We lay in bed for a while after, just listening to each other's ragged breathing. Emma curled herself into me and planted a soft kiss where her head rested on my chest. As I wrapped my arms firmly around her, a tight lump grew in my throat.

We had gone too far—I had let us go too far. I should have stopped her, should have told her the truth, but when I'd had the chance... I'd taken the coward's way out.

In her own way, Emma had let me in with her touch, and it had been intoxicating. The second I felt our lips collide, I knew I was done for. Then when she had straddled me and pressed herself firmly against me, every muscle in my body hummed in tune to her.

Even now, while lying in bed with Emma snug in my arms, I could still feel a residual humming throughout my body as if it were simultaneously coming down from the recent rush while also revving up for a second round.

I had bared my heart to her and told her the truth about how I felt about her—but I failed to tell her the truth she so deserved to know.

It's not a cataclysmic confession, I rationalized. It's not like I've been seeing someone or lied about my name—well only my family name, technically.

She hasn't mentioned much about her family either, a voice in my head rebutted.

It was a lame excuse, but it was true. Emma had only ever told me that her mother lived in a village somewhere in Wales and that her father had died years before. She had been brief when she mentioned the latter, and I hadn't pried.

Just as she hasn't pried, the voice continued. She hasn't asked, so it isn't technically a lie.

But it felt like one. It felt like a lie. Perhaps it had started as a passive omission of truth, but now—as I held Emma close and marveled in the sensation of what we had just done—the weight of it pressed against my chest where her kiss once had.

I should have told her weeks ago, at the very least after our first date or perhaps during one of the many nightly phone calls we had shared—or better still the night before on the roof when I had confessed my jealousy. I should have confessed everything then.

It's not a cataclysmic confession, I reminded myself. But my hiding of it will be.

"Emma—"

"Shh!" She commanded, "I'm listening to your heart."

I tilted my chin up toward the ceiling and closed my eyes.

After a moment, I felt Emma's head pop up from my chest. I only opened one eye and peered down at her. She was propped up on her elbow smiling down at me. I opened my second eye to take in the full sight of her.

"Still there!" She laughed.

I reached up and tucked a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. "My heart is wherever you left it, Ems."

The trill of Emma's laughter made the muscles around my groin tighten. She kissed me on the chest—just over my heart—before pulling the sheets around her and sitting up. "Can I use your shower to rinse off?"

"Sure," I said, already missing her touch. "Want company?"

A timid smile appeared between her still rosy cheeks. She raked her teeth over her bottom lip and eventually nodded.

I grunted slightly as I pulled myself from the bed. "The water takes a moment to heat up—"

Emma grabbed my hand and pulled it swiftly, pulling me back for a brief kiss before releasing me again. I stumbled backward, my head again in a haze of longing, and hastily made for the shower.

We stayed in the shower until the water turned cold, both thoroughly exploring the other's body in a way we hadn't been able to in our earlier haste. After, we both quickly dressed and headed out.

Emma took my hand in hers and led me through the town, commenting every once in awhile on a shop or café we passed. We had barely just sat down in the only two folding chairs left when the presenting author walked across the stage, eventually coming to stand at the lone podium.

"So much for breakfast," Emma whispered as she pulled out her notepad and pen.

"Well, I had mine..." I murmured in her ear.

She knocked her knee against mine, and I captured hers with my hand, gripping it loosely as my thumb slowly ran along its side. Emma leaned back in her chair with a silent huff, bracing her notepad against her left arm, and decidedly ignoring me.

I didn't mind. I watched as her attention drifted from me to the author. Gradually, her expression changed from steadfast disinterest to a contemplative frown. She began writing herself notes, drawing arrows between some and circles around others. It was fascinating to watch her, to try and follow how her mind processed words and how, then, she translated those ideas.

Endeavor as I did, I could not follow a word the author drawled. It felt rude to check my watch, so I refrained, but I could gather a sense of time by the growing heat of the day. Finally, the author's monotone voice stopped and the audience around me broke into applause. I followed suit and then eagerly followed Emma through the crowd.

She led us toward a nearby coffee stand and found us a spot in the rapidly growing queue.

"Was it just me, or was that—"

"Bloody rubbish," she said decisively. "I'm not sure I can even write the review. I think it might come across as too loathsome."

"Perhaps we should have stayed in bed," I teased.

From her glib expression I could tell she was about to retort with something clever, but suddenly another thought came to her. She whipped around the face me, gently smacking my chest with the back of her hand. "Did you see the statement the Queen Mother put out this morning?"

I cleared my throat, which had suddenly gone dry. "No, what was it about?"

"It was celebrating the festival and literature in general, but in it, she referred to Sophia—our Sophia! Isn't that crazy?"

"Yeah, about that, Ems—"

"I called my publishing friend, Marcus," she continued, positively beaming. "And he said he'd been on the phone with the printers all morning. Apparently, they've completely sold out of all of their current copies of her diaries, and they just secured a deal to publish the rest of them!"

"Wow—"

"I know! I'll send you the link to the statement, and you can forward it to your Gran if you think she'd like to read it." She smacked my chest again, "Maybe she'll get a kick out of being book buddies with the Queen of England."

"Yeah," I mumbled as we reached the front of the queue and Emma turned to give her order to the clearly frazzled barista. "A real kick out of it."