Curtains clap and thrown open window
Eyes are watching, neon lights
But she's always avoiding falling in love
Yes, it's due to a life of a private affair

"Private Affair" by The Virgins

Red Light, Green Light: Prologue

There was a rustle of fabric and a girlish squeal, and Jack Knightley could do nothing but gawk as Emma Woodhouse burst into his office on a crisp Tuesday afternoon and waved an elegant piece of paper in front of his face with almost sadistic delight.

Jack's mortified secretary poked her head in the doorway, sputtering some form of an apology. "I'm sorry, sir. She said she was your sister! Stormed right in! I even mentioned the conference call—"

"That's okay, Louise. This is Tom Woodhouse's daughter. And it's his office. I have no power. She is the bane of my existence."

Emma was too busy gloating, a mega watt smile stamped on her pretty face as she paraded the frilly, pink slip of paper. "See that? See that, Jack? It's a wedding invitation. As in, bells ringing, tiered cake. Oh, you want to do me a favor and read the opening line? Come on. Be a doll. Do it."

Jack glared up at her and snatched the piece of paper from her hand, muttering under his breath as he read: "Oliver Weston and Taylor Lau. Hyatt. Sunday, July 12th, 2009." He counted backwards from five and fixed the girl in front of him with the most contemptuous stare he could muster.

"Yes," she purred, inspecting an auburn tendril absently. "Marriage. Marriage, Knightley."

"Mazel Tov," Jack replied dryly. "This is why you interrupt me? Because your girlfriend is getting hitched? I'm very busy, Emma; some of us have real jobs."

She narrowed her gray eyes at him and snatched the invitation back, not amused in the slightest. "First of all, suck it up. It's Friday afternoon, and you usually leave Daddy's office by this time. Second of all, you're forgetting our bet. Convenient."

Jack grinned at her and feigned stupid, "Oh man, did I miss American Idol again this week? Who's eliminated?"

"It was twenty dollars, Jack," Emma insisted, pivoting her hands on her hips. "Six months ago, you bet me twenty dollars that I couldn't get them engaged. It was just after Ethan Perry's party, and you were being a smug asshole." She paused, statuesque and thoughtful, "Much like now, actually. Chop, chop."

He rolled his eyes and sighed, fishing his wallet out of his pant pocket. As he removed a bill and slid it across the table, his hand came over hers. She looked up at him skeptically.

"How do you feel now that you've just betted and gained from making a game out of a best friend's happiness?" Jack asked politely, a smile tugging at a corner of his mouth. Bank on the guilt trip and she might leave you alone.

"I feel like I should find a new best friend who might succeed at playing the morality card," she answered simply, slipping the bill from under his hand. "Besides, you and I both know this is just payback for that cab fare I helped you out with last week. If anybody's really guilty of betting on Taylor's happiness, it's you. You wanted Oliver to fail."

"For God's sake, Emma, I did not," Jack laughed, rising from his seat. He absently filled his messenger bag with paper work and powered off his Mac. "I love Taylor like a sister; every happiness to them both. It was you that had to be stopped. You would play millionaire matchmaker to the world if only you could. Yeah, it entertains you, but it's going to get you into trouble some day."

"Oh, so it's my happiness you're out to squash."

"Exactly." He laid a hand on her shoulder for comfort, "If you really like matching, I'd suggest interior decorating. Shove some throw pillows around. Or dog breeding, if you want to take it up a notch."

"You're an ass." Emma took up the invitation again, "This is proof that I'm good. Honestly, maybe it's just a skill acquired with age. Some people are born to do certain things."

"You're definitely born to be modest," Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked quickly at his watch and then turned to her curiously, watching as she delicately rifled through the business card stack on his desk. "Why are you really here?"

She turned around and beamed, her eyes lighting up. For once, Jack noticed that Emma was dressed for their Friday dinner in worn jeans, a green zip up and flip flops. She rarely dressed so casually unless he insisted on it and this had been insisted upon since they had started the tradition of having dinner together the first Friday of each month. It had been declared as a part of their "Biffle Pact" (as she enthusiastically dubbed it) last year when he first started at Columbia and began his internship at her father's law firm; something to help them keep in touch when life, as it always did, became too saturated with the little things.

Biffle Friday had three distinct rules:

#1: Sushi, Chinese, or pizza. Anything with Chez in the title, or even the suggestion of penguin coats was booted out the door.
#2: A bad rental from Blockbuster would follow, but it was understandably optional given the nature of the Saturday after.
#3: Jeans and sweats were mandatory.

Emma had protested, and Jack had replied accordingly:

"You don't have to dress up for me. I saw you eat Play-Doh and shit your pants, remember? We go way back."

"Please don't ever mention that again. And don't flatter yourself, it's never for you, Jack."

Still, she got over it.

Jack rubbed his mouth to conceal a smile at the memory, and Emma looked at him skeptically, brushing her red hair out of her eyes.

"It's Biffle Friday," she pulled a lip quiver. "My turn to pay, and my choice. Sushi again."

"Ah."

"Ah." Emma looked mildly disappointed, folding her arms across her chest, "You forgot."

At that, Jack raised a finger and dug out a pair of chop sticks from the front pocket of his bag, grinning as he handed them to her. Emma held one up cautiously as the other fell to the floor.

"From last month?" she asked. "Osaka on 57th?"

"Yep."

"That's so sweet," Emma smiled affectionately. "And disgusting at the same time. I'm trashing these and then we're going."

Author's Note: I love Emma. And biffles. I also stress write. Did I ever mention? Oh, well. This prologue might be stuck in limbo for about a month (at least until AP tests blow over). Fair warning here. But it's been cooking for awhile and I wanted to give it some fresh air. Fresh air meaning something besides my Desktop. Hope you enjoy!