There's an uncharacteristic chill in the breeze tonight after the muggy heat of the last few days, and I savor it as I exit the cab and walk the cobblestone alleyway. I'm disappointed as I head to Emmy's little home from the club. There's no denying it. But a part of me also recognizes this is my pattern—losing myself in a willing female for a few hours to let go of the day’s stressors. It's not every day, I know that. It's not like I have a sexual compulsion, but when Emmy said she'd felt like I'd manipulated her the night before, it hit me hard.

In retrospect, leaving dinner at the Montgomery home and seeking out Emmy was in line with my MO.

Even if it was Armand who asked me to come and sort things out with Emmy, it still doesn't sit comfortably. She'd been right to turn me down. But shit, she was stunning. Watching her dance . . . I almost groan out loud again as I remember. Why had I thought Armand was gay? He said he was meeting a guy the other day and I just assumed. Which was weird for me, and I recognize it must have been wishful thinking back then. A few days ago felt like weeks.

I negotiate the courtyard and unlock the antique front door. I hit all the switches to blaze the place with light and avoid any cats or ghosts sneaking up on me. It strikes me that staying here this last night before I go back to New York feels like the last tie to Emmy. I no longer have her phone, and she doesn't have mine. I hadn't realized what an unspoken connection, a feeling of attachment, that had brought. The idea leaves me with a feeling of emptiness I don't like.

I take off my jacket and hang it on the back of the dining room chair, grab a glass of water, and then reluctantly turn some of the lights off so I can head to bed.

When I get to the top of the stairs I see the cat, sitting with its black and white back to me, tail swishing as it stares at an empty corner of the bedroom.

Oh, fuck no.

I pull out my phone to ask Emmy what she does in these situations but then stop. My hand drops. It's going to seem like I can't take a no from a woman. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a sexually aggressive jerk.

Backing silently down the stairs, I eye the couch. There's a throw draped over the arm and the cushions look all right to sleep on. It's not ideal but it will have to do for now. It's not that I'm scared, I tell myself. But the cat is freaking weird, staring at an empty corner. I've seen the movie Ghost, I know the cat freaks out when it sees Patrick Swayze. Who's dead, by the way. Anyone would feel nervous. But I do feel like a bit of an idiot as I unbutton my shirt and take it off. My own phone is loudly silent and devoid of app notifications that I know Emmy disabled, and it doesn't bother me as much as I expect.

Perhaps having Emmy's phone detoxed me somewhat.

Turning on a small lamp, I slip off my shoes and socks and roam over to Emmy's bookshelf. I know she'd mentioned haiku, but I didn't realize what a fan of poetry she is. There's a well-thumbed book by someone named Rupi, so I pick it up. Under it there's a photo wallet. Curiosity gets the better of me and I pick it up. It probably holds a couple dozen four by sixes, though it's not full. I open it and almost laugh out loud at a teenage Emmy, braces and round cheeks. The pictures are faded, but there are some with her and an older couple and some with them and someone who I now assume is David, based on her Instagram. There are no pictures of her as a baby or anything. I turn to the next one and see Emmy at a graduation with the older couple. High school it looks like. Then there's nothing. I put the album down where I found it.

I take the book of poetry to the couch. Within minutes my eyes are heavy. The cat comes slinking silently down the stairs. Either the ghost is gone or the cat got bored.

Something jars me awake. I blink and realize I fell asleep. Reaching for my phone, I see it's after one in the morning. It vibrates in my hand as I look at it.

Suit Monkey: You awake?

Who the hell is Suit Monkey?

Who is this?

Suit Monkey: Emmy.

I laugh. Then change the contact to Emmy. You called me suit monkey?

Emmy: Sorry. But if the suit fits . . .

I wish you were here. Immediately I wish I could unsend it. It's my sleepiness that's causing me not to think straight.

There's a knock at the front door and I sit up straight, suddenly wide awake.

Is that you or the ghost?

I head to the front door.

Emmy: The ghost I guess.

I swing open the door and Emmy is standing there, her red hair tumbling wildly over a shoulder. Her mouth twitches, and her blue eyes dart nervously to the side and back.

I guess I'm at a loss for words because I stare at her, tracing her from top to toe with my eyes. She's changed into an oversized T-shirt, yoga pants, and silver flip flops. Her toenails are no longer pink like her bikini picture I notice, but turquoise. Not that I expected them to be the same as in the picture.

