Chapter 10 - Catching Her Forever
The rooftop terrace of Foster & Lane overlooked the twinkling grid of downtown Columbus.
At 6:30 p.m., the evening sky had cleared into a deep, velvet indigo, studded with early autumn stars. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the distant hum of traffic from Broad Street below. Lanterns along the wooden pergola cast a soft, golden glow across the potted Japanese maples and stone benches.
Emma stood by the waist-high glass balustrade, holding two steaming paper cups from the local coffee shop around the corner.
She wore her navy slacks and the cream blouse from Tuesday morning—the same clothes she had been wearing the first time she had fallen into Ryan’s arms.
The heavy metal door of the rooftop stairwell clicked open.
Ryan walked out into the cool evening air. He had discarded his tie, his top collar button undone, his dark wool coat unbuttoned against the breeze.
He stopped a few feet away, watching her silhouette against the skyline. “Marcus told me that if I came up here, Linda would fire me for violating the non-fraternization policy.”
Emma turned around, extending one of the paper cups toward him with a wide, teasing grin. “Marcus is an accountant. He doesn't understand calculated risk.”
Ryan stepped forward and took the cup, his fingers brushing against hers. He felt that familiar, intoxicating jolt run up his arm. “What are we calculating, Collins?”
Emma took a slow sip of her coffee, her hazel eyes gleaming with light. “Well, I ran the numbers. According to the employee handbook, senior project directors and chief brand strategists are strictly forbidden from engaging in romantic partnerships if there is a direct reporting conflict.”
“Clause 9C,” Ryan recited without hesitation. “Direct reporting conflicts occur when one party has sole discretion over the other party's performance reviews.”
“Exactly,” Emma said, stepping half an inch closer. “Which means, Parker... as long as Arthur Vance insists on joint oversight, neither of us reports to the other. We report to the client.”
Ryan stared at her, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a slow, breathtaking smile. “Did you spend your afternoon finding a loophole in the corporate HR manual?”
“I’m a strategist,” she said proudly, tilting her chin up. “I find weaknesses in rigid systems and exploit them for maximum strategic gain.”
Ryan set his coffee cup down on the stone ledge beside him. He turned to face her fully, his hands slipping into his coat pockets to keep from immediately pulling her into his arms.
“And what’s the strategic gain here, Emma?” he asked, his voice dropping into that deep, husky register that made her heart race.
Emma looked at him, her teasing expression softening into something raw, beautiful, and completely unguarded.
“The gain is that I don't have to pretend anymore,” she whispered.
She set her coffee cup down next to his.
“I spent three years hiding behind armor, Ryan,” she said, stepping into his space until the tips of her shoes touched his. “Julian convinced me that if anyone saw who I really was—if anyone saw how deeply I felt things, how clumsy I could be, how terrified I was of failing—they would run away.”
She reached up, her small, warm hands coming to rest against the lapels of his dark coat, right over the steady, heavy thumping of his heart.
“And then I tripped over a cardboard display,” she murmured, looking up into his gray eyes, “and you dropped thirty pages of financial sheets just to make sure I didn't hit the floor.”
“I’d drop the whole world before I let you hit the floor, Emma,” Ryan said, his voice thick with emotion.
Emma’s smile returned—mischievous, brilliant, and completely fearless.
“Prove it,” she challenged softly.
She took one deliberate, dramatic step backward.
Her heel caught the edge of the elevated wooden decking.
With an exaggerated gasp of mock alarm, Emma pitched backward toward the open air of the terrace.
Ryan didn't drop his coffee this time.
He didn't need to.
His right arm shot out like lightning, wrapping securely around her waist, while his left hand came up to support the nape of her neck. He pulled her flush against his chest, catching her weight with effortless strength, swinging her back onto solid footing before gravity could even claim an inch.
Emma didn't pull away.
She wound her arms tightly around his neck, her chest pressed against his, her breath mingling with his in the cool night air. Her grin was intoxicating, lit by the city lights behind them.
“You’re really getting predictable with that, Parker,” she whispered against his lips.
“I told you,” Ryan murmured, his hand sliding into the soft hair at the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the brown silk. “I have priorities.”
“Show me,” she breathed.
Ryan leaned down and kissed her.
It was not a gentle, polite kiss suited for the fourth-floor hallway of Foster & Lane.
It was deep, hungry, and fierce with the passion of eight months of silence, three days of terror, and a lifetime of devotion. Emma let out a soft sigh against his mouth, her fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.
The wind caught her hair, whipping it across his cheek. The city stretched out beneath them—vast, chaotic, full of looming deadlines, demanding clients, and unpredictable storms.
When they finally broke apart for air, Emma rested her forehead against his chest, laughing quietly as Ryan held her tight against the Columbus breeze.
“So,” Emma said, looking up at him, her eyes bright with tomorrow. “What happens when Monday comes?”
Ryan looked down at the woman who had made him forget all his rules, his thumb gently stroking the curve of her jawline where a silver hoop earring caught the starlight.
May you like
“On Monday, we conquer Brighton Living,” Ryan said softly, his arm tightening around her waist, anchoring her against the world. “And after that... whatever you want to build next.”
Emma grinned, burying her face into the warmth of his shoulder as the city lights twinkled below, knowing that no matter how hard she fell into the unknown future, she would never have to hit the ground again.
