

The Chef's Choice

by Josephine Kent

Romance/Short Story

Smashwords Edition

Copyright ©2013 by Josephine Kent

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for your support, and for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Dedication

To the women who have no idea of how truly beautiful they are. The only thing your loved ones need from you is that you be the best version of yourself that you can envision. If life's not going the way you imagined, then change the things you can, and love the things you can't. And check yourself out in the mirror every now and again.

Please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author.

Chapter 1

This coming October, Emille Carter would turn thirty-five years old. And for her thirty-fifth birthday, Emille wanted only one thing. To feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. Really, all she wanted for her birthday was to get good and properly laid.

In order for that to happen, she needed a man. Though she knew any number of gorgeous, eligible men, none of them were interested in a girl like her. And even if they were, she wouldn't believe it. Beautiful men like the ones she hung out with did not go after average girls, much less women that were a few pounds above average.

Take Peter as an example. Peter was one of very few men that she could actually look up at. Jackson, David, Nathanael and Ryce were more on her level height-wise, but Peter was tall and reed thin to their more husky, muscular builds. Not to say he wasn't fit. He'd have to be, as athletic as he was. Peter trained for competitive sports, while the other guys trained for fitness. Nathanael's physique was due to his great genes. He was perpetually on the hunt for cougar, but either Emille was too big of a bait, or too small. And Ryce? Well, no one knew exactly what Ryce did to look like a god. But he existed on a strict regimen of models, actresses, groupies, all of whom had to be fourteen karat and above. Jack liked a lively, angry woman. More accurately, he made turned them into hostile bit- Suffice it to say, if he was her boyfriend, she'd dump him within twenty-four hours. But hey, women fell for him like rain. And he claimed to be faithful while he was with them. David? Well, she'd never actually seen him with a woman. But then again David was like a tomcat. You heard some noise about him, but you never saw him in action. Therefore, no one knew what kind of woman he preferred.

Peter's girlfriends were of a class entirely different. They tended to be the willow thin wisps with waistlines as wide as one of Emille's ankles. They practiced yoga, could bench-press a buffalo, and hailed rock climbing in Utah as their ideal date. Peter's girlfriends dieted on pasta instead of salads. Peter's girlfriends - if they had breasts - had breasts that naturally defied gravity. They had breasts that augmenters used as examples of the ideal. Peter's girlfriends never had to twist themselves into awkward positions in the mirror in order to make sure that their ass cellulite wasn't showing through the fabric of their clothes. Peter's girlfriends didn't have upper arms that were bigger than their faces.

Peter's girlfriends were perfect.

Emille hated the bitches.

Peter was perfect. He was the most caring, talented, kind, handsome man she knew.

Emille had years of experience in knowing exactly what it would take to catch the attention of an amazing guy like Peter. All she would need was everything she wasn't.

Since she was not equipped to nab a guy like Peter, Emille decided to go after something more attainable.

"Hey, Jeff," she smiled sweetly as she stood in the doorway of the office across from hers. The office had been Peter's years before when she'd started with Orson and Son Electrical Engineering, Inc. fifteen years before.

"Hey, Em," Jeff Stafford replied without looking up from the blueprints on his desk. "Beautiful day out. Isn't it?"

Taking that as an invitation, Emille stepped closer to the office. "Yes. Yes, it is."

After making a few scribbles on his notepad, Jeff sat up in his chair and gave her his full attention. "What can I do for you, Emille?"

This is it, she thought. The land of no return. Could she do it? Jeff wasn't what one would describe as good looking. Well... he was. But you had to look beneath that morning mucus that he hadn't quite gotten out of his right eye. And you had to look past the legion of blackheads on his nose and cheeks. And you had to ignore the fact that a thirty-eight year old man sometimes forgot to brush his teeth. But, underneath all that, Jeff was actually a highly intelligent hunk. A girl would just have to clean him up. Jeff was like... Jeff was like sharing all your cookies with your friends, and then the last one in the package falls to the ground. He was what stood between the rock and the hard place where you either picked up your cookie and followed the ten second rule, or left it there on the ground and did without. All Emille wanted for her birthday was a cookie.

"Um, Jeff..." she began. Sidling inside as only big girls can sidle, Emille entered the office and closed the door behind herself. The whole office didn't need to hear this. "Jeff," she started again. "If you don't have any plans for this Wednesday, I was wondering... Would you like to have dinner with me?"

Jeff froze for a good ten seconds.

At first, Emille didn't know if he was going to laugh in her face, or what. Though it was hard, she made herself swallow the anxiety that followed her bold inquiry.

He blinked a few times then seemed to come out of his shock. "I'm sorry, Emille. I don't-"

Rejection. It burned, but she was used to this. She'd become a pro at handling rejection some hundred and twenty-eight pounds before. "It's no problem if you can't," she smiled. She'd become a pro at that too - concealing hurt feelings behind a happy smile. "I'll just ask someone else. My friend Peter and I went fishing this weekend, and I caught a bass. He promised to cook it for me on Wednesday, but he'll be working so I can't share it with him. He's the Executive Chef over at Jackson's Mark."

"Oh..." Jeff said slowly.

Emille recognized that tone. He was accepting the cover-up she'd thrown on her true intentions. Only one of two things could happen now. Either he'd tell her he was sorry but he'd be busy this Wednesday and couldn't make it, but maybe next time. Or, he'd change his mind and accept her invitation, and they'd have a long and successful relationship as friends. Just. Friends.

"Jackson's Mark. That's that steakhouse with the waiting list."

Emille smiled and nodded. The Mark had gotten pretty popular over the past two years, even though it had been in business for four years now. Lately, they had a waiting list for reservations, but Emille was an insider. Management reserved a certain table for special guests. Table number twelve was always available to her on Wednesdays. "Yes," she answered.

"I've been wanting to try that place out. Are they as good as the rumors make them out to be?"

She couldn't help the pride in her voice, and the heavy-lidded know-it-all expression on her face as she proudly replied, "Better. But then again, I'm biased."

Jeff's grin was so wide, his glasses actually slid back up his nose. "I'm not about to skip on a chance to eat at the finest steakhouse in town," he admitted. "What time were you thinking?"

"I'll meet you there at seven-thirty." That would give her enough time to go home and change into something a little more date-friendly. Though she usually ate alone at the Mark, the guys didn't need to know that this was a 'Just Friends' dinner.

Chapter 2

"Peter, your girl's here," Jackson announced as he walked into the busy kitchen of his steakhouse.

Chef Peter Anjou didn't have to ask who his friend referred to. Emille had been the faithful patroness of his culinary creations since even before Peter had decided to leave his career as an electrical engineer in order to become a chef. It was Wednesday night, and Emille was spending the night doing what she'd been spending her Wednesday nights doing for the fifteen years that they'd known each other. She was eating wherever and whatever Peter was cooking.

Technically, Jack had a say in what was fed to his guests. And it was Peter's responsibility to prepare the menu and stick to it. However, there was an unwritten understanding when it came to Emille. Peter claimed carte blanche to prepare her meals off the menu. He planned these Wednesday night dinners with care and precision, because Emille never failed to show up for them. He still didn't understand why it was so important to her that she support him like this, but Peter was grateful for the weekly diner at table number twelve. As long as she had his back, he'd continue to enjoy his career.

"She's looking good too," Jack commented mildly as he washed his hands.

"She always looks good," Peter replied.

"Yeah. But she looks beautiful tonight."

Emille was a big girl. Six feet and two inches tall, and three hundred and twenty-something pounds of big. She had a nice shape for someone her size, but it was usually buried beneath layers and layers and layers of clothing. Despite her efforts to hide beneath mounds of clothes, Emille couldn't really change her nature. She loved fashion and made up for her poor choice of clothing with impeccably maintained hair, nails, and makeup. You couldn't fail to realize she was an very beautiful woman.

Subsequently, she'd set herself up for people feeling free to tell her she'd be a gorgeous girl, "...if only you'd lose some weight." After seeing the damage that helpful comments about a woman's weight could cause, Peter had established a policy with Emille. He said nothing about her appearance, unless she went the extra mile on something. Then, he reserved his comments to a simple, 'You look nice', and left it there.

"What are you making for her tonight?"

Peter reached over and pulled forward a cutting board already set up with a bass on it. "She caught this on Sunday," he said, nodding toward the fish with a small smirk.

Jack let out a low whistle of appreciation. Peter went fishing every Sunday morning. Occasionally, his friends would join him. Most often it was just him and Emille. If he knew his friend, and after nearly ten years of knowing each other Jack figured he knew Peter pretty well, Emille was the only woman he'd ever invited to join them.

"Yeah," Peter was saying. "I promised her I'd grill this baby up for her tonight." Deftly, he began to fillet the fish. "I thought I'd serve it with a savory herb risotto, nothing too overpowering. And an arugala and baby spinach salad." He looked up to see his friend nodding in approval. "It's light, I know. But I figured I'd make up for that by making that chocolate raspberry tart she likes." Nodding toward his drop-drawer, Peter said, "The bill's in there. Put it on my tab and tell her it's comped, will you?"

The slight raising of a brow was Jack's first response, then he pursed his lips in an 'If you say so' expression. He took the bill out of the drawer where Peter kept his notes and stationary and took his time looking it over. Finally, unable to keep it in any longer, he asked, "You do know she's on a date tonight. Right?"

Peter almost sliced off a finger.

"I take it she didn't tell you?"

"Uh, yeah. She said something about bringing some guy from work." He started working on something else. Wednesdays were a sort of break for him. His sous-chefs were all familiar with the menu, and except for the occasional inquiries, they didn't need to check with him about much. As a team, he and Jack ran a very tight ship. Peter kept a close eye on everyone, but he was on Do Not Disturb when Emille ate at the restaurant.

"Yeah. Well. It looks like she likes him."

Peter's features were neutral as he asked, "How could you tell?"

Emille and Jack weren't bosom buddies, but they'd become fast friends over the years because of Peter. And anyone who knew Emille on that level knew that a man was the last thing on her mind. In fact, other than a few sporadic interludes, Emille never really kept a man around. Maybe it was because she had Peter, Jack, David, and Nathanael. And of course, Ryce, whenever he was back in town.

Jack tipped his head back and grinned. "She's wearing red."

This time, Peter nearly spilled a pot of hot water over on himself. Black was the name of the game for Emille. He tried hard, but he couldn't remember ever seeing her in anything but black. Maybe navy, or brown. Maybe a mishmash of blackish colors on a black base. But never anything as bright as red.

"Are you talking about her lipstick?" he asked, because then that wouldn't be so strange.

"Nope," Jack smugly replied. His lips curled and his eyes narrowed as he rocked his head from side to side reciting in an announcer's voice, "She's wearing a bright red dress with a slinky little black bolero, and an F-me pair of leopard print shoes with red heels."

Peter went along with it up until Jack started describing the shoes, because as inconceivable as it was that Emille might deviate from the black, it was highly unlikely that she'd be wearing pumps. She had stopped wearing anything higher than fully flat about a decade before. Peter would know since he found nothing in the world sexier than a tall woman in tall heels. He could even give an approximate rounding of the year he'd last seen her in flats because it was around the same time that her weight had gone off the rails almost overnight.

"I'll stop by her table once she's done eating," he said needlessly. He always stopped by her table before she left.

"Okay," Jack said, before he turned and departed through the swinging doors.

Chapter 3

For some reason, while he worked Peter spent the next hour and a half reflecting on everything Jack had told him about Emille tonight. Was she really wearing red? Was she wearing heels? Did she really like this guy that she'd brought to dinner tonight? She'd mentioned that he would be coming with her, but who had done the inviting? Jackson's Mark was Emille's spot. Had she been the one to ask this guy out?

"They're done, Chef," Emille's waitress informed him as she posted another order.

"Alright," he replied. "Thanks, Cathleen."

Burning with curiosity, Peter left the kitchen.

Jack stopped him just outside the swinging doors. "No use pulling the big brother routine," he advised. "This one's not her type."

Peter couldn't prevent the exhaled laugh. No one really knew what Emille's type was, but Jack was convinced he knew her preferences. On top of Jack's list was 'a very tall man.' His logic was that extremely tall men were rare, so that's why Emille couldn't find one. From what Peter could see of his shoulder height, the guy sitting across the table from Emille was about six feet, which was tall. In most circles.

He strode across the room and positioned himself behind Emille's chair. His long arms wrapped around her shoulders as he planted a smacking kiss against her cheek.

She sucked her teeth in playful annoyance, but he just chuckled against her face.

"Oh. It's just you," Emille said in a bored tone that bellied the happiness in her eyes. "I thought for sure Dwayne Johnson had finally left his ex-wife and decided to come find the woman of his dreams." As she'd intended, both men laughed at her quip. "Jeff Stafford, I'd like you to meet Chef Peter Anjou," she introduced. "Peter, this is Jeff. He's the one that replaced you."

Peter, who had been pleasantly shaking Jeff's hand, swung his head around to level a look on Emille. What did she mean by that? She was so sneaky with her words, you never quite knew what she meant. Any of the patrons in the restaurant hearing her now would think that there was more to her words. But, the truth was, other than a mild flirtation when they'd first met, there was no attraction there between him and Emille. She was his buddy. The one he called up when he needed company for a low-pressure activity like a movie when he was between girlfriends. And he was the guy she called up for events that required a date.

She recognized the look he'd given her, because Emille rushed to explain, "He's one of the engineers at Orson and Sons. He's got your old office."

"Oh?" he grinned, turning his attention back to Jeff. "Have you found the plug-in cooler behind the filing cabinet?"

"Yep," Jeff said with a laugh. "Em here showed it to me on my first day."

"Did she? Em's always been a helpful lady." The cooler was Emille's idea. It was where they'd kept their lunch whenever Peter decided to practice a new dish.

Emille's lips were pursed tight as she avoided Peter's gaze.

"She is. You left a big gap when you resigned," Jeff continued to say. "If it wasn't for her, I think I'd have had a much harder time fitting in over there."

"No..." she gushed, "you would have done just fine. You're awesome at your job."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "I've got to get back into the kitchen, Emille," he said. "I just came out to remind you that you're responsible for lunch this weekend."

Emille looked across the table at Jeff, then back at Peter. "I'm sorry Peter, but I have plans this weekend."

His brows shot almost to his hairline. And considering Peter had a decently long face, that was saying something. "Come again?" he asked. She moved to stand, and he hastened to help her with her chair, noting that Jeff hadn't even thought about the courtesy. Jack was right. This guy wasn't her type. Emille might be one of the guys, but they'd never forgotten she was a lady. In fact, Peter would much rather she remain single than date anyone who didn't know her worth.

"I made plans for this weekend."

