I needed my hand to eat, but even when the server approached our table with a steaming plate of food in each hand, I still hesitated.

Her touched was intoxicating, more satisfying than any culinary delicacy I'd ever tasted. When she first moved to better angle her menu for me to read, it took all of my self-control not to pull her into me right there, but then when she leaned back into my chest...

Feeling the curve of her hip under her dress sent my head spinning—I couldn't even read properly or stop myself from babbling, but of course Emma was too polite to say anything.

Her ability to tease me in one easy breath and in the next ask me questions about myself and my work that I wasn't even sure I knew the answers to still baffled me.

With other dates, it'd always felt like a dizzying chess game of cool remarks and innuendos, but with Emma, it was easy, like breathing—except in the moments she took my breath away.

When we finished eating, we shared an espresso as I paid the bill (Emma had the gall to reach for her wallet). Our server—much to my chagrin—was efficient as ever and promptly returned with my card. I helped Emma into her coat (a shameless excuse to stand close her again) and followed her outside.

I glanced down at her warm visage glowing in the light of the street lamps and looped my arm around her waist, not able or even wanting to fight the grin spreading over my lips. "I don't want to take you home just yet."

She looked up at me and blinked as her cheeks pulled into a toothy smile. "So don't."

I closed my eyes and shook my head, forcing myself to think of anything other than the dimples that appeared in flashes, punctuating her most heartfelt smiles.

"We could go somewhere else?" I offered. I could feel her chest vibrate against mine as she laughed.

"I don't actually know where we are," she admitted.

"Oh well..." I glanced around looking for any landmarks, but finding none offered: "We're close to Hyde Park."

"Great, let's go there!"

"In those?" I asked nodding down at her stilts, nearly glittering in the dim lighting.

"Oh yee of little faith," Emma teased as she began to walk in determination.

My hand slid from her waist to her hand as I gave it a gentle tug and nodded in the opposite direction. "It's this way, and I'm carrying you at the first sight of a wobble."

She laughed again and allowed me to lead her down the street, her fingers interlaced with mine.

* * *

The heels impressively made it all the way to Hyde Park, and then somewhat more impressively, they came off.

Emma deftly undid the tight leather laces that ruthlessly strapped her shoes to her feet and around her ankles. She left them discarded along with her purse on the ground as she stepped up onto the cement circle circumferencing the Joy of Life fountain. I offered my hand as a stabilizer and she took it, and to my joy, she kept it.

"Do you always wear heels?"

She laughed but didn't meet my gaze. "You want to know a secret?"

"Course," I said as I watched her gingerly place one foot in front of the other.

"I wore them on purpose tonight."

"Why would you—"

"Because I knew you'd rage about them," she said glibly, her eyes dancing briefly to mine before flickering back down.

I gaped at her. "You like that I rage about your shoes?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "I find it entertaining. Plus, I figured it would be good just in case we ran out of things to talk about."

I nodded, considering her words.

"So you wore conversation cards on your feet?" I finally asked her.

She threw her head back and laughed. It was a throaty, beautiful laugh that made me chuckle in turn.

Emma dipped her foot in the water and jumped slightly at the temperature. On instinct, my hands flew to her waist. She turned then, slowly, and put a hand on each of my shoulders.

"Ready to come down?" I murmured.

She shook her head. "I like being taller than you."

I nodded and tried to stay still as her fingers worked through my hair. I closed my eyes as she began to slowly massage my scalp in places. My grip on her waist tightened and she stumbled forward a step, nearly on top of me now. I tipped my chin down and gently pressed my forehead into her abdomen.

We said nothing for what felt like a long while. I wasn't sure I was even capable of speech as her delicate fingertips caressed my scalp.

"Tom..." she started to murmur but was interrupted by her purse chirping. Her fingers stilled and I slowly bent over to retrieve the tiny bag.

I handed it to her, and Emma easily fished out her phone and immediately groaned.

"Something the matter?"

"Just Trisha threatening to call the Royal Guard," she muttered.

I smiled as my hands found her waist once more. "She seems like a good friend."

Emma hummed in response. "The best... just tends to be a bit over-protective."

