love? What do you dream about?"

Marcus took a long drink of wine, buying time. "I love the ocean. Early mornings when no one else is awake. I love watching Lily grow into herself, even when it terrifies me. As for dreams..." He shrugged. "I stopped dreaming a long time ago."

"That's sad," Emma said softly.

"That's reality," Marcus countered. "When you get to my age—"

"You're not old, Marcus," Emma interrupted. "Stop using your age as a shield."

"I'm forty-five years old," Marcus said firmly. "I have a daughter your age. Those aren't shields, Emma. They're facts."

"Facts that you keep throwing at me like they're supposed to make me stop feeling what I feel," Emma said, her voice rising slightly. "But they don't. They just make me feel like you think I'm too young to know my own mind."

"You are too young," Marcus said, the words coming out more sharply than he intended. "You're eighteen now. You should be dating men your own age, building a life with someone who—"

"Someone who what?" Emma challenged. "Someone who sees me as a child? Someone who doesn't make my heart race every time he looks at me? Someone who doesn't make me feel like I'm finally being seen for the first time in my life?"

Marcus stood again, pacing. "That's just chemistry, Emma. Physical attraction. It's not—"

"Don't you dare diminish what I feel," Emma said, standing to face him. "Don't you dare tell me this is just some crush or infatuation. I know the difference, Marcus."

"How?" Marcus demanded, frustration bleeding into his voice. "How could you possibly know the difference when you've barely lived? When you've never experienced—"

"Stop treating me like I'm Lily!" Emma's voice cracked with emotion. "I'm not your daughter, Marcus. I'm not some naive little girl who doesn't understand the world. I've had relationships. I've had my heart broken. I know what I'm feeling, and I know—" She stopped herself, breathing hard.

Marcus stared at her, his chest heaving. "You know what?"

"That this is different," Emma whispered. "That you're different. That's what we have—what we could have—is worth fighting for."

"We don't have anything," Marcus said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Emma took a step closer. "Then why are your hands shaking?"

Marcus looked down. She was right. His hands were trembling, his whole body taut with the effort of maintaining control.

"This is insane," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"Maybe," Emma agreed. She reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away, and placed her hand on his arm. "But it's also real."

The touch sent fire through Marcus's veins. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, his muscles tensing, his breath quickening, his skin hyper aware of every point of contact.

"Emma," he said, his voice strained. "Please don't—"

"Don't what?" She asked softly, her fingers tracing small circles on his forearm. "Don't touch you? Don't make you feel something? Don't remind you that you're still alive?"

Marcus closed his eyes, fighting against the wave of desire that threatened to overwhelm him. She's too young, he reminded himself firmly. Too young, too innocent, too much like—

No. Not like Cynthia. Emma was right about that. She was nothing like his wife. She was her own person, fierce and stubborn and impossibly brave in a way that both terrified and captivated him.

"You're making this very difficult," Marcus said through gritted teeth.

"Good," Emma said simply. "You've been making it difficult for me since the moment we met."

Marcus opened his eyes, looking down at where her hand rested on his arm. The touch was innocent enough, but the intent behind it was anything but. "We can't do this."

"You keep saying that," Emma observed. "But you haven't actually moved away."

She was right. He hadn't. Every rational part of his brain screamed at him to step back, to put distance between them, to remember all the reasons this was impossible. But his body refused to cooperate.

"This is wrong," Marcus said weakly.

"Why?" Emma challenged. "Give me one reason that isn't about age or Lily or what other people might think."

"Because I—" Marcus stopped, the truth catching in his throat.

"Because what?" Emma pressed, moving closer still.

"Because I can't protect you from this," Marcus admitted. "From me. From what I—" He shook his head. 

"You deserve better than what I can offer you."

"Shouldn't I be the one who decides that?" Emma asked.

Marcus finally stepped back, breaking the contact. The loss of her touch felt like a physical ache. "You're so young, Emma. You don't understand what you're asking for."

"There it is again," Emma said, frustration clear in her voice. "My age. That's all you see when you look at me, isn't it? A kid playing dress-up in adult clothes."

"That's not—" Marcus started, but Emma cut him off.

"Then what do you see?" she demanded. "When you look at me, what do you see, Marcus? Really see?"