Emma's POV

It was past nine.

Past nine. And still no sign of Mr. Damon "I'm-so-serious-I-might-turn-into-a-statue" Blackwood.

I sat curled up on the living room couch, wearing my oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks like a literal cinnamon roll of anxiety and frustration. One leg bouncing, one eye on the clock, and my head filled with ridiculous, unwanted thoughts.

"He's probably with her," I muttered, arms crossed tightly. "Probably sipping red wine in some fancy hotel suite while she giggles and ...