Peter had a system. He never had sleepovers on Saturday nights because he went fishing on Sunday mornings. Sometimes his other friends joined him. But most of the time, it was just him and Emille out on the water. So, it wasn't unreasonable for him to expect that Emille would be there this coming Sunday morning.

"What kind of plans?" he asked, once she was on her feet.

"Unbreakable plans," she replied crisply.

For the first time since he'd left the kitchen, Peter took a good look at what Emille was wearing. Jackson hadn't lied. Emille was indeed wearing a bright red dress. It even looked like a halter, but he couldn't tell because of the little jacket she was wearing. What he did notice was the expanse of creamy white cleavage. He'd always known that she had a sizeable bosom, but things like that were easy to forget when they were so well hidden. With her smoky eyes and matching red lipstick, she had put a good deal of effort into looking good tonight. After a quick glance at her companion, Peter started thinking that maybe Jackson's first impression was right. Maybe Emille really was seriously into this guy. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. If that was the case, then good for her. But he couldn't help the feeling of loss that came over him. She was already cancelling their fishing trips to spend time with this guy. Next thing she'd be calling to cancel dinner on Wednesdays. She'd already asked him if the fish would be enough to share with this guy. What next?

Perversely, he took a step back to check out her shoes. Sure enough, she was wearing a wicked pair of leopard print stilettos. He hadn't even remembered that Em had such shapely calves. If that didn't confirm it, then nothing would. He could barely remember ever seeing her calves.

"You look nice," he said, abruptly changing the conversation.

Emille blinked at him. "Thanks?"

"Hey," he pointed over his shoulder. "I've got to get back to work. Let me know when you're ready to come out again. It will still be your turn to bring lunch."

"Okay," she said on an exhaled breath. "I will."

Peter reached out to shake the other man's hand. "Jeff, it was a pleasure to meet you. Don't be a stranger around here."

Jeff accepted the handshake with a wry smile. "I would, if it wasn't so hard to get reservations to this place."

Because Peter knew deep down in his heart he wanted this to be the first and last time he ever saw Jeff Stafford, he didn't pretend that the other man could use their association to get reservations. "Yeah," he said with false pleasantry. "It's the kind of place that people come back to." With one last wink at Emille, Peter turned to leave.

Emille watched him walk away, a puzzled frown on her face. When she'd changed her plans for this coming Sunday, she hadn't thought that it would matter all that much to Peter if she wasn't there to go fishing with him. All she'd wanted was a day at home to relax and enjoy her own company. Most of the time, they spend all morning out on his boat, not even exchanging proper sentences. Not even really fishing. Just taking the morning to decompress. Judging by the way he was acting now, she wasn't so sure that her company wasn't as important to him as it was to her. She stepped away from the table, her hand extended as if she could reach out and stop him from walking away. Peter, are you okay? That's all she intended to say.

"Pe-"

He swung around quickly, instinctively grabbing for her hand. But it was too late. They were too far apart.

Chapter 4

It happened like a horror film in slow motion. One minute, Emille had been striding stably on her platform stilettos, and in the next instant her ankle twisted at a grotesque angle and she was flying backward. Later, she swore that she'd seen little commas bracketing her body as she'd flown through the air.

She had to laugh. Or she'd cry. She had to make people laugh. Or they'd see how she truly felt in that moment. Humor made shame and embarrassment tolerable. Didn't it? So, she laughed until she felt the burn of tears. Then she stopped, because she would be mortified if she cried.

"OhMyGod! OhMyGod! OhMyGod!" That was Jeff repeating himself over and over like a stalled CD.

She shut her eyes tightly and willed herself awake. She silently, fervently prayed that if this wasn't a nightmare, that maybe she'd fallen back into her seat and blown things out of proportion. Maybe she hadn't tripped over her chair when she'd toppled backward and landed on top of the table. And sent it - and herself \- crashing to the floor. If she kept her eyes closed long enough, eventually the people who had turned their heads to investigate the noise and risen in reaction to the sight of a three hundred pound woman sprawled on the restaurant floor wouldn't be looking at her.

"Em. Em, are you okay?" Peter asked. He was at her side in an instant, almost as if he'd followed her to the ground as she'd fallen. Only, he'd fallen gracefully. No one was reacting to the sight of him on his knees. "Did you hurt anything?"

Nothing but my pride and the furniture, she thought. Feigning a bravery she was far from feeling, Emille opened her eyes and smiled brightly at him. He was alarmed as he tugged her into a sitting position. "I'm fine. I'm fine, Peter," she promised. That didn't stop him from fussing, which only made things worse.

"Help me get her up," Peter barked at Jeff.

Belatedly, her date - who had cleared the field of the accident in one superhuman leap - hurried around the table to help. Then, Jack was there. All three of them began tugging her hands to get her back to her feet, but for some reason - the ten ton weight of her mortification, most likely - they couldn't lift her. Emille wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of Dodge and go lick her wounds in private, but apparently three men couldn't help her up off the ground. She'd never felt every ounce of her three hundred and twenty-eight pounds the way she did in that moment. She wanted to die. But she couldn't die. She couldn't die on the floor of the Mark, because if she died, her pallbearers wouldn't be able to lift her up.

Oh my god, her heart wailed. Her eyes burned as she lived through her worst nightmare. They'd have to incinerate her there on the floor and cart her ashes away in wheelbarrows. She couldn't let herself start feeling this way, otherwise she'd never get up off that floor.

So she rolled to her side, and attempted to rise to her own feet, but the three men tugging on her hindered more than they helped.

Suddenly, she became aware of a sharp pain cutting through her right ankle. "Ow!" she cried out, before she could bite her lip and endure. Even more embarrassing than an obese woman crushing a table in a packed restaurant... even more embarrassing than the fact that three men couldn't lift her, was an obese woman crushing a table in a packed restaurant because she'd decided to wear a pair of sexy stilettos on a fake date that she'd set up for herself because she was desperate to get laid.

This was it! She would never date again. It wasn't worth this humiliation.

"You're hurt," Peter accused.

"She's hurt," Jeff announced to everyone. They responded in kind with soft murmurs.

Emille groaned into her hands.

Jack was already at her ankle, removing the shoe with the broken heel and inspecting her foot. "It doesn't feel broken," he announced with a grim expression on his face. "Does this hurt, Em?"

In that instant, she looked up and met Peter's gaze. It was as if they had an entire conversation in that one look.

"Wrap your arms around my neck," he said, leaning his head close so she could comply. "I'll take you to the E.R."

"No," she said just as softly. "Just pass me a chair, and I'll help myself up."

Peter buried his face in the glossy black waves at her temple. "Trust me," he cajoled.

Slowly, Emille wrapped her arms around the firm column of his neck. She did it because he'd asked her to trust him. It was never a matter of whether or not she could. In the fifteen or so years that they'd been friends, Peter had never done anything to embarrass her. She trusted him so much that she didn't even notice when he placed his arm beneath her knees, making sure to tuck her dress for modesty. It was only when he was halfway to his feet that she realized he wasn't merely helping her to stand. Peter fully intended to carry her.

"Peter, no!" she hissed, scrambling to get out of his arms. Emille was willing to tumble right back onto another table if it meant no one would witness Peter hissing and wheezing as he ruptured his spleen attempting to carry her.

Whenever anyone did something to annoy him, Peter had this look. He had this way of pausing all activity to give you his full attention. And if you were smart enough to recognize that you'd done something to irritate him, you were probably smart enough to realize you didn't want his focus on you. Emille had dodged her way around it earlier tonight with sass and brash. But there was no escaping the look now. Especially since the man wearing it was holding her semi-suspended as if he had all the time in the world. Especially if he looked like he'd just drop her if she said the wrong thing.

Are you going to let me do this? that look asked.

She turned to Jackson for help. But, that was in vain, because Jack was looking at Peter with shock and awe - like he was seeing a superhero in action. Helplessly, she turned to Jeff. But Jeff was gaping openly too. Emille knew what they were thinking. They were all thinking the same thing. Even her. She had visions of an ant trying to carry an elephant. He might be small and mighty, but a tragedy was bound to occur. There was no way to stop it from happening because Peter was wearing that expression, and no amount of fast talking would make him release her. All that was left for Emille to do was relax and let the disaster continue to unfold.

But Peter surprised everyone in the restaurant.

Obviously, it wasn't an easy feat for him to rise from a squat with Emille in his arms. A dot of sweat even broke out above his top lip because of it. Emille could see it, because she was so close to him. But he didn't put her on a chair once he was up. Peter actually carried her out of the restaurant and across the parking lot to his car. The distance wasn't far by normal standards. Only, it was a world away to Emille. He carried her as if... She. Weighed. Nothing. She was aware of the truth though. She could feel the tension in his muscles and hear the way he carefully controlled his breathing as if this was a session of yoga or something.

When they reached his car he carefully lowered her to the ground because he needed to check his pockets for his keys. He cursed under his breath when his pockets came up empty. He'd left his keys in the drawer.

"I've got to go grab my keys. Lean against the car. Stay right here and keep your weight off that ankle," he told Emille. It was probably the most insensitive thing he'd ever said to her, but Emille couldn't say anything about it when he didn't seem to notice she felt bad.

"I can't leave my car here," she protested.

"I'll drop it off in the morning."

He was so frustrating. "Why are you being so nice?"

His brows rose mockingly. "Pardon me. I thought friends looked out for each other."

"I have her purse," Jeff announced from behind him.

For her part, Emille wanted to forget that he'd been present for tonight's episode of The Twilight Zone. She didn't look anywhere near Jeff's face as she reached for her purse. She couldn't imagine how she'd face him tomorrow in the harsh light of day. Maybe she'd call in sick.

Before Emille could take her purse, Peter intercepted the move.

"Hey, Peter!" Jack called as he jogged across the parking lot. "You forgot your keys!" As he drew closer, he said in a low voice, "Don't worry. I've got everything covered here." He slapped the ring into Peter's hand. "You sure you're doing okay, kiddo?" he asked, tilting his head to inspect Emille.

Emille rolled her eyes at that. She was a good five years older than Jack. "I'll be okay, Jack. I'll just put some ice on it once I get home."

"You'll do whatever the doctor orders," Peter informed her as he opened the door and handed her inside. He didn't say anything, but Emille winced as the car sunk to the right under her weight. He turned back to Jeff. "You coming?"

"No!" The word was out of her mouth before she could think about it. "I mean," she said, "you go home. I'll be fine, I'm sure."

"If you're not coming, I'm going to take her to get that ankle checked out," Peter snapped shortly. He didn't wait around to extend another invitation. The man was clearly useless.

Once they were underway, Emille prematurely ended what would have been a long, silent drive. She started with a deep sigh. "Just take me home, Peter. I'll put an icepack on it."

He cut a glance her way. "For all we know, your ankle could be broken."

The fact that she wasn't screaming in pain was proof enough that her ankle wasn't broken. She could endure the stabbing throbs. It was nothing a few painkillers couldn't eliminate. "Jack said nothing's broken, and I believe him."

"Jack could be wrong," he protested.

"Jack grew up in Cowboysville, Texas. He's probably handled more bones than any E.R. doctor. If he says I'm fine, then I'm fine." She bit her lips. "Besides, the pain is easing. Maybe I just twisted it in the fall."

Peter kept his eyes on the road, but he spoke in a low murmur. "Humor me, Emille. Let me take you to the emergency room. I just want to make sure you are okay."

Emille glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. "If it's the legalities of it, Peter, you don't have anything to worry about. I'm not going to sue the Mark for my own clumsiness." Because she was looking at him, she saw his eyes widen as if he hadn't even considered that possibility. "Just take me home."

His lips compressed in displeasure, but he no longer protested.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of the suburban property that Emille was renting from the silent millionaire next to her. She rented the house from him because she'd gotten a fair deal on the three bedroom, two bathroom house. And because she trusted the landlord to maintain the property. Back when the real estate industry was booming, Peter had harnessed his talents and started buying and remodeling property - though they were not just houses. Nor did he invest in strip malls. He'd sold a few homes, but Peter had decided that he preferred the longterm income of rental properties instead of quick sales. Later, he had turned to investing in a few start ups as a silent partner. Turned out he had good instinct for venture capitalism.

Peter wasn't super wealthy by any means, but he lived a far simpler life than what he could actually afford. He paid the rent on a single bedroom apartment in one of his own complexes. Management didn't even know that the owner resided right under foot. The red Mustang he drove was over ten years old. It wasn't one of the flashy new vintage-inspired models, neither was it a classic. It was just an old Mustang. Perhaps the thing that set him apart from most men was the care he put into the things he invested in. Peter's car would probably be around for another ten years. He believed in maintaining valuable things. Even friendships.

He climbed out of the car and rounded to open her door. Emille panicked. Suppose he intended to carry her into the house? She couldn't stand another moment of him struggling not to wheeze. She scrambled out of the car before he could get to her door, and struggled to her feet, fighting the urge to wince and cry out in pain. Her palms and upper lip dampened with sweat. Desperately, Emille clutched her purse closer.

"Thanks for the ride, Peter. I really appreciate it," she said, limping past him, pretending to ignore the way he was glaring at her.

Peter followed her to the door. "I'll check on you in the morning."

She was unlocking the door, so her back was turned to him. "Alright. Drive safely."

Chapter 5

Last night, when Peter had said he would check on her in the morning, Emille had thought he'd meant he would call. She hadn't anticipated the knock on her door. Of course she was up and about because it was Thursday. A workday. She'd called in to the office and explained that she'd had an accident. Apparently, Jeff had called some people from work and told them about what happened, because by the time she'd called her boss, Junior Orson, was up to date on everything. Thankfully, her boss agreed that she could work from the comfort of her home via the computer for the rest of the week.

Also, while Emille hadn't forgotten about her car, she'd assumed that Peter would drop it off later in the morning, giving her time to get some work in before she went to see her doctor. Most nights he and Jackson didn't leave the restaurant until well after two o'clock. Jack usually was the one who returned at six to collect the produce, and Peter surfaced at noon to start on any work needing to be done until Jack came in at two in the afternoon. It was like a well greased engine over there, but they put in some long, strange hours.

Peter knocked on the door three times by the time Emille was able to open it. Her hair was still knotted on top of her head. Raccoon eyes and flushed pink skin told the tale that she had not followed the golden rule of good grooming by washing off the night's makeup before going to bed. She didn't care. This was Peter. He'd never really look at her anyway. Peter's kind of woman didn't flush. She glowed. And if she fell asleep with mascara on, she didn't wake up looking like an overweight strawberry skull. She woke up with smoky eyes.

"Yes. I survived the night," she grumpily announced by way of greeting. Who wouldn't be grumpy when someone showed up at their door at seven in the morning looking like Mr. Sunshine? He was even wearing an eye-burning neon yellow t-shirt. And the damn shirt had the audacity to look good on him.

