“Emma.”

She managed to drag open her eyes.

“Be sure,” he said.

His eyes were hot, his body drawn tight with desire and hunger, but he’d stop right now if she wanted. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He leaned over her and kissed her deep, and then they were shoving clothing out of their way, making room for the essentials. And oh God, the essentials . . . He produced a condom and she’d never been so grateful one of them was still thinking. And then he was inside her, mouth at her ear telling her in a thrillingly rough whisper what he was going to do to her. Her toes were already curling again as he began to move because there was no holding back now, not with him.

And then she was shuddering in his arms, a little shocked at how fast she’d come when she realized that one, Simon hadn’t. And two, there were sirens. They came closer, and then closer still, splitting the night with the wails and flashing lights.

They stopped in front of their building.

She froze.

Simon did not. He was gentle as he disentangled himself from her, but moving with quick efficiency, he ran to the door, straightening his clothes as he vanished.

Chapter 15

Step 15: Smile.

Simon raced down the three flights of stairs, heart still pounding from watching Emma fly apart beneath him, but it was also lodged in his throat because he knew.

The sirens were for his dad.

He hit the ground floor and stopped short. Their front door was wide open. “Dad,” he yelled, already knowing he wouldn’t find him inside. Whipping around, he rushed to the front door of the building—also open—and found his dad outside, sitting on the curb being looked over by an EMT. He had a bloody knee and a scrape on his head and was holding his arm to his chest. The EMT flashed a light into his eyes. Mrs. Bessler, their elderly nosy busybody tenant from 2B, was hovering at the EMT’s side.

“Dad. You okay?”

“No thanks to you,” Mrs. Bessler said, her beehive hair quivering with indignation. “Leaving an old man on his own at night to trip on the front porch steps to his death. Shame on you.”

“I’m not old,” Dale said. “And I didn’t die.”

Simon bent to look right into his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am.”

Of course. “What happened?” Simon asked. “What were you doing out here?”

“He was taking out the trash,” Mrs. Bessler said and turned to the EMT. “Can you imagine? Asking this sweet old man to do that after he had a bunch of strokes?”

“Only two strokes,” Dale said. “And for God’s sake, woman, I’m not old. And I like taking out the trash.”

“You were taking out the—” Simon drew a deep breath. “Where’s Alison?”

“She tucked me in and I told her to skedaddle. I don’t need no babysitting while I’m sleeping.”

“So why weren’t you sleeping?”

“Because I had to take out the trash.”

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose and stared down at his feet for a moment. He was barefoot. Shirtless. Because he’d been screwing around—literally—instead of looking after his dad. “I thought we agreed you’d call me if you were leaving the house.”

“I did call you. You didn’t answer. You were on the roof with that pretty girlie of yours, Coma Girl. Hope you got some.” His dad looked him over. “Though by the uptight look on your face, I’m guessing not.”

Both Mrs. Bessler and the EMT gave Simon very judgy, deadpan stares, which he deserved.

“It’s a good thing I was watching from the window and saw him fall,” Mrs. Bessler said. “I called 911 right away.”

His dad turned to the EMT. “Sorry you had to come out this late.”

“No problem.” The EMT looked at Mrs. Bessler. “Are you his wife or caretaker?”

“That’s me. I’m the caretaker,” Simon said, feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet. Because that was what he was, a caretaker. Not some single guy who could come and go, casually hooking up with . . . whatever Emma was to him. No labels, apparently.

His dad was loaded into the ambulance. Simon hopped in after to sit by his side just as Emma rushed out the front of the building. The skirt of her dress was wrinkled from where he’d shoved it up to her waist. Her hair was wild, as were her eyes. And maybe it was his imagination, but she had a sort of dazed, well-satisfied look to her.

Under any other circumstances, he’d have basked in the memories of the feel of her in his arms, those sexy little sounds she’d made when he’d touched her, how it had felt to be buried deep inside her . . . but all he could think was his dad had just been loaded into an ambulance and it was his fault.

EMMA WAITED UP, but Simon didn’t come back that night. She texted, she called, but nothing. A part of her wasn’t surprised. She’d seen the look on his face as he’d climbed into the ambulance with his dad.

Guilt.

Something she knew a little about. Then he’d looked up and seen her on the porch and something new had hit his eyes.

Regret.

He regretted her. She’d been a mistake.

Her worry about his dad overrode her embarrassment about how the night had gone. Because if she thought about it too long—including how she’d gotten hers and he hadn’t . . . gah.

But damn. There for a moment, it had been sheer magic.

At midnight she gave up trying to sleep and ordered an Uber.

She got dropped off at the hospital, where she tried to get info on Simon’s dad. But HIPAA laws, not to mention COVID-19, had changed the way one could walk into a hospital and get information on a patient.

Frustrated, she had to Uber back to her apartment without any news at all. Once again she tried to sleep, but it wasn’t going to work. So she made a call.

“It’s the middle of the damn night,” Alison answered groggily. “Our place better be on fire.”

Our place. Normally, that would both thrill and terrify Emma. But she couldn’t think past the look on Simon’s face and not worry about his dad. “I’m not calling about the shop.”

“Are you calling to once again grill me on customer service protocols for our soft opening the day after tomorrow? Because I think I can handle it.”