I watched her as she tapped a reply to her friend. "Do I want to know what time it is?"

She swiped to another screen and grimaced. "Nearly one."

"You have work in the morning?"

Emma merely nodded.

"Suppose I should get you home then." It was the responsible thing to do—and to say—but that didn't stop my heart from sinking a bit as the words tumbled begrudgingly from my lips.

Emma replaced her phone in her bag with a sigh and nodded again.

* * *

When the cab pulled over in front of the building Emma pointed to, I helped her out of the car and offered to walk her to her flat.

"You don't have to—" She began to protest, but I cut her off.

"I want to."

"Trisha will be pressed against the other side of the door," Emma said pointedly.

"Then we'll give her a show," I teased.

Emma's glance fell to the short distance between the tips of our shoes, her words slow and soft. "And if I'd rather say goodnight... privately?"

The space between us disappeared as I cupped her face in my hands and pulled her lips to mine.

I could feel her press herself up and into me. One of my hands ran down her side and settled on her lower back, pulling her in closer so that we were completely flat against one another. For a moment I worried she would feel me growing taut against her, but the concern evaporated as she opened her mouth slightly and, at the invitation, my tongue met hers.

Emma groaned softly, her fingers having previously slid into my hair now tugged at it, gently yet urgently. My hand moved lower, cupping the curve of her bottom and squeezed—

We jumped apart as the car horn blared indignantly, its jeer echoing against the edifices of the apartment buildings lining the street.

I cursed myself for having forgotten to pay the meter before chasing Emma out of the cab.

"Goodnight, Tom," she whispered, her voice low and ragged as she kissed me on the cheek before turning and slipping through the glass door.

I groaned as I watched her scamper up the stairs to her flat and slowly stalked back to the waiting cab.

That night I fell asleep with images of Emma flashing before my eyes, sucking away that tantalizing drip of balsamic on her lip—except in the dream it wasn't her tongue that did the licking.

* * *

I drummed my fingers against the leather top of my desk as I waited for the line to pick up.

"Tom, hi—" Emma's voice was high with what I assumed was surprise.

"Look, I know I'm not supposed to call for three days," I rushed in. "But I had a question about Sophia so I figured I'd found a loophole."

"Sophia?" In her confusion, her voice had dropped down to its normal octave.

I quickly picked up my pen and began to twirl it nervously between my fingers. "le Something or Other."

"Sophia le Guarde. Right, I'm with you now. Go on."

I nodded. "Well, you said a few other of her diaries had been published?"

"They have." She sounded all business now, though I secretly hoped she didn't sound nearly as attractive on the phone when speaking with other people as did with me now. "It's a small publishing house that's doing it though, so copies can be a bit tricky to track down. I could make some inquiries for you if you like."

"Oh no, you don't have to go through the trouble—"

"No trouble at all," she cut in. "I know the publisher. He's a great guy."

I dropped my pen, but quickly picked it up again. "Is he now."

"Uh huh," she said slowly. "Quite possibly the nicest man I've ever met. Really quite lovely."

Even though she wasn't sitting across from me in my office, I still tried to force a smile—I managed a sour grimace. "Delightful."

"Yup," she sighed dreamily. "Makes guys who run children's charities look like complete sods."

I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair, more relieved than I would have readily admitted.

"But you know who's even lovelier than my very handsome publisher friend?"

I stifled a groan. "Do I want to know?"

"His husband," she said into her microphone, making sure to clearly pronounce every syllable.

"Alright," I said tossing my pen onto the scattering of forgotten papers on my desk. "Message received."

Emma's laugh trilled across the line. "Good."

I hesitated. "When can I see you again?"

"I thought you were calling about Sophia."

I held my breath while waiting for her to answer.

"Well..." Emma's voice suddenly sounded strained. "I'm actually going out of town for a bit."

"Emma, if you don't want to go out with me again that's fine. You don't have to—"

"No, that's not it!" She exclaimed. There was a thud in the background. "There's this book festival coming up, the Hay Festival in Wales. It's a really big deal and the magazine is sending me to cover it."

I lurched forward in my seat. "What magazine?"

