The Guest Book Emma Cline Novels & Stories

"The Ranch. It took Jen weeks to talk me into that." "But she would have called them and let them know she was bringing a guest, wouldn't she?" Emma took a sip of water, more to have something to do than look at Steve. She jerked her shoulder into something like a shrug. "I don't know how it works. Jen told me she was entitled to bring a guest something like five times. I don't know if she had to inform them that I was coming or not." He sat on the end of the bed. "What else did the texts talk about?"

Emma said chokingly, then she opened the car door and got out. Watching her stubborn back, an uneasy feeling kept creeping into Harry's heart, making him inexplicably frustrated. He punched the volant hard, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Many days later. The sun had set, and on the horizon of the H city, there were only a few streaks of dark yellow afternoon light. Emma was burying her head in handling work when there was a sudden knock on the door. "Come in." She said softly. Tony Smith walked in and handed her a file, “Ma'am. This is the list of important guests at William's family party. The driver will pick you up in front of the company lobby soon."

15 - I’ll Stay Cillian “Why do you have a blanket?” I asked Emma, following her to the guest room and eyeing the way her manicured black nails were clutching the damn thing so tightly. I had known her for a few hours and in that time, I knew she wasn’t the type to get scared easily. My hand tightened into a fist, seeing her let out a small sigh of relief when we walked out of her room. She looked over her shoulder, a wavy lock of blonde hair brushing her cheekbone. “I might be traumatized. This is just a precaution.”

Normal. "Here we are, kid," the driver grunted. I looked out the window. Jason Miller's house was huge. Of course it was. It was a Crawford party. The bass was thumping so hard I could hear it through the glass. Cars were lined up all down the street. My stomach did a flip. Then I saw her. Emma was standing at the end of the driveway, away from the crowd of people smoking on the lawn. She was wearing a denim jacket over a dress, hugging her arms against the chill. She was looking down the street, searching.

"I heard Leon brought a woman home. So I figured I should come say hi." Her smile was dazzling. Claire instantly felt a little insecure and shyly looked down. "I’m Emma." The woman reached out with a perfectly manicured hand. "I’ve been gone for a while, and suddenly I hear Leon brought someone back. I know it’s late, but... congrats on your recovery." Claire shook her hand. "I’m Claire." "Nice to meet you, Claire," Emma said warmly. "Leon’s never brought a woman home before. You’re the first."

The work that had passed through Lena and Kestrel and the second Sera and Oryn and Fen and Cael and Riven and nine letters in an archive box and four minutes every morning counted by every person who had ever loved this room. I sat across from a young woman named Emmi who had found her way here after two years in the wrong places, and I was fully in the room with her, and I let the room do what the room had always done. The reaching. Still going. Still choosing. That evening, late, after Emmi had gone to the guest room and Brae had finished his notes and Kael had done the dishes and the pack house had settled into its night sounds, Riven and I sat on the porch.

A branch from one of the bushes, pulled in front of the gate and attached it to a set of old windchimes. I was testing it out when Emma came to call me to breakfast. “What are you doing?” she signed. I raised my eyebrows. “Lawn care?” She looked around, noting the coconut conditioner slip-and-slide next in front of the bushes. “Uh-huh. Lawn care.” Emma was there when the bad man tried to get Claire at FantasyQuest. She knows what’s up. She thought for a moment and then an evil grin spread over her face. “You know what our lawn needs?” She ran into the house.

POV: Emma The house was still. The kind of stillness that only came after a long, beautiful day—the kind filled with scraped knees and sidewalk chalk, spilled juice and bedtime giggles. The kind of day that made her chest ache with gratitude. Emma sat by the window in their bedroom, her favorite journal open in her lap. The cover was soft now, worn by time and touch, edges curling slightly. It was the same one she’d scribbled in back in university, the day she met a cocky, frustratingly brilliant man named Killian Blackwood.