"Mornin'. I brought your car."

Emille took a good look at him and wished she hadn't. He was dressed for a run. He couldn't have had more than six hours of sleep, but here he was... ready to go for a run. Who does that? she wondered silently. "You need a ride?" she asked instead.

Peter shook his head. "No. I'd planned to do six miles this morning anyway. It's only seven back to my place."

It would take him just over a half an hour if he was feeling lazy. "Need some water, or something?" She already knew the answer.

"No. I'll be fine," he answered. He turned to leave, but changed his mind and didn't step away. "How's your ankle doing?"

Emille stuck her foot out and did the wiggle test. "Sore. But I think it's just a sprain."

Concerned, he frowned at her foot. "What's your pain level?"

Emille smiled at that. "You know me, Peter. I'm either in pain, or I'm not." It wasn't that she was tough. Au contraire. When it came to pain, Emille was a total wimp. A pinprick was a ten as far as she was concerned. She might bite her lip and endure in silence, but any kind of pain was always bad pain.

"Did you take any painkillers?" Typical Peter, he maintained a serious expression as he asked about her health.

"Yes. And yes they worked. The next set should kick in in about another minute. Ooh!" Emille stuck a finger into the air. "There we go. Pain gone."

He chuckled at her humor. "That's good to know, but I really would prefer it if you saw a doctor."

It was her time to sober. "Look. About the table..." She couldn't stop the blush that stole into her cheeks at just the memory of the night before. "And everything else I broke. Just send me the bill and I'll pay to have it replaced."

Peter rolled his eyes at her. "Em. It's not like you had a bar fight. It was an accident. It could have happened to anybody."

"But it didn't happen to anybody," she whispered. "It happened to me."

"You're right. It happ-end. End of story." Peter took two steps toward the stairs then seemed to think better of it. He backtracked, and Emille - thinking he'd changed his mind about the water - stepped back from the doorway on the wrong foot. Her ankle buckled beneath her and Peter was there at once, keeping her upright. "I was just going to kiss you goodbye," he explained.

It wasn't strange that he'd come back to do something like that. Some of the habits he'd developed while living in Europe and Latin America had remained. He was very good about kissing his friends on their cheeks, and sometimes on the backs of their hands. Even the guys might merit a kiss on the cheek whenever they hadn't seen each other for a while. She tilted her face expectantly.

And was promptly kissed on the lips.

It lasted less than a second. Just long enough for her to respond by leaning into him. Then he was jogging down her front steps and down the street like a disappearing act in slow motion. Less than a second was all it took for him to kiss her lips. But it was hours before she could decide what to make of the gesture.

Maybe he'd kissed her on the lips because they were close friends and the fall had upset him. It was probably his way of showing he cared. Why else would Peter change up his M.O.? It wasn't like he was interested in her in that way. She wasn't his type, and Emille knew her place better than anyone.

Didn't she pass her reflection in the mirror every time she went into the bathroom for a shower? And didn't' she catch a glimpse of it during the time it took for her to step out of the shower and attempt to wrap as much of her body as she could into a towel that was made for someone half her size? Peter wouldn't kiss a girl like her with anything but friendship in mind.

With one last slap against the fall of belly that the split in the towel failed to conceal, Emille went about preparing for a trip to the doctor to check out her ankle, followed by a workday at home.

Chapter 6

Jack had stopped by the apartment to pick Peter up that morning. They'd arranged it the night before. Peter would pick up Emille's car at the restaurant and deliver it to her, just in case she was crazy enough to want to go to work on a sprained ankle. Or in case she was smart enough to have wanted to have said ankle checked out by a medical professional. As far as Peter was concerned, Jack's animal husbandry skills were not reliable for establishing an accurate diagnosis.

As he pounded the pavement back to his apartment, he couldn't seem to get Emille out of his thoughts. It was good that she was stepping back into the dating arena. Her self-esteem had started going south as her weight increased, and she'd retreated more and more from romantic entanglements. Any entanglements really. It was the same way she'd retreated from wearing high heels and dressing up. He hoped what happened the night before wouldn't sour her for dating again.

His first memory of Emille played through his mind. It was the day she'd come in to apply for a secretarial job at Orson and Son. Peter was on his way back to his office when he'd spotted her standing in front of the receptionist's desk. It was taking the receptionist over a half an hour to 'deliver' Junior's morning coffee, and everyone knew it would be another half hour before she was done.

Peter had taken one look at the tall woman in the sexy black suit and promptly redirected himself to the front desk. Any woman who could make such a mannish style look so very feminine was worth his attention.

"Good morning. My name is Peter Anjou," he'd said. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Hello. I'm Emille Carter," she'd replied pleasantly. "Kyle Orson, Junior invited me to come in and fill out a job application."

Peter's brows had risen at that. He'd given Emille a thorough once over. Junior didn't usually go for brunettes. Neither did Peter, usually. Not that he had a preference. But Emille's hair would make any man take a second look, even fifteen years later. It was thick, and lush, and... very, very decadent. And in the years since their first meeting, the very scent of it had never failed to grasp his attention. Peppermint was his favorite herb for a reason.

That day, her dark hair was pulled into a French roll, revealing the sexiest little curls at her nape and above her ears. Her brows were thick, but perfectly shaped to accentuate her bright, brown eyes. She was a classic beauty - not the kind that you'd find in magazines. But all that hair set her apart from other women. Emille's beauty was more lasting than a model's. It was the kind of beauty that would never be called cute, or pretty. It was a beauty that evolved into stunning, then striking as she aged.

The fact that all that had topped one of the tallest, curviest, most Amazonian figures he'd ever seen was what had compelled Peter to change his course in the first place. It wasn't every day that a man of his stature found a woman that he could look directly in the face. She was wearing black pumps that made her an inch or two taller than him. And he'd loved it. At six feet and five inches tall, it was rare to find anyone, especially a woman who matched his height. Peter loved nothing more than seeing a tall woman in high heels. Emille was lush to his leanness. But what a lush it was. She wasn't a woman who would ever be able to wear a man's shirt successfully. The women in his life seemed to think it was sexy for them to put on his shirts after making love. Emille would bust out of that shirt at the chest and the hips. Though her legs went on for miles, her hips were curved like a woman's hips should be. That was the day that Peter had become convinced that in order to create perfection like Emille Carter God must surely be male.

Up until that moment, he'd been convinced that tall women came only in one shape. Straight. And that those same tall women wore only one height of shoes. Flat. Until he'd met Emille, he hadn't even known he had a definite preference for tall, shapely women who wore heels that made them taller than him. She'd unknowingly created a fetish for him.

He remembered thinking that if Emille was Junior's latest swing, then it was probably a good thing that Michelle was delivering his coffee. The receptionist would have taken one look at Emille and sent her packing. She wouldn't get the job, and he wouldn't get a chance to ask her out. Thinking back on it now, it was definitely a good thing, because fifteen years later, Michelle was now the ex-wife and bane of Kyle Orson, Junior's existence.

Thinking Junior had gotten to her first, Peter changed his mind about approaching her with interest. He'd ended up cracking a few jokes as he'd helped her through the application process, and had allowed himself to be my-friend-ized.

It was definitely good that things had worked out that way. It turned out Emille wasn't involved with Junior. Their relationship had been strictly business. A few of the guys at the firm had cast their lines in her direction, but Em had never bitten. She was a pretty private person. Peter had just assumed she was private about her relationships. It wasn't until a few years into their friendship that he'd finally broached the topic in a roundabout way.

A few of the guys in the office had been teasing him about his Sunday ritual, and Emille had boldly confessed that she was the only child of an avid angler so she saw nothing wrong with a man who preferred to spend his Sunday mornings on his boat. With a tongue in cheek expression, she'd suggested that she probably had more experience handling a rod than all of them in the office combined. The guys had guffawed about it, but Peter had taken her seriously. That afternoon, he'd stopped by her office and invited her to join him on his boat the next Sunday morning, providing her boyfriend didn't object. She'd graciously accepted his offer, explaining that there was no one in her life to object.

The following Sunday, Peter had waited for her to arrive, fully intending to try his luck with her over the course of the day. But, when Emille had arrived at the boat equipped for business, and had spent the rest of the morning proving her worth as a fishing companion, he'd kept his mouth shut. She was so casual about being alone with him, there was obviously no interest there other than friendship. Why rock the boat? Right?

It was all just as well anyway. If he'd made a move on her back then, he'd have missed out on what had turned out to be a very close friendship. His first and only with a woman.

Then there was the fact that for whatever reason, Emille wasn't happy with herself. And it had shown in the way she'd - well, for lack of a better term - let herself go. It had been a slow, painful process for her as well as those who cared about her. It had gotten to the point where if one of the guys didn't call her up and invite her out, Emille wouldn't leave her home for anything but work, grocery shopping, or to pay her bills. It was like she stopped expecting men to find her attractive, and subsequently, she'd stopped going to the effort of dressing attractively. Oh, her grooming was impeccable, but she was one head-piece away from a full on burqa.

Eventually, she'd started getting a lot of criticism about her size. Because he'd wanted to be a good friend and offer her support, Peter had never mentioned anything to her about the weight gain. Instead, he'd tried to engage her in all sorts of activities. She'd gone hiking with him a few times early on. And had even tried kayaking before deciding to skip all activities but fishing. Peter was a very physical man. He'd never vomited a day in his life because of physical exertion. Emille was wheezing and spitting in five minutes of brisk hiking. At the time, he hadn't understood that Emille wasn't just a woman trying to keep up with him. Emille was a very unfit woman trying to keep up with a very active man. By the time he'd understood that, he'd blown any chances of getting her to trust him to help her manage her weight.

A part of him believed she wouldn't have appreciated the help. Even now, she was more concerned with the criticism than she was with her own welfare. Unless that changed... unless she learned to be happy with the woman she was, she would never want his help. Nor would she be willing to try to help herself.

He was almost home.

Why did I kiss her? he asked himself for the thousandth time since he'd left her house.

He'd kissed her before. On her neck. On her hair. On her hands. On her cheeks. Her temples. Everywhere but her lips. People kissed their friends on the mouth all the time. But her lips were off limits for some reason. After the scare she'd given him last night, he'd needed to show her he cared. Though his intention had been to kiss her temple, somehow his focus had lowered to her mouth, and it happened.

She'd been shocked too! Shocked enough to kiss him back instinctively. Then her eyes had opened, and she'd seen it was him at the other end of that kiss. Emille's startled expression had been enough to send him bolting. He should have apologized. They were friends and he didn't want her to start thinking there was more there than there really was. He wasn't attracted to her in that way. Emille was his fishing buddy. She was his buffer when he needed a date who didn't have any expectations of him. It wasn't often. But, there were events that a man simply preferred not to take the woman he was dating to. His college graduation. His grandmother's funeral. His mother's wedding. And so on.

He'd just play it off the next time he saw her. She didn't plan on fishing with him this Sunday, so it would be another week before he saw her again. Unless, of course, he stopped by to check up on her. He could play it cool, and they'd get past that awkward stage all the sooner.

He was still trying to convince himself to play it cool when he arrived at work a few hours later, and saw Emille's leopard print pump lying on top of his desk. Jack must have put it there after they'd cleaned up the table last night. His self-appointed feat became nigh on impossible as his gaze kept wandering to the slim, red heel of her shoe. He was in trouble. There were certain things that made certain women irresistible to certain men. Whatever his Achilles' heel was, Emille had possessed it in spades back when they'd first met. The handwriting was there on the wall for all... well... ehem! The shoe was on the desk for anyone who cared to see. If Emille was remembering what it was like to be the most beautiful woman in the world, he was in big trouble.

Chapter 7

It was an entire month before Peter saw her again. For weeks after the accident, Emille avoided him. Maybe it wasn't him, per se. But Peter took it personally. He'd gone to the apartment to see her, but Emille had skipped town that first weekend.

Fine. She'd said she had plans. And he knew that every now and again she went home to visit her family.

It wasn't until she failed to show up for dinner the following Wednesday night that Peter had decided something was up. Every time he called her, the phone went to voicemail. Finally, she'd picked up the phone the Saturday night before he had expected her to return to their normal fishing schedule. As if she was talking to a stranger, Emille had coolly informed him that she would be "too busy to recreate" with him in the near future.

Who the hell says stuff like that? 'Too busy to recreate' my...

He hadn't seen or heard from her since. She wasn't even coming in for dinner on Wednesdays. Emille was an important part of his life, and suddenly she was acting like she'd lost all common sense the night of the fall.

Frustrated, Peter decided to mail her shoe to her. That would get a reaction out of her.

Emille immediately responded by mailing him the rent check.

That hurt. The house she lived in was one of a few that he managed personally. Emille had always paid her rent the last Wednesday of every month - in person. Peter paid the lawn care company to look after the grounds, but he usually took care of any problems with the building itself. Emille hadn't complained about any issues with the building, so he couldn't very well barge into her home. And he couldn't complain about the fact that she'd mailed him the check after he'd initiated it all by mailing her shoe in the first place.

Whatever was going on with her, it was time for it to end.

Peter didn't know what he'd been expecting. All he knew was that when he did manage to hunt her down, he'd been deflated. He hadn't even known he'd had expectations that could be disappointed.

He was sitting on her front porch when she pulled into the driveway. Emille sat in the car for a good five minutes, just staring at him through the tinted windshield. He maintain his relaxed pose on her front steps as he stared right back. The Mexican standoff would have been amusing if they weren't both deathly serious. Finally, she climbed out of the car and pulled an overnight bag from the backseat.

His quick gaze took in everything. From the tired drag of her feet across the concrete walkway, to the slump in her shoulders, and the limp lidded look she was giving him. She looked different. Exhausted, certainly. But there was something else there that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

She was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. He was seeing her knees. Maybe that was it. For years, Emille's idea of shorts was capris. Idly, he noted that her legs were nicely toned. Except for that one detail, she really looked like hell.

"How long have you been sitting here?" Emille asked as she drew closer.

"Long enough," he said, standing to follow her inside.

She tossed her purse into a magazine rack beside the door and kept moving. "Grab me a mineral water, will you?"

Peter went into the kitchen and took a couple of bottles from the refrigerator. He sighed heavily when he saw what was inside the fridge. Or wasn't. As far as he was concerned, an empty refrigerator was a tragedy. Emille had sandwich fixings, a takeaway container from a seafood chain restaurant, one from a Chinese place, and half of a rotting lettuce. The rest of the space was taken up with water, mineral water, and tonic water, and a well aged bottle of tequila sitting in the vegetable chiller. She was a great cook, but years ago - when he'd first told her about wanting to switch careers - Emille had mentioned that while growing up her family had eaten out almost every night. He guessed the habit stuck.

He startled when her voice asked, "Why are you standing there staring into my fridge?"

