Page 51 of The Golden Scoop

But Emma’s not one to keep her feelings to herself. Unless I completely misread the situation yesterday, had her phone not rang, we would have ended in a not-at-all professional conundrum. Is that what she’s truly afraid of?

I curse myself for not thinking about that before. A casual fling would never trump the first chance she’s gotten at writing. She doesn’t know how serious I am about her. Once again, I’ve managed to turn into the asshole who doesn’t care about her career.

Except maybe if I can convince her I’m in it, she’ll see things differently. That pull I felt yesterday, the sparks every time we touch… she has to be feeling those too or she would’ve pushed me away without a second thought.

Alright, Matt. You can do this, I pump myself up. Go get your girl.

I push out of the chair and gather my stuff at lighting speed.

“I need to talk to Emma.”

Confidence works in strange ways. I left set fully convinced on heading straight to Emma’s. To surprise her and come clean. But that was peak levels. The second I got in my car and drove off, the avalanche of doubt started.

What if she’s actually into Tom and I’m making a fool out of myself?

I wasn’t always playboy Matt. The inner me has always been a shy, book-loving nerd, but high school was an eye-opener. Lunch money stolen, clothes hidden after P.E., an array of threats to hand my homework over… I dealt with all of it. You name it, I went through it. And it was fine.

But regular Matt never won any hearts. The catalyst: Rachel Adams. My first girlfriend, who dumped me five hours before prom to go with a football player instead.

“I thought you were going to grow out of this responsible, geek thing you’ve got going,” she told me over the landline. “I’m older now, and it turns out bad boys are my thing.”

So, during the summer before my junior year, the prototype of playboy Matt was born. I got up early and trained until I had nothing left in me. Then I’d shower and head to the public library, reading everything they had on football strategies. I went through them so fast they had to order more.

By the time tryouts started, I was so good I was named starting quarterback. We won every game. The team looked up to me, the stands had never been fuller, and Rachel Adams came crawling back with her tail between her legs.

At home, the varsity jacket came off, and the books came out.

Now, I know Emma is not materialistic or self-absorbed. She’s badass, knows what she wants, and doesn’t care about what anybody thinks (except me when I’m teasing her). But somehow, that makes it worse.

She’s adventurous, high energy and ready for whatever life throws her way. Compared to her, I’m a bore. Doesn’t stop me from trying to keep up, but what if she needs more than I can give?

I park outside her apartment complex with absolutely no plan in mind. Ideally, I’d knock and tell her the truth. Easier in theory. If I could get her to give me more time, until the assignment is over, then we could be honest with each other.

My hands are sweating. I fix my hair—not that she’d notice—and knock three times.

Emma opens the door wearing her overalls, a red spaghetti-strap top underneath. She’s barefoot, her hair pulled into a messy bun.

The sight hits me too fast. It’s both grounding and destabilizing all at once. This is the woman who haunts my dreams. Emma in her most natural form. And that’s the version that gets me the most.

“Matthew,” she says, clearing her throat, green eyes meeting mine. There’s a hint of teasing in her voice, as if she’s completely forgotten I walked out on her at lunch like the fool I am.

Suddenly, I’m grateful for the darkness. I’m sure I’m blushing.

“It’s starting to look like you can’t go a couple of hours without seeing me,” she adds, her eyebrow raising with mischief.

“Got off early.”

I try to match her tone, but I’m already off balance. This was a terrible plan. I’ve got no idea what to say.

“It’s basically dinner time,” she points out.

I nod. “I know. I planned an outing for us, and it needs to be at night,” I improvise, because aside from taking her out to eat, my mind is blank. She disarms every coherent thought.

“That’s nice, but I’m all out of outing time I’m afraid.”

My expression falls. Exactly what I thought. I’m in the middle of coming up with something to convince her when her voice cuts through.

“But…” she says, throwing me a lifeline, “if you want to ask me out on an actual date, I’d consider it.”