Chapter 6 Dates and Interruptions

Emma's POV

Gavin parked in front of my apartment building, the city lights casting shadows across his face. I stared out the window, the glass reflecting my own weary expression and the tears I'd fought back all evening.

"Emma, about what happened at the hospital..." Gavin's voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

"It's fine. I'm used to it by now." The words came out more bitter than I intended.

He reached across the console, taking my hand in his. "Listen, I want to make it up to you. Tomorrow's Saturday. I'll spend the entire day with you."

I turned to face him, searching his expression for sincerity. "Really? No work? No calls from Sophia?"

"Just us," he promised, squeezing my hand. "I've made reservations at L'Espalier—that French restaurant you've always wanted to try."

After everything that had happened, I should have said no. But some stubborn part of me still wanted to believe in us—in the relationship we'd built over ten years.

"Alright," I finally said. "Though I hope there won't be any 'emergencies' this time."

He leaned across, kissing my forehead. "I promise. I'll pick you up at noon tomorrow."

Standing before my closet the next day, I pulled out a deep blue dress that hugged my curves without being provocative. Professional but feminine.

My phone buzzed. Gavin was downstairs. I took a deep breath, grabbed my purse, and headed for the elevator.

Gavin stood beside his Bentley, looking impossibly handsome in a tailored suit. He held a bouquet of white roses.

"You look beautiful," he said, eyes brightening as I approached.

"Thank you. These are lovely," I replied, accepting the flowers, their sweet scent filling the air between us.

He opened the passenger door with a flourish, and I noticed how attentive he was being—something I hadn't experienced in months. As I settled into the buttery leather seat, I decided to give today a fair chance.

When I reached for my seatbelt, Gavin leaned across me. His cologne enveloped me, making my breath catch. He noticed my reaction and smiled, lingering as he secured the belt.

"You still get nervous around me," he murmured, placing a feather-light kiss on my cheek. "It reminds me of when we first met."

This kiss, barely there, somehow made me feel better than before, I thought. How pathetic that the smallest kindness from him makes my heart race.

As we drove toward downtown Boston, silence settled between us. Finally, I broke it.

"How's Sophia doing? Has she been discharged?"

Gavin's expression shifted subtly. "...She's fine. She's out of the hospital now."

I didn't press further, and we lapsed into another uncomfortable silence.

"Why so quiet?" he asked after several minutes.

"I don't know what to say," I admitted.

He glanced at me, his expression softening. "I have a surprise for you later. I hope you'll like it."

As we settled in, Gavin ordered without opening the menu. "The seared foie gras with fig compote, Burgundy-braised beef cheeks, and crème brûlée for dessert?"

I looked up, genuinely surprised. "You remembered all that?"

His smile was warm. "I remember everything about you, Emma."

The meal began perfectly. The foie gras melted on my tongue, and Gavin was more attentive than he'd been in months. I took a photo of our table—the exquisite food, fresh flowers, and Gavin's hand just visible at the edge—and posted it to Instagram: Unexpected perfect Saturday #BostonLunch.

Jessica immediately commented: Boss is playing favorites, not inviting the team!

Rachel sent a private message: Looks like he's genuinely sorry. That's some serious apology effort.

I was just putting my phone away when Gavin gently chided me, "Focus on the meal. The foie gras is best experienced at the right temperature."

He adjusted my plate slightly, and I found myself softening toward him.

I was about to taste the perfectly seared foie gras when I noticed a familiar figure at the entrance.

Sophia glided toward us in a black dress that somehow accentuated both her pregnancy and her fragile beauty. Her makeup was flawless despite the exhaustion evident in her eyes.

"Ms. Garcia," she acknowledged me with a nod before turning to Gavin with a warm smile. "Gavin, what a coincidence."

"Are you here alone?" Gavin asked politely.

"Yes. It's so lonely eating French cuisine by yourself," Sophia replied, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Before either of us could respond, she placed her handbag on the chair beside Gavin. "May I join you?"

Gavin glanced at me briefly before nodding. "Join us."

I noticed he hadn't bothered to ask for my opinion, and I felt a familiar sting of dismissal.

Sophia ordered with the confidence of a regular—seared foie gras, cranberry mousse, and organic cranberry juice "for pregnant women." Then she turned to me with a saccharine smile.

"Emma, the cranberry juice here is exceptionally fresh. Would you like to try some?"

"No, thank you. I'll stick with wine," I replied coolly.

"Gavin, did you add fig compote to the foie gras you brought me last time? The flavor is very similar," Sophia asked innocently.

"Yes," Gavin confirmed, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

My stomach clenched as I realized Gavin had brought food from here to Sophia multiple times. The foie gras in my mouth suddenly lost all flavor.

"No wonder the aroma seemed familiar when I passed by," Sophia continued. "The French cuisine here is truly unique."

She turned to me. "Emma, Gavin must bring you here often. He knows the menu so well."

I met her gaze directly. "Actually, this is my first time. Apparently you hava been more fortunate."

Sophia's expression shifted to one of practiced grief. "Fortunate is hardly the word I'd use since Lucas's passing..."

Suddenly, Sophia choked back a sob. "I'm sorry—pregnancy hormones make my emotions so unstable."

Gavin immediately handed her a napkin. "Don't get upset. It's not good for the baby."

The tenderness in his gesture cut through me like a knife.

"I shouldn't intrude on your date," Sophia said, making a show of preparing to leave. "I'll go."

"No, stay," Gavin reached out to stop her. "Since you're here, join us."

He picked up his fork, seemingly about to cut a piece of foie gras for her. I intervened before I could stop myself.

"Gavin, that's your cutlery. You should ask the waiter to help," I said, my voice calm but firm.

An awkward silence fell. Gavin's hand froze mid-air.

"It's fine. I can manage," Sophia said softly.

When Gavin poured water for me, his movements were practiced and attentive.

"Emma, Gavin is so good to you," Sophia observed.

"Why wouldn't he be? I am his fiancée," I countered. "It would be strange if he were this attentive to anyone else, wouldn't it, Sophia?"

I decided to press further. "Have you thought about what you'll name your baby?"

Gavin immediately interrupted: "Emma, your foie gras is getting cold."