A wry smile twisted his lips as he turned to face her. "You've got to do better than this, Em."

Her gaze darted to the refrigerator and back to his face. "What do you care?" she asked defensively. "As long as I continue to spend my money at The Mark you don't need to worry about my eating habits."

His brows bounced automatically before he resumed a neutral expression. Somehow, he'd managed to get himself on thin ice. "Is that what you really think?" he asked quietly.

She rolled her eyes and took her beverage from his hands. Her dining at The Mark wasn't about the money and they both knew it. It was about friendship. Jack and Peter were her friends, so the restaurant had become her favorite dining establishment. It was the one place in this city where she could go and be sure that she'd bump into other friends. Every now and again, Jack's sister Claudia and her best friend Marcia showed up and they'd share a table. When David had business in Austin, he'd make arrangements for Wednesday, because he knew Emille would be there. And whenever Ryce was in town, there was always a dinner at the Mark with her and all the guys. The fact that the food was great was a bonus, but Emille rarely ate off the menu because Peter always had something special planned for her. Half the time, he didn't even charge her for her meals. Her accusation was unfair, but Emille wasn't about to recant it.

Peter was relentless. His eyes narrowed on her. "Answer me, Em. Tell me again why I care about you?"

She couldn't stand that look. The way he gave her his full attention when she wanted anything but. It made her nervous. What did she do when she was nervous? Laugh things away.

"Look, Peter," she said with a wide, happy smile. "You're not obligated to care about me, so chillax on the stress. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

It wasn't his place to keep pestering her. He didn't want to pester her in the first place, but... The truth was, Peter didn't know why he'd come over this afternoon. He took a sip of his water.

There was an awkward silence as she seemed to be waiting for him to say something to her. He came up with zip. That kiss was already affecting their relationship and if he didn't address it, it would become an issue. Because of it, there was tension between them. He hadn't even been able to greet her in the usual fashion.

"Em," Peter said.

"Actually," she overrode him. "I have a favor to ask you."

A favor? She wants something from me? He relaxed because it wasn't every day she asked for favors. 'What can I do for you?" Nervously, she licked her lips. Inadvertently, she launched Peter's thoughts back to the kiss. Why was he thinking so much about something so innocent?

"With Crossfit... is there any way to start small?"

He frowned. She was looking at him as if she expected him to lash out at any moment. "Yeah," he said slowly. "It's just exercise. You start at whatever fitness level you're at."

"I can't even do five jumping jacks." Not if she wanted to avoid her breasts smacking her in the face.

Peter was ready for this. It had taken him years to realize how he'd messed up in his initial efforts to get Emille active. She'd needed to be in the right frame of mind to approach weight loss. And he'd needed to start at her level instead of trying to drag her along on his. He had regretted his ignorance ever since. Back then, Emille had been unable to walk a half-hour mile. But, he'd dragged her along on a five mile hiking trip because it had seemed an easy trip to him. Until he'd involved himself in her fitness, Emille hadn't been afraid of exercising.

"I have a friend at the gym," he said. "She's a trainer. Why don't I give you her number? She'll have a better understanding of what you need." He wrote Portia's phone number on a pad on the refrigerator.

"Another favor?" she asked hesitantly.

He didn't like this tentative thing she had going. One of the reasons he liked being around Emille was because she was always the one bold enough to say what was on her mind. She was the life of the party. The outgoing, verbose person that people gravitated to because of her sunny soul.

"Anything," he promised.

"You know that extra membership you have?"

"At the gym?" he asked. When she nodded, he said, "It's yours." It probably was hers. He could have given it to any number of people over the years, but a part of him had held on to it just in case Emille ever showed any interest in joining a gym.

"Thank you," she said on a rushed breath. "What do I need to do to activate it?"

He was already writing on the pad again. "There's my membership number. Give it to Portia when you meet with her, and she'll see to it that you're squared away."

"Thanks you," she said, taking the pad from him.

Peter covered her hand. "I've got to get going," he said. He had a date tonight, but for some reason he didn't want to tell her about it. He wouldn't have thought twice about giving her the details about Katie before, but he was now realizing that Emille wasn't one of the guys. She was something else entirely, and that made him want to treat her differently. Only, he didn't know how. "Call Portia. She's not your typical trainer. She knows how to get you where you want to go because she's taken the same road."

Chapter 8

It was another two months before Peter saw her again. This time, he didn't lose patience because they spoke on the phone at least twice a week. He didn't like the idea that she'd stopped dining at the steakhouse, but if she was on a fitness kick, it was probably best that she took her own nutrition in hand.

She'd taken his advice and gone to see Portia at the Crossfit center. According to Portia, she'd done measurements and tests to ascertain Emille's body fat percentage, her build, and her current fitness level in order to establish a realistic and attainable set of goals. Emille was already sixty pounds lighter, a testament to her efforts. But she wasn't the one who'd told him of her progress. In fact, all his attempts to steer their conversations in that direction were met with two sharp right turns.

He wasn't even witnessing it for himself. Emille worked out at home in the mornings, and at the gym at nights. Since the restaurant was open five nights a week, Peter tended to do his own workouts mid-morning. Very rarely did he go to the center during the evenings, and he'd need a pretty good excuse to start now.

Emille was enough of a reason. The last time she'd been sixty pounds lighter was what... five years ago? He wasn't even sure what she'd looked like at the time.

That Monday evening, Peter found himself at the gym by six o'clock. She wasn't there yet. It was dark out, and he briefly wondered if the change in seasons would have an impact on Emille's resolution to transform her health. Then he dismissed the idea. Portia had said Emille worked out like a woman on a mission. She'd be fine.

So fine in fact, that when he chanced to take a look at the woman powering it out on the treadmill seven places over, Peter missed his footing and slipped off the conveyor. It was only his height, ergo his reach, that saved him from a disastrous fall.

Thankfully, she was so deeply focused on her workout that she didn't see his reaction to her transformation. Not wanting to make her uncomfortable, Peter unclipped the key and backed away. From the safety of the lifting area, he observed her. Emille was in her zone. This was the second floor, and she was staring out the window into the night. She wore her favorite pair red and gold d.j. headphones. She'd won them from Ryce in a poker game. They cancelled out the noise, and fit so snugly over her ears that you couldn't hear any sound escaping. But Peter knew their secret, and he smiled because of it. Most likely Emille was listening to her music at deafening decibels. He didn't need to hear it to know, she was listening to country or rock. Or maybe the mashup that Ryce had become famous for.

She was dressed in a baggy black t-shirt and capris. But he could see that her efforts had paid off big time. Her shoulders were sharper, and she looked taller and leaner. He couldn't keep the grin off his face. It was all he could do to keep his focus on his own workout. Emille had even gone to the extent of investing in a pair of running shoes to match her headphones. Who would have thought? The thick length of her ponytail bounced with the rhythm of her steps. For the hour that it took him to work through the weights section of the gym, Emille stayed on that treadmill, pausing only long enough to take a sip or two from her water bottle. It was a far cry from the days when she couldn't even walk a mile. When it looked like she was ready to begin the circuits, Peter left the gym. He'd already been there that day. This was her time, and he didn't want to do anything that would break her focus. When he took last look at her over his shoulder, she was working through a set of lunges.

Right on cue, she called him a few days later.

"Hey, stranger," he answered.

"Hey there yourself," she replied cheerfully. "How're you doin'?"

"Ain't no sunshine when you're gone," he sang in his baritone.

She sucked her teeth. "You are so funny."

"I'm so serious," Peter confessed. "It's been what... two months? I miss you." He lived right down the road from her, but between his work schedule and her hours at the gym, it wasn't as if he could just drop in on her."

"It hasn't been two months."

"Just about. I know. I've been counting the Sundays and Wednesdays."

"That's what I'm calling about," she said. "Can you come over when you get a chance? I want to talk to you about something."

It was Friday night. She wouldn't be going in to work tomorrow. "How about I come over after work?"

Emille snorted. She actually snorted at him. "Don't you know, Peter? Casual arrangements between midnight and four are booty calls."

He laughed out loud at that. "So, you're calling me for some booty?" he asked provocatively.

"I'm calling you to arrange a conversation," she said levelly.

Still, he could imagine the expression on her face - that tightlipped way she tried to not smile. It was what kept a smile on his face. He'd missed this. An unhappy woman was a miserable thing. Not that Emille was miserable, or made him miserable. Just, when she wasn't happy, the part of him that wanted her laughing all the time was... well, that part of him was miserable. Truth be told, he felt like he'd just come up from a long dive.

"It just so happens that you're most alert during the booty call hours. And I did not ask you to come by during said hours. You offered."

"Well, darlin'," he drawled flirtatiously, "you're just gonna have to take me when you can get me. I won't have any free time for the next couple of weeks."

"You're fishing this Sunday?" she asked.

"Leave the porch light on. I'll be there in about an hour," he told her, avoiding her question. The restaurant was almost cleaned and closed.

"I can meet you out on the boat on-"

"I'll be there in an hour," he said. He was excited at the prospect of seeing her for the 'first' time since she'd begun working out.

"Be where?"

"Beware? Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why should I beware?"

"I was asking where you planned to be." This conversation was getting strange.

"Chillax, Em," he chuckled. "I was just messing with you. I'll be at your place in an hour."

"You're in a strange mood tonight," she said uncertainly. "Alright. I'll see you when I see you."

Emille didn't know what to do with herself. She wanted to look her best. This was the first time he would be seeing her in a month. At the time she'd lost twenty-five pounds, but they weren't noticeable. Sixty-five pounds was a hugely noticeable difference. It wasn't much, considering her goal. She was still fat, but there was some definition in her arms. The cellulite wasn't so bad. She had some loose skin, but no one could accuse her of looking like she was pregnant any more. She winced at the memory of the woman in the grocery store, who had actually reached out and rubbed her belly four years before. Some things just stuck in a girl's mind, and that incident had haunted her.

Positive thoughts, Em. Positive thoughts.

She wouldn't dress up. She didn't want him to think she had a crush on him or anything like that. It might make things awkward between them. Awkward like it had gotten after the kiss. Best she just act normally and save herself the embarrassment if he failed to notice any changes in her body. It was late, after all. Peter wouldn't expect her to be wearing anything but her pajamas anyway. And it wasn't like she could lay around in a peignoir waiting for him - not that she owned one.

The knock on her front door came almost an hour later exactly.

She opened the door to Peter. "Hey."

For long moments, he just stood there, staring at her with a strange light in his eyes as his gaze roved over her. A proud little smirk appeared on his lips as he presented her with a small to-go box from Jackson's Mark.

"I made this for you," he said, handing her the box.

"What is it?" she asked, locking the door behind him.

His grin said it all.

Crushed, Emille tried to pretend she wasn't absolutely horrified by his offering. She popped open the container, and sure enough, it contained a selection of her all-time favorite desserts. Peter was an extraordinary chef, but he had one particular specialty. Mignardises. He was always looking for an excuse to create the tiny pastries.

Peter must have noticed the change in her expression because he hastened to explain himself. "Each one is only around eighty calories. I tweaked the recipes to make them healthier and it was a hit," he announced proudly. "Jack and I are thinking about making most of the dishes on the menu healthier."

"That's nice," she said weakly. "But, Peter. I can't accept this."

He sobered instantly. "Why not?"

Emille felt hunted as she sought for a way to escape having to answer him. "Suffice it to say, that though I appreciate the thought, I cannot accept this." She tried to hand it back to him.

Peter ignored her. She was the one who had inspired him to go and revise the wheel in the first place. What the hell was she talking about now?

Emille really hated it when he looked at her that way. "Stop glaring at me like that!" she snapped.

His expression became the definition of neutrality. "I wasn't aware that I was glaring at you," he said formally.

"And don't get all cold on me either."

Peter rolled his eyes. Apparently nothing he did tonight was going to please her. "I'll stop whatever I'm doing to annoy you, if you tell me why you can't take the pastries."

"Oh! Fine!" She threw her hand up in the air, careful not to toss the petit fours around in the box. There was no point in ruining such pretty desserts. "I'm on a very strict diet. I have to learn better eating habits. You know I've been trying to lose weight. Yet the first thing you bring me after not seeing each other for months is dessert?" Emille folded her arms across her chest. "How thoughtful of you," she said wryly.

She probably expected him to apologize. Instead, what she got was a thoroughly ticked off Peter. He was back to glaring at her. "Thoughtful? Yes! I put a lot of thought into making your favorite things diet friendly. So pardon me if I don't see why you can't eat my cooking any more."

Emille jerked her head back in surprise. Is he hurt? "Peter, it's not your cooking that-"

"You stopped coming around." She was his biggest fan. He wanted her to pursue a healthier lifestyle, but Peter wasn't going to lie to himself. As much as he wanted the old Emille back - the Emille from fifteen years ago - he also wanted the Emille that he'd grown to love back. The simple fact was, if she wasn't around to eat, he didn't have anyone whom he wanted to cook for.

Her expression was sardonic as she baldly told him the truth. "Peter, I have no problems with your cooking. But, I am not setting foot inside that restaurant again unless I get to my goal weight. That's why I called you tonight. And as for the desserts," she waved her hands around in frustration. "I'm just not there yet. I have a hard enough time controlling myself with my meals."

He blinked. "I don't understand you."

She led him over to the living room and sat next to him on the sofa. "Peter," she began, licked her lips, settled her hands in her lap, then started over again. "Peter, I've lost sixty-five pounds." She waited for his reaction since he hadn't noticed it himself.

He nodded. "I've noticed. You look nice."

That was the highest praise she was likely to get out of him. So, Emille didn't allow herself to feel bad that he wasn't going on about her transformation. "The problem is, I've plateaued. Portia and I have upped my cardio, and increased my strength training, but I'm not losing the weight as quickly as I was when I first started out."

"What do you mean?"

"I started out losing ten pounds a week, then seven. Now, I'm down to five."

Peter stilled. "Five pounds a week is a lot of weight, Em."

She was shaking her head even before he'd finished. "Only five pounds this month, Peter. It's not enough," she said in a small voice. "Peter, I've been fat all my life. And all I want for my birthday this year is to look in the mirror and not be ashamed of what I see."

He pulled her into his arms. "You've got nothing to be ashamed of." Despite her attempts to push away, he held firm.

"It's hard to believe that. Especially coming from a man who's never struggled with his weight a day in his life."

"I struggle with my weight every day," he admitted. It was hard enough trying to keep the weight on when he wasn't training. It was even worse when he was in training. Peter had to consume ridiculous amounts of calories just so he could look healthy. To maintain his current muscle mass, he sometimes had to force himself to eat. Most women didn't find extremely thin men attractive, and Emille was just like the rest of them. How many times had he heard her gushing over heavily built muscular men?

