Page 108 of The Golden Scoop

When we get to the backyard, I’m met with a huge spread on the patio. There’s toast, pancakes, coffee, cookies… Food is clearly my love language, and apparently, he’s fluent.

He puts me down, but I linger against him a little longer.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this,” I mutter, “but you’re pretty amazing.”

“Wow. Not a single ounce of annoyance or frustration,” Matt says, eyebrows raised. “This is a huge step in our relationship.”

“A relationship, huh?”

“You’re telling me you can leave right now and not miss this?” He turns, arms outstretched. “My bed, my bath, my infinite amounts of Emma-wisdom?”

I press my hand against his chest and lean up on my tiptoes, hovering for a few seconds before whispering in his ear.

“Never.”

“That’s what I thought.” He hands me a coffee mug, still steaming.

We sit down on the couch, and Matt fills up a plate with so much sugar I’m going to be bouncing off the walls all day.

“I like having you here,” he confesses, voice low but steady. “It makes it feel more like a home.”

“It’s lived in,” I argue. “The first time we came here I fully expected some bachelor pad pulled out of some architecture magazine.”

“Started out like that. Eventually I realized… I wasn’t going anywhere. Pictures went on the walls, books on the shelf. Yet something was always missing.”

“That family warmth,” I add.

He nods. “And you.”

My heart physically does not have the capacity for how raw he sounds. Suddenly, the urge to tell this man I used to hate how different my feelings are now builds up in my throat.

Then, as soon as I even consider saying it, the guilt from hiding my position at Golden eats it up. He could end up resenting me later. Or worse, when I do tell him, his response will be tipped by my feelings for him. Might be fine for a while, but we both know the press can spark arguments with a single headline.

“Don’t even know what to say…” I settle.

Aside from the fact I think I love you, my heart says.

Matt’s expression doesn’t fall like I thought it might. The ghost of a smile flickers across his face. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, eyes knowing.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells me. “Do you regret taking your boss up on the article?”

Martha’s e-mail.

“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing my phone from the table. “It’s work. I forgot to get back to her.”

My stomach drops as soon as I start reading. Nausea hits me like a wave, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to keep my breakfast down.

Subject: Matt Hunt Feature Assignment

Emma,

This is not going to work. I spent all day yesterday reading the draft you turned in for Matt Hunt’s feature to see if there was anything salvageable. It’s all fluff.

Sure, it’s a fresh approach, but it’s not one geared to the readers we already have. And if they’re not interested, there’s not a chance we’ll attract new ones.

This deal you came up with was directly attached to the numbers it’d bring in. I made that crystal clear. So, if you don’t want to go back to where you started, you will re-write this. And this time, make it bleed.

“Everything okay?” Matt sits up, probably wondering why I’ve gone pale.