Chapter 4

Emma’s Pov

The park was empty.

I pulled into the gravel lot and killed the engine, my hands still gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.

Rushmore Park. The old pavilion.

This was insane.

I should turn around. Drive home. Pretend I never got the text.

But my body was already moving, unbuckling my seatbelt, opening the door, stepping out into the cooling evening air.

The park stretched out before me, dark and quiet. The old pavilion sat at the far end, half-hidden by trees. I could see the path leading into the woods, where the clearing was supposed to be.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

This is stupid. This is so stupid.

But I walked anyway.

The path was darker than I expected, the trees overhead blocking out most of the fading sunlight. My footsteps crunched on fallen leaves, too loud in the silence.

I was almost to the clearing when a hand grabbed my arm.

I opened my mouth to scream—

“Shh.”

The voice was low, familiar, and my scream died in my throat.

I spun around.

James.

He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off him, his hand still wrapped around my arm.

His eyes were dark, intense, searching my face like he was trying to memorize it.

Before I could say anything, he pulled me deeper into the trees, away from the path, away from any chance of being seen.

“Are you trying to kill me?” I hissed once we stopped in the darkest part of the clearing. “Is that what this is? You’re going to murder me because of our situation?”

He didn’t answer, just kept walking until we were completely hidden by the shadows.

Then he stopped and turned to face me.

“I’m not trying to kill you, Emma.”

His voice was rough, strained.

“Then what are you doing?” I demanded, my voice shaking.

“What do you want from me?”

“I needed to see you. To talk to you.”

“Talk?” I laughed bitterly. “What is there to talk about, James? You’re marrying my mother in two weeks.

There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s everything to say.” He stepped closer. “Emma, I didn’t know. When I met your mother, I had no idea she was—”

“My mother?” I finished. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

“I need you to understand—”

“Understand what?” My voice was rising now, panic and anger and something else I didn’t want to name bubbling up inside me. “That you touched me in your classroom two weeks ago and now you’re going to be my stepfather? What exactly am I supposed to understand about that?”

“Emma.” He reached for me, his hand cupping my face. “Calm down. You’re okay. Nothing is going to happen.”

“Nothing is going to happen?” I stared at him. “Everything has already happened!”

“You’re not going to tell your mother,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course I’m not going to tell her,” I snapped. “It would destroy her.”

“Good.”

His thumb brushed across my cheek, and I hated how my body responded—the immediate heat, the way my breath caught.

“Then we can move past this,” he said softly.

“Move past it?” I tried to pull away, but his hand tightened. “James, how are we supposed to move past—”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

“What?” I whispered.

“I can’t stop,” he repeated, his voice dropping lower. “Every day. Every night. All I see is you.”

“Don’t.” I put my hand on his chest, trying to push him away. “Don’t do this.”

“Tell me you haven’t been thinking about it too,” he challenged, stepping closer until I had to step back. “Tell me you haven’t replayed that afternoon a thousand times.”

I had. God, I had.

“It doesn’t matter what I’ve been thinking,” I said desperately.

“You’re marrying my mother. This is wrong. So, so wrong.”

“I know it’s wrong.”

Another step. My back hit something solid, a tree.

“Then why are you here?” I asked, trapped between him and the rough bark behind me.

He leaned down, his mouth inches from my ear. “Because wrong or not, I want you, Emma. Not your mother. You.”

“James—”

“Your mother and I…” He pulled back just enough to look at me. “It’s not what you think. Yes, she cares about me, and I care about her. But it’s not… it’s not love. Not like—”

“Don’t,” I interrupted. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t change anything!” My voice cracked.

“You’re still marrying her. You’re still going to be my—”

“Don’t say it.” His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What else am I supposed to call you?”

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

“You know what I want you to call me.”

The air between us was suffocating, charged with everything we weren’t saying.

“This has to stop,” I whispered, but I didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he said, his lips brushing against my jaw. “Tell me to leave and I will.”

I should have told him. Should have pushed him away and run.

But when his mouth found the side of my neck, a sound escaped my lips that was definitely not a rejection.

“Emma.” His voice was rough against my skin. “Tell me to stop.”

“We should stop,” I breathed, even as my hands fisted in his shirt.

“James, we really should—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His hand slid down my side, over my hip, lower.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he repeated, his fingers finding the hem of my skirt.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t say it.

Because it would be a lie.

“I—” The words died as his hand moved higher, and suddenly I couldn’t think at all.

“Say it, Emma.” His mouth was on my neck, my jaw, everywhere. “Tell me you don’t love this.”