The only time he'd ever gotten a reaction out of her was that first Sunday morning when she'd joined him fishing. They'd gone out on the water at dawn, but as the sun had risen with the temperature, Peter had stripped out of his shirt. He'd been twenty-five at the time. In the prime of his life. Emille had taken one look at him, then slowly - as if she was in a trance \- she'd stretched out her hands to cover his abdomen. A shiver coursed through his body at just the memory of how he'd reacted to the way her fingers had trailed over each taut muscle. Mistakenly, he'd believed that something had started in that moment. But Emille had swiftly extinguished whatever flame of attraction had been kindled. She'd patted his stomach and said, "Nice abs, Peter. Didn't know you had all that under your clothes." He'd worked hard to maintain that body ever since, but no matter how many Sunday mornings she'd spent with him shirtless, she'd never said another word about his physique.

"Emille, I understand where you're coming from," he said. "If I ate according to the prescribed standards, I'd be emaciated."

"You work out like a fiend," she pointed out.

"I overeat to bulk up. Lift to build muscle. And run to trim down. If I want to look healthy, I have to work hard for it." Gently, he brushed her hair back from her face. "Not everyone's built the same way. You may have to work harder than most to slim down, but you've come a long way. And you have achieved great results."

"I'm still over two hundred and sixty pounds," she complained.

"And next month, you'll be two hundred and fifty something pounds," he pointed out. "That's a far cry from over three hundred."

She sighed, and because his guard was down, she was able to escape his embrace. "Peter, you'll never understand. Men don't find women over one fifty attractive. So, even though it feels good to be in this moment, where I've lost all this weight, I'm still looking at over a hundred pounds that need to go."

"One fifty? That's your goal? You think you'd look good at that weight? I'd believe that if you were built like most women, Emille," he said with a bored expression.

Defeated, she sat forward on the sofa in mulish silence.

He tugged on her ponytail. Emille was dressed in her pajamas. It was white linen shorts and a white camisole. They were far too big for her. He'd even noticed that the tight yoga pants she'd started out wearing to the gym now fit like baggy sweats. It was probably time she downsized her clothes, but he wasn't about to say anything to her. She really did have a nice pair of legs though. Strong. Long. Robust. It would be nice to see her running on the treadmill in shorts. Her arms were toning up nicely as well. Those he couldn't remember ever seeing, unless she was dressed for bed. Em's arms and shoulders were on lockdown for most of their association. Then there were her breasts. She could lose everything else, but Peter was definitely in favor of her keeping the breasts.

She wasn't nearly as far from perfect as she thought. But, he couldn't tell her that. Emille wouldn't believe him. Not yet anyway.

"By the way. How tall are you?" he asked, reaching for the container of mignardises.

"Six-two," she answered, eyeing him as he disappeared into the kitchen.

"What goal did Portia give you?"

Emille heard cupboards opening and the door to the microwave being slammed shut. "One eighty to one ninety."

"And you want to weigh one fifty?"

"Not exactly. One forty-five." She proceeded to explain, "If I weigh one forty-five and I put on a few pounds, I can stop myself at one fifty and get things back under control."

The microwave dinged. A few minutes later, Peter returned to the living room with two cups of coffee, a knife, and a small plate bearing the four desserts. After setting everything down on the coffee table, Peter began to slice the desserts into two portions.

"So," he announced once he was done. "You called me over here to tell me that you're being unreasonable?"

"It's not unreasonable."

"Em, you'll look like a stick at that weight," he said with much longsuffering.

She blinked at him as if he was stating the obvious. "Don't try to tell me you're not attracted to sticks, Peter. I've seen you in action. Remember?"

"Wrong. I like tall women." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and popped a piece of chocolate raspberry tart into his mouth. "Thirty-five calories."

She looked at the plate and the coffee. Peter's cup had milk in it. He probably had sugar too. Hers was just black. "You don't like fat women though."

"I doubt there's a man alive that likes women who aren't fit. If a woman's not fit, the sex suffers. I'm an active man, Em. In bed and out of it."

Emille decided then and there that the conversation was getting out of hand. So, to avoid being responsible for responding to his comment, she turned on the television.

Wickedly, he grinned at her as he ate the larger piece of chocolate cream éclair. He chuckled to himself when her eyes flared in outrage, but she didn't say a word about it. He pointed to the remaining piece. "Fifty calories. You can save the rest for lunch tomorrow," he suggested. "Together, they should be somewhere around one hundred."

Tragically, Emille shook her head. She didn't need to look at the white chocolate and black cherry bavarois with its little sail of brandy snap tuile. Honestly, she admitted, "It won't make it until the morning."

Peter kissed her on the cheek. More accurately, he laughed against her face. "It's a good thing it's already morning then," he said.

"Don't ever do this to me again," she said in a small voice.

Her tone got his attention. He didn't like to hear her speaking like this - as if he'd taken her world and violently crushed it under his feet. "Are you serious, Em?" he asked quietly, a frown lining his brows.

Her lashes lowered. "Peter, I'm serious about this." She set her face in a mulish expression. "I need help planning my meals, and I thought that I could ask you as my friend to help me, but I see now that I can't trust you."

Peter was hurt by her announcement. She couldn't trust him? Their whole friendship was based on trust. Em had never failed to have his back - until recently. And now that she'd explained her intention to return to The Mark once she reached her goal, he wasn't so upset about her putting her visits to the restaurant on pause. But this? How could she accuse him of being untrustworthy?

"Peter," she continued, "you are the only person I know who can help me. I need you. I need you to care about my health as much as I do. This is not just about being pretty for me."

"I care, Em," he said defensively.

"I know you do, Peter," she whispered, turning at last to face him. "But right now, I need you to care about me more than you ever have before. I'm diabetic, Peter."

Chapter 9

The room suddenly became silent, as if they'd both stopped breathing. After she'd injured her ankle, her doctor had run some tests and given her the diagnosis. Emille wouldn't quite meet his eyes.

In a low, hoarse voice, he said, "You never said anything."

"I didn't want you to know." She'd convinced herself that her weight wouldn't be so embarrassing as long as she wasn't diabetic. Once she'd been diagnosed, Emille had decided to take control of her life. That table represented more than just... It was a turning point in her life.

"When did you find out?"

She couldn't tell him. "A few months ago."

"A few months ago, when?" he pushed.

"Will you help me?" she asked instead of answering his direct questioning.

"You just asked me to care more," he reminded her. "Now, answer my question. When did you get this diagnosis? Was it before the accident?"

Refusing to answer his questions was appealing, but if she was asking for his help, it was only fair that she give a full disclosure. "The next day my back was hurting, so I went to see my doctor. He decided to check me for it, and voila."

His eyes grew wider and wider the more she talked. "And you didn't tell me?" he almost shouted.

"I didn't want you to know."

"Me, Em?" Peter asked, incredulous. "Who else do you have in this city to call if anything happens to you?" She had Jack, and Nate, but they weren't him. He'd known her longer. She was his friend. "Are you kidding me right now? Cause if you are, I'm telling you, your joke sucks."

"I wouldn't joke about something like this," she said, hurt.

Peter thrust himself back against the sofa and ran his hands over his face. "Someday, Emille Carter," he sighed, "you're going to be the death of me."

She didn't say, I'm sorry. If she had it to do over again, she probably wouldn't have told him. But he'd brought desserts. As far as she was concerned he might as well have told her she'd never be healthy again. His intentions might have been good in reducing the calories per serving, but all she heard was the mockery of her efforts.

After long moments of silence, where he just sat there glaring at the back of her head, Emille felt him shift forward on the sofa. Out of her peripheral vision, she watched him rub his big palms over his knees a few times.

He couldn't believe it. It shouldn't come as such a shock to him, but nonetheless, he was shocked that something so huge had happened in Emille's life and she hadn't told him. He was furious that she'd let her health get so out of control that this had happened to her. And he was very much ashamed that he had done nothing to help her. He thought about all those fattening, sugary dishes he'd prepared for her; and how he hadn't bothered to care about her intake of calories and cholesterol until she'd taken an interest herself. He thought about how he'd judged her for choosing to stop dining at the restaurant once she decided to start exercising. And, he thought about the customers who bought meals from him. They didn't care that what they put into their bodies determined their wellbeing, but he knew, and as a professional, he was informed and should care. His gaze caught on the treats he'd tempted her with. Her favorites. Then, he thought about her resistance to the temptation.

Hesitantly, unsure whether his gesture would be welcomed or not, Peter extended his hands and covered her knuckles. When she made no effort to pull away, he closed his eyes in relief. Slowly, he brought her hands to his lips and pressed his lips against her knuckles.

"What do you need from me?" he breathed against her skin. He allowed a small smile to play at the corners of his lips.

"I need your support," she replied sincerely. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, blinking as if she was waking from a trance. "I need help with my weekly menu," Emille continued. "Portia and my doctor have worked out my dietary requirements, but it's so strict that I keep breaking it. The food isn't appealing, and the recipes are out of my budget. I've seen you turn a box of macaroni and a can of anchovies into gourmet fare." She waited for his wry smile. "I was hoping you could look at my list of approved foods, and we can work together on what I can afford, and create a meal plan that I can actually work with."

"Do you have the list?" he asked.

She was out of her seat like a shot, disappearing into the kitchen. Peter followed at a more sedate pace. He dumped the remainder of the desserts into the trash and washed up the plate. Meanwhile Emille pulled an enormous folder from the pantry and dropped it onto the table.

"More coffee?" Peter offered, though she hadn't touched her first cup.

"No," she shook her head. "I've got green tea in the fridge."

He opened the door to get it for her, and had to stop and stare.

"Do I have anything in there that you think I shouldn't have?" Emille asked over his shoulder.

The lower drawers of Emille's refrigerator were packed with fruits and vegetables. The shelves and even the door were filled with gallons and bottles of water as usual, and a jug of tea, but there wasn't a condiment in sight. He spotted eggs, and what looked like sliced turkey. Peter poured some tea from the jug then opened the freezer for some ice. Fruits and vegetables galore were bagged and stored in flat packages in the freezer. He dropped a few cubes into her glass and shook his head. "No, ma'am. I think you've made a really good start."

"I really appreciate your help, Peter," she said.

He deposited her glass on the table before shifting the stacks of clothing magazines that she had perpetually covering the table out of his way. They sat down together and got down to business.

Emille woke at noon the following day to the most delicious aroma filling her home. Her eyes flew open as she remembered that Peter had slept on her sofa after they'd finished working on her meal plan at dawn. With a groan, she rolled over and looked at the clock on her nightstand.

Eleven forty-two.

After brushing her teeth and washing the sleep from her eyes, Emille navigated her way to the kitchen expecting to find him there slaving over a hot stove. What she actually found made her laugh.

A yellow crock-pot that she hadn't remembered owning was bubbling near the sink. Next to it, pinned in place by brand new packages of storage containers and bags, was a note addressed to 'Em.' It held the recipe for chicken soup made with non-starchy vegetables. Apparently, soup was the easiest way for her to control her starch and fat intake while increasing her liquids. The crockpot held eight servings, so if she had too much, she'd know it when she: 'Freeze the leftovers into portions.' He must have gone out while she'd slept.

When Peter arrived at work later that day he was a man with a mission. Most of the food on the menu at The Mark were dishes that people like Emille could not eat without medication. Too many of those dishes were the reason why people ended up like Emille had.

"Rough night?" Jack asked laconically as he walked into the office at two.

Peter glanced up from his desk, but continued working. "I need to talk to you."

Jack threw himself into the chair across from his friend's desk. "Sounds serious."

"I am," Peter nodded.

"So, talk."

Peter's gaze was level as he closed his laptop and tented his fingers on the desk. "Em has diabetes." She'd probably kill him if she found out that he'd told Jackson.

Jack sat up straight. "That doesn't come as a surprise, Peter. Em is grossly overweight."

"She's not gross," he said in a tight, defensive voice.

Jack's look was enigmatic, but he said, "Fine. She's not gross. She's very overweight. What is she? Three hundred?"

It was Peter's turn to sit upright. "She's lost sixty-five pounds and counting."

"Emille?" Jackson asked. He was clearly shocked. A low whistle escaped him. "Is she-" he waved his finger through the air in a figure eight.

Peter knew what he was asking. It was the same thing he'd wondered when Portia had told him about Emille's success. Jack had known Emille back when too. He nodded. "It's coming back."

"It's been a while since I saw her. I should probably give her a call."

"You should probably give Marcia a call," Peter said specifically.

"Did you want to talk about Emille's diabetes?" Jack asked, redirecting the conversation. "Cause, if you're worried about that, her weightloss is sure to cure it."

"We're hoping," Peter admitted. "But no. What I wanted to tell you is that her diabetes got me thinking. He proceeded to explain his ideas to improve the quality of the foods served at the restaurant to Jackson, pushing forward the first draft of his proposed new menu.

Gravely, Jack considered the menu. After a few minutes he looked up and said, "You do know this is a steakhouse. Right?"

Peter opened his hands. "Is there anything on that menu that's not steakhouse friendly?"

Jack read the menu again. It took even longer for him to finish this time. "Can you tell me in all honesty that these changes won't affect business?" That was the bottom line, after all.

"No," Peter answered truthfully. "I'm not sure. I haven't researched it enough, but I know there are entire groups out there that can't come to The Mark because we are not dietetic enough."

"The kitchen is your domain," Jack replied. "The only thing I've got to tell you is that The Mark is a steakhouse. If you try to turn it into a green bar you and I will have words. We specialize in steaks," he waved his hand in the air negligently. "But we offer a bunch of healthy alternatives too."

Peter, who had leaned back in his chair with fingertips tapping a sequence while he listened halfheartedly to Jack shoot down the idea, looked up and froze. Though Peter was a major investor in the restaurant, it was still Jack's baby. Peter had put some cash and his love of cooking into the restaurant. Jack brought his life to the business every day. There was no time off for him. When Peter was fishing, Jack was working. It was only fair that the owner of The Mark, the man for which it was named, approve the changes.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Jackson shrugged. "I'm saying we could give it a try. But, if the guests don't take to it, we're going back to the old menu."

"Alright!" Peter laughed. He stood and extended his hand to Jack to shake. "Thanksgiving's coming up. We can try out a healthier menu then."

"Peter, the last thing anyone wants for Thanksgiving is tofu-turkey."

Peter pulled him in for a hug and a brotherly kiss on his cheek. "We'll see man. We'll see. If I don't up the sales this Thanksgiving, you can fire me."

Jack gave him a wry look as they walked out of the office. "I'll remember that."

Chapter 10

Emille was working her way through her final reps of barbell bench presses when she turned her head to glance in the mirror. As her body became leaner and more toned, Emille couldn't help taking every available opportunity to check out her reflection. For a woman who used to wince every time she caught a glimpse of herself, she felt she'd earned the right to check out her guns when she lifted. There was a good bit of loose skin on her arms, belly, and inner thighs; but beneath all that, she was building a rock solid body. She'd never felt sexier in her life.

