The conversation started with a toothbrush.
Emma was in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. Nick was already under the covers, waiting for her. She had been staying at his penthouse for over a month now — her toothbrush in his holder, her shampoo in his shower, her books on his nightstand.
But she still had her apartment. Her own keys. Her own bed.
Nick had been thinking about it for weeks.
"Emma," he said when she climbed into bed.
"Hmm?"
"We need to talk."
Emma turned to face him. The lamp on the nightstand cast soft shadows across his face.
"That sounds serious."
"It is." He took a breath. "You've been here for five weeks."
"I know."
"Your toothbrush is in my bathroom."
"I know."
"Your books are on my nightstand."
"I know."
Nick looked at her. "You live here, Emma."
Emm