She drags her eyes away from my chest and then types into her phone, her lower lip nervously pulled between her teeth.

Emmy: I couldn't sleep.

My insides have clenched tight, and I have a rock in my throat. Whatever it is I'm feeling, it's unfamiliar, but it's definitely okay. I grin. I think. I can't be sure.

I step back and to the side, silently asking her to come in.

She dips her chin, her gaze lowering as she steps past me. She smells like piney shower wash and not like I imagined from her sheets. She must have showered the sweat off her after the club. That makes me sad for some reason.

Inside, she takes in the couch setup and the book of poetry on the ground. The bang that must have woken me.

Of course, a low rumble starts up as the cat realizes she's home and slinks out of nowhere to noodle around her ankles and purr loudly. She crouches and scratches it between the ears. "Hey, buddy," she croons, and I realize it's the first time I've heard her speak in real life.

"What's his name?" I ask.

"Tuna," she says. "If you ever smell his breath, you'll understand."

"If it's anything like the smell that comes out the other end of him, I do."

She laughs softly.

"Can you ask him if the ghost is gone from upstairs?" I grin.

She stands. "Is that what this was about?" She motions to the couch and blanket with an amused expression.

"He was staring at the corner of your bedroom, by the window."

"It was probably a mosquito. He watches them like Mr. Miyagi watches flies."

"Oh." I reach up and grab a fistful of my hair. I do believe I feel nervous.

She licks her lips and types something into her phone.

Emmy: Is it okay that I'm here? I can go.

Shit, no. "Don't leave," I say aloud. I'm not sure what to do though. The tension between us is only going one way, but a part of me doesn't want it to. I want to hold on to this feeling forever. This dance on a knife’s edge. A world full of possibility. It's intoxicating.

Emmy's cheeks fill with heightened color.

Emmy: So do you only talk dirty over the phone or can you do it in real life too?

I exhale sharply as arousal detonates low and deep, carving its way down through my body and possibly branding me permanently. For a smartish guy it takes me more seconds than it should to penetrate she's propositioning me.

"Get upstairs, Emmy." My voice is low and rough to my own ears. My legs feel weak.

Her face flushes a deeper red and God, I wonder if she flushes all over her skin. She turns slowly and moves to the stairs. I start after her, and she squeaks and starts sprinting, taking the stairs two at a time.

I race after her.

She's stopped, facing the bed. But then she turns, chest heaving, eyes shining with laughter at the chase, and kicks off her flip-flops.

I walk to the window and lower the blinds and then snap the bedside light on, bathing us in a warm glow. God, my heart is pounding so hard, I can hardly breathe. I want, and I don't want this so badly.

"Jesus, Emmy." I run a thumb over my bottom lip. I'm lost. Everything seems so monumental. So confusing. "I'm leaving to go back to New York tomorrow," I say.

She nods though something flickers over her expression. "I know."

I'm starting to feel like this was a bad idea. That I might start something I can't finish.

Or won't finish.

"You don't want to do this, do you?" she asks, looking disappointed.

I blow out a breath and stuff my fingers in my jeans pockets to keep them from reaching for her. I do. I want it so badly. I'm selfish like that. "Come touch me. Put your hand on my chest, Emmy."

She hesitates, and I wait. Then she steps up close. After a beat, she lifts her palm and lays it right in the middle, touching me for the first time. I want to close my eyes with the relief of it but can't take them off her.

Her hand is soft and cool. I imagine my skin feels heated and feverish to her, my heart beat heavy and loaded.

"Of course, I want this," I manage and revel in the feel of her hand on me. My palms itch to return the gesture. To feel her skin, the texture of it, the weight of her breasts, the tightness of her nipples. "You have freckles," I whisper as I stare down at her perfect skin, and her blue eyes go deep, dark.

"You have gold in your eyes," she says, surprised. "I thought I'd see silver."

"Are you sure about this?" I ask. I want her so much. I want to sink my hands in her hair, to touch her everywhere, taste her everywhere. And I want to not think about tomorrow, about what it will be like between us after we've exorcised days of foreplay.

"We're overthinking it," she says and cocks an eyebrow. "At least, you are. Don't." Her palm on my bare chest starts a slow descent. She licks her lips. "I'm sure. Really sure. I promise."

My stomach muscles tense, and I narrow my gaze on her saucy expression. My cock is aching against my jeans. I feel as if I have to remember how to breathe as her hand slips lower.