Since her talk with Peter three weeks before, she'd lost another twenty pounds. Because she worked while he slept, and slept while he worked, Peter had dropped dinner off at her place a few times after she'd gone to work. For a chef, he was a faithful believer in that crock-pot, so when he brought dinner for her, he made sure there was a stew going for those in between nights. Listening to his advice wasn't so hard when they were on the same page. What Emille appreciated most was the desserts. The cleaner her diet became, the easier it was to make wise choices. During follow up conversations, she'd mentioned that she loved fruits. Peter had gone to the trouble of preparing a miniature fruit basket for her. She'd never forget the pineapple topper that he'd carved into the number eighty to mark her eighty pound milestone.

Who knew that a diet needed to be healthy, not just skimpy for a person to lose weight? She certainly hadn't. Portia had understood though. Though she'd never been diagnosed with diabetes, once upon a time, Emille's trainer had been three hundred and forty-five pounds at five feet and six inches tall. She'd even shown Emille a photograph of her at that weight, describing herself with one word, 'round'. You wouldn't be able to tell today. You wouldn't even know that Portia had ended up with tons of skin. She'd opted for surgery herself, but had assured Emille that she wouldn't have enough skin to merit it. In fact, she firmly believed that if Emille was patient, her skin would bounce back within a year or two. Emille was starting to believe it. Nor did she really care if her skin ever tightened up. For the first time in her life, she could wear a sleeveless top in public. She'd never thought that was possible.

A guttural groan escaped her mouth as she put her full concentration on completing the last three reps. With a sudden burst of exhalation, she finished, sat up and readied herself to wipe down the station. She was a complete wreck. From the crown of her sweaty head to the tips of her sweaty toes, she was a dripping, exhausted mess. But she'd never felt more awesome. Today, her doctor had told her that she was no longer diabetic. She still had to work to get out of the category of pre-diabetic, but for the first time in years, she felt optimistic about her future.

"What's up, you sexy beast you?" someone growled behind her.

She glanced in the mirror to verify that the voice she heard did indeed belong to who she thought. Laughing, deep-set gray eyes met her own beneath his longish pompadour style haircut. Though it was out of place in the gym, this clean-cut look suited him better than the dreadlocks of a dozen years before. Even then, he had been a gorgeous star in the making. It wasn't until he'd given up on trying to shake his country roots in his pursuit of rock and roll fame that he'd finally broken through to global stardom. He was a phenom.

"Caleb Ryce!" Emille escaped on an overjoyed laugh.

With a wicked grin, Ryce wrinkled his nose. "I'd kiss you, but you're all sweaty."

"What are you doing here? How did you know I was here?"

He grinned and pointed over his shoulder. "Peter brought me here with the promise of a surprise, then bet me that I wouldn't be able to find it."

Emille leaned sideways a little to see Peter working through a series of pull ups. His eyes acknowledged her, but he didn't cease his workout. He was as sweaty as she was. She waved, but a frown marred her smile as she turned her attention back to the people's number one most beautiful man of the year. "How long have you guys been here?"

Ryce flicked his wrist to check his watch. "About two hours now," he replied. "He wouldn't let me come over and say hi. Said I shouldn't bother you until you're done." Peter had predicted that she'd be done after the presses.

She grinned. "Well, I'm done now."

"I see you can bench press a horse now," Ryce laughed. "Let me see those guns."

Emille blushed. It was one thing for her to be admiring her own arms, it was another thing entirely to be flexing in front of her friends.

"I saw you checking yourself out," he teased.

She grabbed her towel and sashayed past him. "Somebody's got to do it."

Ryce wolf-whistled as she walked away. "You make sweaty sexy."

At the last moment, Emille stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Wipe down that bench for me, will you? I'm going to have a shower. And then I'm coming back for my kiss from the 'sexiest man alive'.

"I didn't bring you here to flirt with her," Peter grumbled when Ryce returned to his side. Earlier that day, when Ryce had called to say he needed a break from his tour and would be flying into town, Peter had been excited to see his friend. Ryce hadn't been to Austin in well over a year, so their group of friends missed him.

One friend in particular had missed him a little too much, it seemed.

"Are you kidding me?" Ryce asked in disbelief. "I'm not doing anything I haven't done before."

True. But before, Emille hadn't been a hottie. Before, Ryce hadn't let his eyes linger on Emille's assets. Ryce could have his pick of any woman in the world, but he was sweet talking Emille as though she was the love of his life.

Peter was not impressed.

While they had waited for her to finish her workout, he'd had to endure Ryce's repeated comments about Emille's amazing transformation. She still hadn't purchased a new set of workout clothes, but connoisseurs like Ryce would have no trouble seeing what was beneath the layers. Especially since Emille was wearing an old t-shirt that she had ripped the sleeves out of. An old t-shirt from the days when Ryce had gone by the name Caleb. Now, he used his full name. It was all Peter had been able to do to stop his friend from upsetting Emille's workout. The minute she'd finished her last count, Ryce had gone walking.

"Just, don't lead her on like that," he warned. "Em's not some groupie."

"Don't I know it," Ryce said with a lecherous smile. "She's my special girl."

Choosing to ignore the fact that all of Ryce's smiles were lecherous, Peter started his box jumps. His friend was able to simply stand there and look fit. Peter had to do all sorts of strength training exercises in order to maintain enough muscle mass to be comparable to Ryce. Even then, he'd only ended up looking leaner and more ripped instead of built like his buddy. Ryce was Emille's type. Until that moment, Peter had never resented his own physique more.

When Peter's expression smoothed out, Ryce - who had started a set of power cleans to kill time - stopped after the third one. He gave Peter a through look, his eyes narrowing. "Hey," he said after a while, "there's nothing going on between you and Emille, is there?"

The glance Peter racked him with was scathing.

Shrugging back into his leather jacket, Ryce decided to let Peter work. His silence lasted about ten minutes. He was completely incapable of ignoring something like this. "Seriously, man," he said at last. "Is there something going on between you and Em?"

"No."

One word. And Peter didn't sound too happy about that. "Do you want something to go on between you two?" Ryce asked slowly.

"There's nothing there to go on," Peter announced, his brow jerking in annoyance.

Ryce snorted. "Come on, man. This is me you're talking to. I remember when you had the hots for her. She's starting to look like that girl again." He thought about it a moment. "She looks better, in fact. Something you were quick to tell me as soon as I got into town tonight."

Silence.

"You getting feelings for her again?" he pressed. "Or are you realizing your feelings never really left?"

"You going to shut up and let me finish what I'm doin'?"

"Good," Ryce laughed, strategically distancing himself from Peter. The man was wiry as fu-. Well, he was wiry, but Ryce had worked out with Peter often enough over the years to know that those compact muscles packed both strength and stamina. If Peter suddenly decided to lay him flat, flat he'd be. "If there's nothing going on between you, then you won't mind if I take her out sometime."

Peter stopped jumping. With his hands on his hips, he turned his full attention on Ryce. "Leave Emille alone, Ryce. She's not some groupie. She's a good friend who's just getting her life in order. The last thing she needs is you coming in here overnight and flirting with her before you fly out again on a dime. Em's not the kind of woman you do that to. You start flirting with her, she's going to start believing that you're really interested. But, we all know the kind of women you really like. To you, Em's just a safe flirt. There's no threat there for you. But if you mess with her right now, all you're going to do is end up hurting her. She doesn't need that right now. So, I say it again for the last time. Leave. Emille. Alone."

While he listened to Peter tell him all the reasons why he shouldn't flirt with Emille, Ryce looked down at his feet considering. He had worked hard to cultivate his reputation as a ladies' man. It came with his job. But to hear his best friend say he wasn't good enough for a woman like Emille... that hurt. Every where he turned, he was learning how easy it is to hurt somebody you cared about.

"Don't you think she'd find it strange if I didn't flirt with her?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," a soft voice answered.

Ryce looked up, but Peter stood arrested staring into the mirror - a hard look coming over his face.

"Yes," Emille said again softly. "I'd find it strange if you stopped flirting with me." She came over to the bench on which Ryce was seated and tugged him up. "Now, give me my kiss and make it good. I put on perfume for you."

Ryce saw the devil in her eyes just a split second before her lips were pressed against his. She wanted a kiss like the ones he gave out on stage. The kind of kiss that made him famous. So, he gave it to her, wrapping his arms around her body, and tilting her backward. He'd thought for sure Emille would change her mind once he went full tongue on her, but she surprised him. She was doing this because she'd heard their conversation, and he didn't want her feeling like anything less than a desirable woman. So, Ryce did what any good friend would do. He made sure, in that kiss, that Emille knew she was one of the best things that ever happened to him.

Finally he lifted her back upright, planted a kiss on her cheek, and squeezed her with all the love and affection of their longstanding friendship. He credited Emille with his success. It was her who had suggested he kill Caleb, and just exist as Caleb Ryce. That night, ten years ago had been a turning point for him. This was his girl. More Peter's than anyone else's, but his nonetheless... Together, they turned to Peter, but he was no longer standing there.

"Where'd my ride go?" Ryce quipped, hoping to avoid an awkward situation.

"Shower," Emille said, covering her lips with the back of her hand. Forcibly, her expression brightened. "Hey, did you guys have any plans for tonight?" It was Monday. The Mark was closed.

"Yeah," Ryce answered. "That's why we came to get you. David's driving up from San Antonio. We were planning on hitting Nate's place tonight."

"Open mic?"

A slow smile touched his lips. "Now, why else would I come to Austin?"

Chapter 11

Peter found Ryce waiting for him in the lobby of the gym. "Where's Em?" he asked. His mood hadn't improved during the time he'd been gone.

Ryce stood. "She went home to change. She'll meet us at Wrongdoings."

Peter nodded and headed out the door. He didn't say anything at all about the kiss.

"I shouldn't have kissed her," Ryce quietly admitted when they pulled up outside of Nate's club. He didn't want to go inside with hard feelings between them. It would affect the rest of the night, and the guys were bound to pick up on it. And Em. As the only girl and the cause of the tension, she wouldn't feel comfortable.

Still, Peter said nothing.

"Man, let's just get this out before we go inside," he said. "I don't want Em feeling uncomfortable because of the kiss. It didn't mean anything."

But kissing Emille meant everything to Peter.

"Say something."

Sharply, Peter turned his head to glare at his friend. "What do you want me to say, Ryce? I asked you not to mess with her, and ten seconds later your tongue's down her throat. What do you really want me to say?"

"Tell me if you're still in love with Emille."

"I was never in love with Emille," Peter said derisively. "She and I have always been friends. That's it."

"Fine. You fell in love with her, became friends, and the attraction went away. If you're falling for her again, you need to do something about it this time."

Women came easy to Ryce, and so he couldn't understand that Emille wasn't interested in dating Peter. Nor would he consider that if Peter showed any real interest in her, Emille would believe that it was because she'd recently lost weight. A knock on his window stopped him from having to respond.

Emille was standing outside, a wide grin on her face. "Y'all ready? David and Jack are here."

They climbed out of the car. Peter was already braced for what he'd see, but he worried that Ryce would blurt out the thing that came first to his mind. It was late September, but Emille was wearing one of those dirt sweeping long dress that women wore during the summer time in a mash-up of all the dark colors. It was too big for her. Over that she'd tossed a long black cardigan. Again. It was too big for her. Since she wasn't either on the same level or taller than Peter, he guessed that she wasn't wearing heels either.

"I thought you'd be showing off those sexy legs I've been hearing so much about," Ryce said, coming around the hood of the car. "Man, I remember how you'd stop traffic with them."

Emille frowned. "Legs?"

With a quick glance at Peter's cold expression, Ryce backtracked. "Come on, babe. I'll buy you a margarita."

They went inside together, Peter trailing behind them. While the guys were busy saying hello to them, Peter went over to the bar and ordered her a glass of mineral water.

My how time flies, Emille thought as she laughed along with the rest of the guys as Jack described the reason he was once again single. It was over a year since they'd all been able get together like this. Ryce was on a world tour, but now that he was back stateside, they could expect him to pop into Austin at a drop. He was coming back for Austin City Limits in October, not as a performer, but as a reveler. David was preoccupied with something, but you'd have to know him pretty well to notice. He was laughing and ribbing everyone as usual, but every now and again he quietly took a sip of his beer and zoned out. Knowing him, it was probably woman troubles.

Peter was the one who worried her most. He was smiling and laughing with the rest of them, but there was something in his gaze every time it landed on her. He was in a mood. Probably about her kiss with Ryce, but Ryce was the kind of guy you could kiss like that and know it meant nothing. He was no Peter. And if Peter felt he was justified to be angry because she'd kissed a friend, then she was justified in being furious because he'd taken it as his duty to warn Ryce off - as if she wasn't a grown woman with the ability to decide whether or not she wanted to risk her emotions on a man.

Darkly, she glared at him, even as she squeezed the wedge of lime on her glass into the water. If he wasn't so temperamental he'd be an awesome guy. Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face because a sudden silence descended on the table. Emille glanced around at the other guys. They were looking back and forth between her and Peter, but Peter hadn't taken his eyes off her since he'd sat down. Gooseflesh chased a wave of heat over her flesh as Emille tried her best to conceal her reaction to that look.

"Hey, y'all," the d.j. said over the microphone. "Guess who we've got in the audience tonight? Our own hometown bad-boy of country Caleb Ryce. Hey, Ryce. Can we convince you to give us a song?"

Ryce, never one to turn down an opportunity to increase his fan base, excused himself from the table - grabbing David as he went. David was in Ryce's original backup band, so it came as no surprise that after a few moments whispering with their heads together, Ryce took to the microphone and David sat behind the keyboard.

The audience went wild as he greeted them. "Hey Austin! It's great to be home, even for one night." The ladies started whistling, and Ryce was ready with his trademark sexy grin. "Wow! What a welcome. Hang tight ladies. Just let me and my boy David here get through this song, then I'm all yours." The whistling continued, and true to form Ryce was already seducing a woman in the front row from the stage.

If looks could kill, Peter would have shot him dead right there, but Ryce was oblivious to the threat.

"Let's get down to business. This is the favorite song of my favorite girl in the world. We were out fishing early one morning, when I looked at her and was inspired. I never told her, but now she can brag that she's the girl who made me famous." He chuckled, and the audience laughed along with him. Ryce looked out into the audience until he spotted their table, then pressed two fingers to his lips in a benedictory kiss. Playfully exaggerating that slow Southern accent that had the power to seduce people all around the world, he leaned into the microphone and drawled, "Emille, my darlin', my how you've grown."

