Page 105 of Check & Chase
Emma rinses her mug in the sink, movements brisk and efficient as she prepares to face the pre-storm grocery crowds. “Take my car. Better in the snow than yours.” She hesitates, then nods. “Drive safe, please.”
“Always do.” She pauses, then crosses to where I sit and drops a quick kiss on my forehead, careful to avoid the still-healing cut near my temple. The gesture is achingly tender, a reminder of how much has changed between us. “Text if you need anything specific.”
Then she’s gone, leaving the house feeling oddly empty despite Max’s immediate appearance to wind around my legs, demanding attention now that his primary target has departed.
The storm arrives faster than predicted, fat flakes beginning to fall just as Emma’s headlights sweep across the driveway. I hobble to the door, reaching it as she struggles in with the first load of grocery bags, snowflakes melting in her blonde hair.
“Jesus, it’s coming down like crazy out there,” she says, stomping snow from her boots onto the mat I’ve placed by the entrance. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, making her eyes appear even greener than usual. “Roads are already a mess. Had to take the long way because they closed the bridge.”
I reach for a bag, only to have my hand swatted away with familiar efficiency.
“Sit down before you fall down. I’ve got this.”
I ignore her, grabbing the lightest bag anyway. The brief tug-of-war that follows is becoming our routine—Emma’s protective instincts warring with my need to feel useful.
“Think we’ll lose power?” I ask, noting the flashlights and batteries she’s added to our supplies.
“Better be prepared. The news upgraded the forecast. Winter storm warning is now a blizzard warning. We could get three feet by morning.”
Outside, the world is already transforming. The familiar landscape of my neighborhood disappears behind curtains of white, streetlights creating hazy orbs of illumination in the growing darkness. The wind has picked up, driving snow against the windows with increasing force.
“So you’re definitely staying.” I try not to sound too pleased.
Emma pauses in her organizing to fix me with a knowing look. “Was that your plan all along, Mitchell? Manufacture a reason to keep me here?”
“I don’t control the weather, Blondie.” I hold up my hands in mock innocence. “But I can’t say I’m disappointed by the outcome.”
“You’re impossible.” But her mouth curves into that reluctant smile I’ve come to treasure. “I brought some more clothes. Just in case.”
We finish putting away groceries, and I can’t help but notice how we move around each other without bumping into things. Like dancers who’ve practiced this choreography countless times, our bodies instinctively making space, anticipating each other’s movements.
“Plus,” Emma adds, closing the pantry door with a soft click, “you still need someone keeping an eye on you. Can’t have you doing something stupid and undoing all my hard work.”
“Sure, that’s the reason.” I hobble closer, unable to resist the magnetic pull that draws me to her whenever she’s near. “Nothing to do with missing me when you’re gone.”
“Your ego is truly remarkable. Perhaps we should add it to your list of symptoms.”
“You love it,” I murmur, close enough now to catch the subtle scent of her strawberry shampoo mixing with the crisp winter air still clinging to her skin.
“I tolerate it,” she corrects, but her body betrays her, leaning almost automatically toward mine.
I take advantage of the moment to brush my lips against hers, gentle, questioning. Emma responds immediately, her hands coming up to frame my face carefully. The kiss deepens slowly, neither of us rushing. We have time, after all. A whole storm-locked night stretches before us.
When we part, Emma’s pupils are dilated, her breathing slightly uneven. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“Pretty sure kissing my girlfriend constitutes ‘taking it easy,’” I counter, enjoying the way her cheeks flush at the term. “Unless you had a more strenuous activity in mind?”
She swats my chest lightly. “Behave yourself. Your brain is still healing.”
“Parts of me are in perfect working order,” I assure her with a waggle of eyebrows that makes her groan.
“And on that note, I’m going to shower.” She disentangles herself from my arms, but not before I catch the flicker of desire in her eyes. “Try not to strain anything while I’m gone.”
I watch her disappear down the hallway, anticipation and contentment warring in my chest.
Outside, the snow continues to intensify, wind driving it against the windows in white sheets that reduce visibility to mere feet. I check the emergency supplies one final time: flashlights positioned strategically throughout the house, extra batteries, blankets stacked within easy reach.
From the bathroom, I hear Emma’s muffled voice through the door, followed by Max’s distinctive yowl of protest. The sound makes me grin—my cat has developed an unhealthy attachment to Emma, following her around like a lovesick puppy. Or lovesick cat, more accurately. The traitor.
