The Forbidden Throb (Emma and Daniel) novel Chapter 84

Chapter 84

Emma’s POV:

i studied Daniel’s profile in the dim light of the parking garage, trying to understand the subtle shift in his tone.

“He’s very likable,” I said honestly. “I think being friends with him would be… nice.”

Daniel’s fingers flexed slightly on the steering wheel, and I watched his expression soften, though he kept his gaze

forward,

A moment of silence stretched between us, comfortable yet weighted with something unspoken.

“I only got one grape,” he said finally, his voice carrying a hint of something that might have been amusement or

complaint.

Understanding dawned, and a small smile touched my lips.

“Next time,” I promised, “I’ll bring extra. Just for you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted–barely perceptible, but there.

He started the engine, and as we pulled out of the garage, I found myself understanding why Luke and Daniel

were friends.

They seemed so different on the surface–Luke’s theatrical warmth against Daniel’s measured composure—but

there was something similar underneath.

warm

The apartment felt different when we arrived–warmer, somehow, though the temperature hadn’t changed.

Daniel set his briefcase down with practiced precision, then turned to me.

“I will cook dinner,” be announced. “To thank you for today.”

I blinked. “You don’t need to-

“I insist,” His lone was final, but not unkind. “Let me show my appreciation.”

The truth was, Daniel had somehow claimed authority over cooking in this apartment—always finding some

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reason at another to take charge in the kitchen.

And he’u spoiled my palate completely. One day without his cooking and I found myself craving it, though I’d never admit that out loud.

“Well,” I said, trying for reluctance, “if you insist.”

His eyes gleamed with that subtle amusement I was growing fond of. “Go relax. I’ll call you when it’s ready. Mrs.

Prescott.”

Before I could formulate a response to the way that title made my pulse stutter, he was already moving toward the

kitchen.

“Yes, sir,” | muttered, heading for the stairs.

My laptop screen glowed in the dimness of the guest room.

I’d been putting off checking my inbox, not wanting to face the mounting evidence of my professional inadequacy.

The numbers were damning: forty–seven applications sent over the past week. Response rate? Dismal.

I scrolled through the list, my chest tightening with each familiar subject line. Thank you for your interest, but… We’ve decided to pursue other candidates… Your qualifications don’t align…

The big organizations hadn’t bothered with rejection emails. Just silence.

The ones that had replied? Small publications in towns I’d never heard of, offering wages that wouldn’t cover Boston rent. Or spam–endless spam about miracle job–finding services and resume workshops.

I was about to close the laptop when a subject line caught my eye: Opportunity in Portland – Are you available?

My heart stumbled. Portland. The sender: Eve.Miller

I clicked so fast I nearly knocked over my water glass.

Dear Furma,

I hope this email finds you well. It’s been too long since we last worked together. I’m reaching out because I have a

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project that lininediately made me think of you.

Would you have time for a quick call? I’m attaching my personal number

Best regards,

Eve Laurent

Eve. I hadn’t heard from her in over a year not since she’d abruptly left EventPro International to deal with what she’d vaguely described as “family matters.”

But I remembered her vividly: long waves of honey–blonde hair, makeup that looked effortless but probably took an hour, and heels that clicked with authority down every hallway.

She’d been the PR director who’d given me my first real journalism gig when I was still a nervous sophomore with

more enthusiasm than skill.

I added her number to my contacts with shaking fingers. The approval came through in seconds.

Hi Eve! So wonderful to hear from you. How are you recently?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Perfect! Quick version: I’ve started my own event coordination company. Currently planning the Portland International Instrument Exhibition. One of our exhibitors needs a journalist who’s fluent in French for on–site coverage and

interviews. Three days, November 25-27. Interested?

Eve’s style was as straightforward and efficient as ever.

I’m interested! What would the role entail exactly?

On–camera work this time–interviewing craftsmen, recording demonstrations, some live social media coverage. I know

you usually work behind the scenes, but I’ve seen your council hearing video. You’re a natural.

On–camera. My stomach flipped for a moment, but then I thought about everything that had happened–Morrison,

Jumes Hayes, the video that had somehow gone viral.

After all of that, I wasn’t going to run from this.

I wanted to find out what else I was capable of.

I stared at my calendar, my reflection ghostly in the darkened laptop screen. I can do it. What are the details?

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The response came tipid–fire: Three days, all expenses covered including travel and accommodation. The pay is

$3,000)

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