David's hands began to move as he played the opening notes of Ryce's first hit, The Hill Country Rose. It was a ballad that never failed to send chills down Emille's spine.

"In the Garden of Eden, there once grew a rose.

It was bent by the wind, and it tumbled.

Shattered and broken, it searched for a home,

that it could not find among the flowers.

My darlin', you are the rose that cannot grow tall

among the lilies and blooms of the Garden.

Such a rose of your beauty, must grow alone on a hill,

to reign over the world, not a garden."

He captured Emille's attention completely from the first word. Against her will, her lids lowered, as she was embraced by the song. Emille was lost to the harmony of David's playing and low crooning in backup to Ryce tugging at the heartstrings of the women in the audience. She did not see Peter's heated, almost resentful gaze as he continued to look at her. Resentment was the easiest emotion to identify in his eyes, but there was so much more there. In the heat of that gaze was something far from superficial.

Ryce's song went on to describe his doomed search for that perfect flower in a garden. They were all the same, and some were too exotic. What he wanted was a flower that was both familiar and strange. It wasn't until he had given up on his search, and stepped out of the garden that his gaze had been caught by a glow from a hill near the garden. It was a rose so familiar, that had been strengthened by the storms that existed outside of the garden. It's beauty was perfection, for it had rooted in ground that nurtured no competition like that in the garden. As he drew nearer, blossoms grew from the path of his feet. The garden then spilled from where it belonged. But, none of its flowers ever grew as beautiful, tall, and strong - and none could weather a storm - like that rose that grew out beyond the garden.

Critics, fans, and people in general who took the time to break down the song, always said that Ryce had written it for a woman he had loved. Others thought it was about his search for the perfect sound in Texas' city of music. Mostly, they said it was about a man who idealized one woman while he played the field. Eventually, he'd gone after the woman of his dreams, but never quite changed his playboy ways. That's why, they said, the garden followed him home, but the rose remained his idea of perfection.

Now that he'd let it out that song had been written about her, Emille knew for a fact that everyone's interpretation of it was wrong. It had been written well before Ryce had become famous. In all the time that they had been friends, Ryce had never - nor had she - ever felt anything for each other beyond the love of abiding friends. There was more behind the meaning of this song, and she would ask him about it.

At the end of the song, the audience rose and applauded. Emille was on her feet, a broad smile on her face. When Peter and Ryce had surprised her tonight by showing up at the gym, she had been content to know she'd be spending the night with the entire group for the first time in ages. What she hadn't anticipated was to be serenaded with her favorite ballad. She was loud. She was appreciative. She felt amazing.

Then she realized that she was having a night out with five of South Texas's most gorgeous bachelors, and here she was, dressed like a colorblind nun.

She covered her heated face, hoping that if anyone noticed her embarrassment they'd think it was her joyful reaction to Ryce's serenading. Taking control over her emotions, Emille schooled her features into a pleasant smile. Nate kissed her cheek. David winked at her from his seat behind the keyboard. Ryce remained on the stage to follow up with the audience's request that he cover the old classic, 'Unchained Melody', but he took time in between the end of the ballad and the start of another to purse his lips into a sexy little kiss that he sent her way. Emille glanced at Jack and immediately wished she hadn't, because very deliberately he turned to stare at Peter.

Emille didn't want to look, but she was compelled to do so.

He was slouched in his seat like he had nowhere else to be in the world. His gaze was steady, unblinking, dark, intense. She'd never seen him like this. His eyes glittered in the low neon lighting of the club.

Uncomfortable, Emille looked away and pretended to listen as Ryce continued to sing covers of popular ballads and a few of his own songs. Her heart was thrumming so loudly, she could not hear. Shyly, she cast a quick glance out of the corner of her eye to see what Peter was doing - if he'd turned his attention to the stage instead of her.

While everyone else around them reacted to Ryce's deep voice, Peter was sat still in his focus. With his hands clasped over the lean stretch of his stomach, he gave every impression that Emille was the most fascinating thing in the club.

It was disconcerting. Nervously, she whetted her lips and leaned closer to Nate, whispering in his ear. "I've got to go. It was great seeing you guys, but I have to work in the morning." It was Monday night, after all. And these guys were all businessmen.

"Alright. Need a ride?" he asked.

She rubbed his shoulder affectionately. "No. I'm driving." Emille grabbed her bag, hoping to escape before Jack and Peter caught on. But, as she stood, all three of the men got to their feet.

"Leaving already?" Jack asked a little too tauntingly.

"Yep," she smiled. "Not all of us can be our own bosses."

She waved to Ryce and David, who both responded with winks - neither missing a beat in their performance. Then, what she most dreaded happened. Nate gave her a hug and a friendly kiss on the lips. Then Jackson was there with one. It was like they'd planned it, but Emille wasn't certain because Nate kissed her like that all the time. While his kiss was a brotherly peck she'd come to expect, Jack was acting way out of character, and nearly got a punch in the mouth from her reflex. Both congratulated her on the progress of her weightloss, encouraged her to continue doing what she was doing, and reminded her not to be a stranger anymore. Curiously, Peter had remained silent during the exchange. Finally, she could not avoid him anymore. It was time to say goodbye. Though she was braced for his standard European kisses, Emille wasn't braced for his company.

"I'll just bum a ride with you," he said coolly.

"What? You can't. I mean... your car."

He unhooked a set of keys from his keychain and handed them over to Nate. "Give those to Ryce for me." David usually stayed with Jack, but Ryce tended to stay with whomever he felt like when he was in town. If he was in Austin for more than a day, he'd rent a car. But it was expected that he'd stay with one of his friends. They'd all roomed together while in college, renting one of the first houses that Peter had purchased. That had been the start of a decade-long friendship.

Peter had her well and truly cornered. Emille couldn't deny him the ride without it seeming suspicious. Not when everyone knew he lived just a few miles away from her place.

Chapter 12

Side by side, they left the club. She grew even more uncomfortable as they crossed the city, but tried not to let it show.

"Em, tell me something," Peter said, his drawl even more pronounced in the darkened car. "Why is it that every time I turn around, you're kissing one of my friends?"

"Huh?" she startled. How was she supposed to answer a question like that? "I don't know. I guess it's our way of saying 'hello' and 'goodbye'."

His lips tilted into a little sideways smile. "So, you're telling me all I have to do is say 'hello' or 'goodbye' and I can kiss you?" He wanted to chuckle, but couldn't. The moment was too delicate. But wouldn't Emille get a good laugh out of it if she could see her own deer-in-the-headlights expression? He could even hear her swallow before she responded to his question.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said primly. "You kiss me all the time Peter."

He was shaking his head before she could finish her response. "On the cheek. Because you friend-zoned me the moment we met."

Come again? but she didn't say a word - just pressed her foot deeper on the accelerator.

"Speed limit's thirty-five," he reminded her mildly. When she eased her speed back to a respectable pace, Peter silently thanked God that she'd chosen to take the street route to his house instead of the highway. He thanked Him for every slow mile, and every long red light at the end of every block between where they were and his apartment.

"Aren't you going to ask me how you friend-zoned me?" he asked.

"Are you drunk?" She sniffed the air closer to him.

"Stone cold sober," Peter replied. "Haven't had a drink in months." Mostly, that was due to the fact that Emille was no longer his fishing companion. He wasn't inspired to pick up a six pack if she wasn't going to have a beer with him.

Last week, Jack had joined him on the boat, toting a pack of his favorite brand, but Peter hadn't been in the mood, because Emille's efforts to develop a healthier lifestyle had affected his choices of what he was willing to put inside his body. He'd leaned out significantly since he'd started helping her plan her meals, and since he'd started going to the gym an extra two times a week, just so he could watch her work out. Ever since his teens, Peter had worked hard at forcing his body into something it naturally wasn't. He was ectomorphic, but he'd sculpted and bulked his body into something bigger than it was naturally inclined to be. Yet, he'd never felt as comfortable in his own skin as he had been feeling lately.

Occasionally, he was still jealous of the size that the other guys were able to achieve in their muscles. But, Peter was forty, a good decade older than his friends. And being the most ripped of the group had done wonders for his self-confidence. Word had gotten around about how he'd carried Emille out of the restaurant. Though they hadn't said anything about the incident in front of her, there had been calls and ribbing. They all loved her, but at the time of the accident, Emille had been much heavier. The guys openly admitted that none of them would have been able to lift and carry her the way he had. Nate had blamed it on Peter's sheer determination to do the impossible. David blamed it on his fiendish workout schedule. Ryce was sure it was his affinity for cross fit - after all, cross fit athletes were beasts when it came to working out. Jack, the only one to have witnessed it explained it away as Peter's abiding love for Emille. According to him, if Peter hadn't loved Emille the way he did, there was no way he would have been able to get her off the floor, much less out of the restaurant. Love, he said, had made his actions possible.

At first, he'd brushed the explanation off. Lately, Peter was inclined to believe it.

"So," he prodded. "Aren't you even slightly curious as to why you can kiss all my friends on the lips, but you completely freak out if I so much as breathe on your cheek?"

"I'm curious as to what's gotten into you tonight. Did you have some bad fish or something?"

His lids lowered. "You should be more worried about what I want to get into," he said mildly.

Emille's mouth opened in a shocked gasp. "That does it! What the hell is your problem, Peter?"

He couldn't very well tell her, May kiss you? So, he said the next best thing. "Why are you still single, Em?"

She rolled her eyes at her side window. "Because I want to be."

"I don't think you're telling me the truth," he replied. "You're not the kind of woman who likes to be single. You like men too much." As he'd observed tonight.

Emille gasped, swinging her head to glare at him. "You didn't just say that."

"Keep your eyes on the road, darlin'." When she turned to look back at the road, grumbling about insulting men, he overrode her diatribe. "It's not an insult. You like the company of men, and men like your company. So why are you really single?"

Two could play this game. If he was going to force her to talk about uncomfortable things, she might as well make it really uncomfortable for him. "Well Peter," she said in a sweet Southern voice, "I'm really single because men - like the ones whose company I keep - don't normally go for women like me."

"I'd go for a woman like you," he said softly.

"We've already gone over this. You go for the Gwyneth Pallys of this world."

Propping his elbow on the door, Peter seemed to give due consideration to Emille's reasoning. "I go for tall women." He cut a glance in her direction. "The taller the better."

"Tall and thin then. Gwyneth Pally."

"Tall and sexy," he corrected.

Frustrated, Emille released the steering wheel just long enough to throw her hands in the air. "There! That's the answer to my question. Tall and sexy. That obviously leaves me out."

His grin was crooked in more ways than one. "So," he said after they'd gone through another stoplight, "are you saying the only reason you're still single is because you don't think I find you sexy?"

She was forced to stop at another light before she could think up an answer. Emille glared at the light. It was as if she'd hit every red one for the past six miles.

"You can't ignore a direct question."

"I'm sorry," she said, feigning preoccupation. "I wasn't paying attention."

Peter sat up straighter. Gently, he reached across the seat and turned her chin so that she faced him. "Emille Carter, are you still single because you think I don't find you sexy?" She swallowed, and he felt the movement against his hand.

Her eyes darted left before she said, "My light's green."

He let her go.

Chapter 13

When they arrived at his apartment, Peter didn't get out of the car immediately. Instead, he sat quietly in the car, a puzzled frown marring his brow.

Emille didn't like how he was thoughtfully staring through the windshield. Whenever he had that look, he was sure to say something that would discombobulate her. So, she did the next best thing to kicking him out of the car. She faked a huge yawn. "Ohh!" Stretch. "I'm so exhausted." Stretch again. "I can't wait to get home. I have an early meeting tomorrow."

She wasn't just a secretary anymore. As the firm had grown, she'd taken on more responsibility and gone back to school - at Peter's prodding - to study Management and Finance. Having worked in the industry, Peter was well aware that there was always an early meeting.

He didn't budge, making her think that maybe she would need to kick him out of her car. Slowly, he turned his head in her direction. "I'm still waiting for your answer, Em."

"What answer?" she snapped.

"Would you still want to be single if I you knew how sexy you are to me?" His features twisted wryly as he took in her outfit. "When you're not covered up from head to toe. We'll have to go shopping some time soon. You're still wearing clothes from a hundred pounds ago."

"You wouldn't say that if you really found me sexy."

"I say that because I'm a man who likes to look at you," he replied. "And if my attraction to you was superficial, my body wouldn't react to you the way it does even when you are covered."

His voice, as smoky and smooth as mesquite, caused a burning spasm across her diaphragm. Still, she refused to give him the answer he was waiting for. "Assuming I believe that you think I'm attractive, Peter, where would I suddenly find a guy to change my single status?"

His grin said he'd been waiting for just that question. "You could start with the guy who thinks you are the sexiest woman in the world."

She shrugged. "Sexiness does not guarantee I'll be able to keep him."

"Most desirable then," he said, unbuckling his seatbelt even as he leaned closer.

Negligently, she shrugged again. "I'm not impressed with being desired."

He had the nerve to chuckle. "Oh? You're not impressed with being desired? How about 'needed'? Would it impress you to know that I need you so much I'd do anything to keep you in my life? How about if I told you my work and 'recreation' suffers when you're not around." Slowly, he lifted his hand to her cheek, whispering the words against her lips.

They were inches apart. Close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips, but far enough that she would have to reach to kiss him. He made her want to kiss him.

"Would it impress you to know that I need you so much that for years, I've been waking up hard to the fantasy of you sharing my bed?" he whispered.

Stubbornly, she shook the fog from her brain. "That must be some fantasy, especially since you always have somebody else in your bed."

"I've dated a lot of women, Em," he admitted, pressing his thumb against her lower lip, rubbing that lip even as he continued to speak. "I'm no monk, but I don't get around as much as you think."

"Could have fooled me," she said hoarsely. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open when he was stroking her lip so sensuously.

"It shouldn't come as a surprise, Em," he said, his lips so close now that each word was spoken against the back of his thumb. His gaze was direct as he aligned his nose against hers. "It's no surprise that you are my rose."

How was it possible that mere words could touch on her ears, then race through her blood like an electrical charge; and finally settle in her core in a heated burn like an unquenchable wildfire? How was it possible that mere words could separate her world from its axis? How could she shake and not tremble? How could she have spent over fifteen years loving one man and never know it?

She must have taken too long to answer. Perhaps her response had been written in her eyes. For Peter kissed her, his mouth separated from hers only by the veil of his thumb against their lips. When she closed her eyes, he released a low, agonized moan as his hand smoothed over her jaw and buried itself in her hair. Trust. That was what this kiss was founded on, for she was there with him, lips parting expectantly, her nails scraping over his scalp and the lush midnight of his hair .

God! Emille, I love you. The words almost escaped him.

I love you, Peter. With all my heart. She held them in.