"I work for The Print, didn't I tell you?"

"No..." I said, my mouth suddenly inexplicably dry. "You didn't."

"Oh, well, I do." She rushed on, and series of dull thumps clattering along with her words. "Anyways, they want me to cover it and they want me there early before the thing even starts to do some interviews, you know, and the festival itself is ten days, so I'm planning to be out of town for, like, the next two weeks..."

I leaned over my desk and slowly fingered the grip of my pen.

"Tom?"

Her voice was quieter than it had been, as if unsure if the connection had been lost.

I blinked. "You're really not blowing me off?"

Her laugh was airy. "I'm really not."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning. I'm actually packing right now."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Two weeks?"

My voice sounded feeble in my own ears, but she either ignored it or didn't notice.

"Yeah," she sighed.

I tapped my pen decisively on my desk. "Phone me when you get back?"

"Definitely."

"And... if I need a book recommendation before then..."

"Well, Peter's a great source."

"Course," I nodded.

"But you could always phone me, too."

* * *

Around one o'clock, Cynthia barged into my office—without knocking—and dropped herself into one of the plush chairs facing my desk.

Most days we shared a midday meal together, either she or I walking to the other's office whenever there wasn't a lunch meeting scheduled. We didn't have a particular time, just whenever our stomachs told us it was time to re-nourish. Sometimes our lunches were elegant affairs and held at restaurants with proper linen table cloths and napkins, other times they took place over dripping gyros from our favorite truck.

"Well," she demanded, her fake nails running along the arm of the chair. "Are you going to tell me her name?"

I grinned at my computer screen, not looking up to meet her inquisitorial frown. "Emma."

"How long have you been seeing each other?"

"That was our first date."

I could feel her glare harden. "You took a girl to a charity function on a first date?"

"I took her to dinner after!" I exclaimed, my eyes briefly darting from the spreadsheet I had been looking over to her contemptuous eyes.

"Is that your game now? Take girls to charity events, show off a little, wine and dine them just to get into their pants?"

"We both know I don't have any game," I said, still in too good of a mood from talking with Emma to rise to Cynthia's bating. "And it's not girls, just Emma."

My sister glanced me over once more before leaning back in her chair and nodding approvingly. "She seems nice."

"She is."

"She meet anyone else in the family yet?"

I glanced over at her and shook my head.

She shrugged as she turned her attention to adjusting the many metal bracelets she wore on her wrist. "But she knows, right?"

I said nothing as I saved the spreadsheet and sent it off to the project coordinator with a few brief notes.

"Tom," she said dangerously.

I closed the spreadsheet and turned away from my computer to face my increasingly condemning relation. "I'm going to tell her," I mumbled as I picked up my pen.

"When?" She demanded.

"Well, she's going out of town for a while..."

Cynthia cackled. "I told you a charity event was a horrible idea for a first date."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "It's a business trip," I said, my scowl morphing into a cringe. "For the magazine she works at."

Cynthia's heavy-lined eyes widened. "Which one?"

"The Print."

She slumped slightly in her seat. "They're not as bad as some of the other ones."

She was right, I knew, as I'd spent a good hour after hanging up with Emma looking into the magazine.

Like most publications, most of its content was online these days though it still offered a monthly subscription to its glossy print magazine. The magazine, in fact, was rather well respected by some Internet commentators, but more importantly, she was brilliant.

Emma had her own page on the staff index, and on it was a compilation of all of her recent postings. From what I could tell she regularly reviewed new releases and even some classics, she wrote articles on events related to the publishing world, and she maintained a recurring column on the state of reading in the 21st century (her outlook wasn't half as grim as some of her contemporaries). Her writing was crisp and clear, efficient in its word count, and yet throughout all of it, her fiery sense of humor shined.

"But still," Cynthia continued with a scowl. "Your new girlfriend works for a magazine but doesn't know she's dating a member of the royal family?"

"She's not my girlfriend..." I muttered as I stood and grabbed my jacket hanging behind my chair. "I haven't had the courage to ask her."

My sister watched me with a mournful frown. "You're flirting with fire, little brother."