Snap! Her seatbelt was released, by her own hand or his, neither would ever know. Suddenly, she was hauled across the seat. Too tall to sit comfortably on his lap in the closed confines of her sedan, Emille touched a button beside his hip and his chair collapsed backward. Peter groaned at the impact, but did not let up on the onslaught he had waged against her lips, suckling, nipping, tasting her mouth. Instead, the kiss became deeper, and more passionate as he reveled in the press of her body against his. For the first time in her adult life, Emille lay against a man and was not ashamed of her size. Even if the seat should break, she was confident that Peter could support her. Purposefully, his hands wandered, almost ripping her cardigan away. For a brief moment, she thought about the extra layers of fat on her arms, and that Peter would see the way her skin sagged. But he noticed none of that. He stroked her shoulder and arms as if her skin was silk or satin. While they embraced Emille was certain she was made from the finest of fabrics.

He hefted her further onto his body, pulling her left leg between his thighs. She could feel the hard heat of him beneath the denim of his jeans, but it was not enough. Emille pressed against him, eager for a more intimate experience of this man. His clothing was in her way, so she pushed at his leather jacket. His scent intoxicated her. She scratched his neck when she tore at the collar of his henley; and moaned in delight when his hands bunched the hem of her dress, lifting it like a valance over the curve of her buttocks until his wonderfully big hands cupped her right where they met her thighs. The thousands of lunges she'd done over the past few months was worth it when he groaned like a caged beast and slapped the right cheek. Emille's eyes flew open, but Peter didn't let up. His right hand came up, even as he rubbed away the sting.

"Come back here," he growled into her mouth. "You've made me wait this long. Just let me touch you." His tongue stroked deep, pulling her very soul out. "Give me this."

"We are in the car," she panted, willing herself to push against his chest yet completely unable to separate herself from him.

"I know," he whispered, possessively taking her lips once again. When she melted against him, his hand returned to her hip roved over the smooth flesh. His fingertips slipped beneath the waistband of her simple cotton panties and he spread his wide palm over the surface of her belly.

Emille froze. Panicked, she launched herself off him, scrambling back into the driver's seat as if there was a tiger in the car with her.

"What happened?" Peter asked, his voice rough and dark. Sensuous. Sexy. Filled with desire and need. All the things he claimed to feel for her. But in the darkened car, she could not see his eyes to believe.

"I think you should go," she said, her breaths harried, her voice small and hurt.

Peter sat there just looking at her. He studied the way she held herself. If she could wrap the cardigan - that he would swear he'd deliberately stripped from her moments ago \- like a cocoon around herself, she would. He hated the way she retreated into herself like that. He hated the way she hid herself from him. He hated her lack of confidence in her beauty. But he loved the way she was when she forgot to hide. Of all the things about her, that was what he loved most. She could hide from the world, but when she was with him he wanted her bold and outgoing. He wanted her beautiful and strong. He wanted her to walk tall and elegant in high heels, heads above every other woman in the room. He wanted her in full glory.

He sighed. "Come up to the apartment."

Shaking her head, Emille backed away further against the door. "No. This was a mistake."

"No. It wasn't," he assured her in his most level tone. "I've been planning to get my hands in your panties for fifteen years. Admittedly, you've spent ten of those years doing your damnedest to forget that you are..." his voice grew hoarse and trembled, "you are a very desirable woman, Emille."

"Peter, stop."

"You don't have to worry about me making love to you tonight. Unless, of course, you really want to. Because, of course, I really, really, really want to." He flicked on the dome light and tilted his head to see her face better.

Emille blinked a few times, then reached to shut the light off again.

Peter's hand was there to stop her. Tenderly, he brought her palm to his lips and kissed her. "I've noticed that you're not surprised about what happened here tonight."

She didn't think her face could heat anymore, but it did. "Oh, I'm surprised," she said on a broken laugh.

"No," he shook his head. "You're embarrassed that I want to see you naked. That I tried to touch you the way I did. But, you've known all along that I love you. I don't know when you realized it, but you knew the truth of it and didn't say a word."

Her lips pursed into a tight line. "I don't know what you're talking about. Now, can you please get out of my car so I can go home and get some rest?"

"I'm not stopping you from driving home. It's not too far for me to walk home" he pointed out. "But, I'm not going to make it easy for you again."

"What are you talking about?" she wailed in frustrated annoyance.

"Emille!" It was his turn to use a sharp voice. He didn't shout, but the way he said her name was a command for her attention. "I want you to really think about something. Cause I've been thinking about it for a long time now. Why did you allow yourself to get so fat?" he asked baldly, almost cruelly. "What were you hiding from? Who were you running from? It's not me, cause I've been right here all this time." When she just stared at him in arrested silence, he reached out to brush her hair from her brow - then thought better of it. "A couple of months ago, you told me that you think I only find thin women attractive." When she turned her face away, he touched her chin and brought her back around. "And again tonight. You accused me of going for the thin women. If I'm only attracted to the Gwyneth Pallys of this world, then explain to me why I'm hung up on you. Explain to me how you've managed to get me hard as rock time and time again, whether you were one ninety or three hundred pounds. Explain to me why I'd rather spend my Sundays mornings making memories with you, than laying in bed with Gwyneth."

Chapter 14

"Peter, you don't understand," she cried. "I've lost the weight, but I'm still fat. I've got flab-"

"You've got sleek legs that run on for miles," he said. "And I look forward to the day all those yoga stretches you've been doing pays off, cause I've got plans for those legs."

"My arms are bigger than yours."

"Then it's a good thing looks are deceptive. Cause I've got the strength to be the man that you need."

"Stretch marks."

"Don't tell me you don't want to lick every one of my stretch marks until I'm a puddle at your feet," he whispered sexily. "I've got plenty of them for you to work on."

She closed her eyes tightly, hunching her shoulders closer together in uncertainty. "I'm not ready for a relationship. I don't have the confidence to deal with disappointment right now."

"Emille, you have the confidence to French a rock star in front of the man you love. You have the confidence to taunt me by kissing four men in one night."

That sounded so bad when he put it like that.

"You've had your fun being the Bachelorette. Now it's time to end this game and give me my rose." She snorted a laugh and ended up coughing. Patiently, Peter patted her back until it was over.

When her throat stopped itching, she said, "You never showed an interest in me. Why are you saying this all of a sudden?"

"Because I'm horny as hell after watching you do those Reverse Crunches tonight."

"Oh. My. Lord." She covered her face. "You saw that?"

He nodded. "And the Spiderman. But it was really the Pulsing Lunges that got me." Peter pulled her hands away from her face. "By the time you get off the treadmill, you're all sweaty, and those baggy sweats you wear can't hide a thing once they get wet. And then you go to the rowing machine. I used to think you did it for strength, but now I'm convinced you do it to relax your body after your run. Maybe get your head in the game for strength training. I do that with pull-ups."

Emille was looking at him suspiciously now. "Peter, was tonight the first time you've come to the gym while I was there?"

"I've be there a few times," he shrugged, his cheeks heating up adorably.

"Have you been stalking me?"

He twisted his lips to the side. "Silent support. But that's not the point. Admit you love me, so I can go inside. And you can go home and think about what I need in a woman."

"How am I supposed to know what you want? If I'm your rose, then I'm perfect the way I am, right?"

"The rose was perfect in the garden, but outside the garden it became a tree that never stopped growing. I don't want a woman who is just a flower among flowers. I need you to realize that in my eyes you are more magnificent than any other flower. I want you to see yourself the way I've always seen you."

She gulped. What could a girl say to something like that? "Peter, what do you really want from me? This is so sudden, and you're asking me to think about things I haven't considered in-" she stopped.

"Far too long," he murmured. His fingers interlocked with hers. "It's not sudden, Em. Nothing about us is sudden. But, what I want from you is you wearing high heels when we go out sometimes, because you know it drives me crazy; and you know your legs stop traffic," he said, nodding in agreement to Ryce's earlier assessment. "I want you to get pedicures, cause I'm obsessed with you, and I'll suck on your toes if you'll let me." The way he said 'suck' caused a visible shiver to run through her. "I want you wearing low cut blouses on a Wednesday night, as my reward for slaving over a hot stove for you. I want you to crawling out of my bed in the mornings, naked and sore, cause whatever you demand I am the only man in the world who can provide. I want you to continue working out and being active, cause you laugh more - and I think it's hot when you check yourself out in the mirror and like what you see. I want fifteen years of me waiting for you to come to your senses," he said wryly, "to be worth fifty years of making up for lost time. I want to 'recreate' with you for the rest of my life."

Like a moth to a flame, Emille pursued is gentle tugs.

"The only thing I'm asking from you is that you be my sexy lover, cause you already are my loving friend."

"Friends to lovers never work," she said weakly.

"But, if we weren't friends, how could I learn to love you the way I do?" he whispered against her lips. "Through think and thin, Emille, I love you. Say, yes."

She froze. "Yes, to what?"

Peter stilled, then a curious, thoughtful look came over his face. "Yes. Yes, you love me," he laughed.

She wondered if it was a realization or a demand. "I'm thirty-five years old, Peter. If I'm going to bother with getting myself into a relationship with an older man, I have some demands of my own."

He ignored the dig at his age. "Like what?" he asked, still smiling.

"If I'm going to dress sexier, then you are too. I like you in tight shirts and tight jeans. Stop dressing to make yourself look bulkier. Your body's built like a high tension wire, and that gives me all sorts of kinky thoughts."

"Kinky thoughts?" he teased. "You have those about me?"

"Every time you make me rub tanning oil on your back on a Sunday morning," she said, no longer afraid to show her attraction to him. "Also, while I understand the nature of your job, I want one weekend night a month with you. You and Jack are just going to have to figure out a way to make that happen."

"I'll talk to him."

"All this time I thought you were a chronic bachelor. But, if you've been in love with me for fifteen years, or however you've got your numbers figured out," her voice was hoarse with emotion, "it's about damn time you married me. And I'm not going to settle for a five year engagement. Either you want me now, or you don't want me at all." Emille raised her brow arrogantly. He wanted her. For the first time in her life, she felt like a woman who wasn't begging man to be with her. It was liberating. He had made her liberated simply by wanting her - tummy fat and all. Needed her, he'd termed it.

"I want kids." She waited for his reaction. A man who wanted kids didn't make it to forty and not even have one. She expected him to say something, but all she got was a look that said, That's a given.

This should surprise him though. "I want a job."

"Come again?" he blinked.

"You don't work on a regular schedule, but right now I do. Once we're married, I want you to hire me to manage some of those properties of yours, and I want a salary comparable to the one I have now. That way, I can crawl out of bed with you late every morning, and work into the evening, so I'm not tired when you get home halfway to dawn. I want to see you."

"You've thought about this?" he asked, amazed.

She snorted. "Not as a real possibility, but you're not the only one with fantasies."

"Anything else you want while you're at it?"

There was nothing else she really needed. Except... "Yeah. I want a pool in my back yard."

He pulled her tightly into his arms, laughing against her cheek. "Done. Done. Done. Done. Done," Peter repeated, kissing her face. "Are you going to put me out of my misery and tell me you love me now?"

"Why should I tell you what you already know?"

"Because I'll never believe it until you say it."

She pulled away, cupping his cheeks in both hands. Staring directly into his eyes, she said, "Peter, I have loved you for years, but I never thought a man like you would ever fall for a woman like me. When lately you started showing an interest in me, I thought it was only because I'd lost the weight. That if you only knew what I was hiding beneath my clothes, you'd stop looking at me the way you sometimes do. The way you're looking at me now." She kissed him. "I'm glad you waited to tell me that you love me. I'm glad that we've had these years together to prove that you're not ashamed of me, so I shouldn't be ashamed of myself." Her expression was wry as she admitted, "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad I crushed table number twelve."

"Don't ever do that again," he said, his face serious, but his eyes dancing.

She sucked her teeth and slapped his chest. "Anyway, if it wasn't for you picking me up the way you did, and insisting I go see a doctor for my ankle, I don't think either of us would have gotten here. You've shown me love, respect, tenderness and support. Even when I was at my worst, you treated me as if I was at my best." Her eyes burned with tears. "You've always expect that of me, Peter. Once I was able to see your version of me, I learnt to expect my best, and stopped trying to bury her. The woman you want is me. I am that woman who has always wanted to step out of her shell and take chances. I am taking chances now. I want to be your wife, Peter. I want to be the woman you love, and date, and marry, and build a life with. Not Gwyneth or anybody else like her."

Knocks sounded against the windows. They turned their heads to see who were interrupting their private moment. Four male faces grinned in at them.

"Y'all finally sorted your thing out?" David asked what they'd all come to find out.

Peter nodded.

"Is Ryce spending the night?" she asked under her breath.

Peter took his sweet time thinking about whether Ryce would be spending the night at his place or with Jack or Nate. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah." His tone implied he wasn't to pleased about that. "But he'll be coming back to town for Austin City Limits. How would you feel about tying the knot on your birthday?"

Emille froze, then swung her head to look at him. "So soon?"

Peter winked at her. "I'm giving you a month to practice holding that Standing Separate Leg Stretch for more than thirty seconds."

She frowned, mouthing, Standing Separate Leg Stretch? Then an image of herself bent over in the yoga pose came to mind, and she burst out laughing. "Oh, Peter! You are bad. Very bad."

"That's the best view in the house," he said unabashedly.

He was stilling grinning when he kissed her. Emille was getting used that. That he kissed her with laughter. It was nice.

When he climbed out of the car, the guys crowded him, teasing him about busting a forty year old man making out in a car like a teenager. As Emille drove away, she caught a glimpse of her favorite men in the world and wondered if she knew four women who she could pull together in a month to stand with her groomsmen as they saw her wed to their best friend.

####

Coming Soon! The Wright Choice, due out the end of September, 2013.

About the author:

Josephine Kent is in the wiser part of her twenties, single, and a bit cynical, but, she's an ever hopeful, romantic. Having yet to meet Sir Lasting means that he could be anyone. While Josie's not necessarily hunting for Mr. Lifetime Worthy, she knows that the world is full of awesome guys, and is enjoying the view as she wonders just what her own Prince Keepim might really be like; and what type of woman could really love him.

When she's not falling in love with the guy she writes about, the truest loves of her life daily lunch dates with Bob Ross, cooking pretty inedibles, and six rentable kids called nephews. In her dreams she is a great mathematician, a budgeting diva, a do-it-yourself maven, and a bohemian fashionista. In reality, she's numerically dyslexic. She always ends up spending the money saved from budgeting. Her do-it-yourself fails are often epic. And she still hasn't mastered the fine art of mixing prints.

If you'd like to contact her, please do so at JosieKentWrites@gmail.com. She'd love to hear from you. Also, if it doesn't take up too much of your time, a review on this work would be very much appreciated.

