The Trouble with Love
Page 41
She glanced away. “You already know the three questions I ask every guy. Can’t you just like…email them to me or something?”
His eyes narrowed. “Scared, sweetie?”
Her brown eyes snapped back to his. “Disinterested.”
Alex grinned. “I don’t think so. There’s a reason you scurry away from any discussion of our past the second things start to get interesting. You’re terrified.”
“You’re not exactly pushing the topic, either.”
His smile grew. “Which is exactly why we need to have this conversation. The twelve days of exes…how many have you interviewed?”
“Ten,” she said reluctantly. “Number eleven is coming over tonight.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Then number twelve will be there tomorrow night.”
Emma gave him a single nod before standing and heading to the door. Apparently she’d decided their meeting was over, but he didn’t try to stop her. He’d said what he needed to say.
“Bring wine,” she said, not bothering to turn around as she said it. “Something good. God knows we’re going to need it.”
Chapter 17
Emma had known this day would be coming. From the second she’d gotten that email from Cassidy with his bullshit “Twelve Days of Exes” story assignment, she’d known that he’d chosen her to write the story because he wanted to open up this can of worms.
But that wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was that Emma wanted to do this. Sure, her palms were clammy, and she’d had a glob of dread lodged in her chest for the past two and a half weeks, but deep down, she knew that they needed this.
In normal circumstances, they both probably could have handled the unfinished business. Could have gotten through their lives with a bit of extra baggage to lug about.
But it was no longer just about them. Emma had no intention of leaving her job at Stiletto anytime soon, and Cassidy seemed in his element at Oxford, which meant that they’d be working in close proximity for the foreseeable future.
But more important, they had shared friends. Ignoring each other in the office was no big deal—it had actually become a game of sorts.
But they were both in Julie and Mitchell’s wedding, for God’s sake.
It was only a matter of time before the tension between them erupted and their friends were forced to choose sides.
Time to bury the hatchet.
Emma took a deep breath and reapplied her lipstick. She could do this. They could do this. They were both calm, rational adults. In fact, between the two of them, they were calm nearly to a fault. Except, of course, for that one explosive fight.
She took a step back and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes looked a little too big, but that happened sometimes.
The clothes were fine. When she’d told the girls that tonight would be her and Cassidy’s “talk,” there’d been much discussion about outfit.
Riley had voted for a short red “booby” dress, because “men couldn’t get too mean with a boner.”
Grace had suggested something pink and feminine to “remind him to be a gentleman.”
Good old Julie had asked if Emma still had her wedding dress, “just for impact.”
The answer to that was a big no. She’d donated the designer ballroom gown to a charity that auctioned off gowns and dedicated the proceeds to victims of sex trafficking.
In the end, Emma had gone with what she felt most comfortable in. For some women, that was yoga pants and a tank top, but Emma liked having a bit more…armor. For Emma, comfort meant feeling invulnerable.
So she was wearing tailored cream-colored slacks, a black silk blouse, and pointy-toed leopard print shoes.
Using both hands she gathered her hair back and pulled it into a smooth pony at the nape of her neck.
There.
Polished, cool, and a little bit badass.
It was the safest way she could think of to go toe-to-toe with Cassidy.
Speaking of which…she glanced at the clock.
Any minute now.
Cassidy knocked, right on time. He hadn’t always been so punctual. When they were in college, she’d forever been getting be there in 5 texts, which she’d eventually learned meant Be there within the hour. Maybe.
It hadn’t been because he’d been disorganized; quite the opposite. Cassidy had always been deliberate in everything he did. Instead, Emma had gotten the sense that Cassidy’s lateness had stemmed from a fear of missing out. As though he was always terrified that he’d miss an opportunity to be richer, smarter, better…
It had taken her a long time to realize that she was his backup plan. The quiet little mouse he could count on when all else failed.
But she wasn’t his mouse anymore. Wasn’t his anything.
Never again.
She opened the door. He was wearing a suit. Always with the damn suits. This one was navy, paired with a white shirt and a navy tie that should have been boringly monochromatic but instead looked sexy as hell for its simplicity. Cassidy always wore skinny ties—not in a trendy, hipster kind of way, but in a way that showed off his trim build to modern perfection.
“You’re so annoying,” she muttered, even though he hadn’t said a word.
He lifted his eyebrows and stepped inside her apartment. “Is that any way to talk to the guy who brought you wine?”
“I have plenty of my own wine.”
“Yes, but this is better,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone as he headed to the kitchen for a corkscrew.
His eyes narrowed. “Scared, sweetie?”
Her brown eyes snapped back to his. “Disinterested.”
Alex grinned. “I don’t think so. There’s a reason you scurry away from any discussion of our past the second things start to get interesting. You’re terrified.”
“You’re not exactly pushing the topic, either.”
His smile grew. “Which is exactly why we need to have this conversation. The twelve days of exes…how many have you interviewed?”
“Ten,” she said reluctantly. “Number eleven is coming over tonight.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Then number twelve will be there tomorrow night.”
Emma gave him a single nod before standing and heading to the door. Apparently she’d decided their meeting was over, but he didn’t try to stop her. He’d said what he needed to say.
“Bring wine,” she said, not bothering to turn around as she said it. “Something good. God knows we’re going to need it.”
Chapter 17
Emma had known this day would be coming. From the second she’d gotten that email from Cassidy with his bullshit “Twelve Days of Exes” story assignment, she’d known that he’d chosen her to write the story because he wanted to open up this can of worms.
But that wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was that Emma wanted to do this. Sure, her palms were clammy, and she’d had a glob of dread lodged in her chest for the past two and a half weeks, but deep down, she knew that they needed this.
In normal circumstances, they both probably could have handled the unfinished business. Could have gotten through their lives with a bit of extra baggage to lug about.
But it was no longer just about them. Emma had no intention of leaving her job at Stiletto anytime soon, and Cassidy seemed in his element at Oxford, which meant that they’d be working in close proximity for the foreseeable future.
But more important, they had shared friends. Ignoring each other in the office was no big deal—it had actually become a game of sorts.
But they were both in Julie and Mitchell’s wedding, for God’s sake.
It was only a matter of time before the tension between them erupted and their friends were forced to choose sides.
Time to bury the hatchet.
Emma took a deep breath and reapplied her lipstick. She could do this. They could do this. They were both calm, rational adults. In fact, between the two of them, they were calm nearly to a fault. Except, of course, for that one explosive fight.
She took a step back and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes looked a little too big, but that happened sometimes.
The clothes were fine. When she’d told the girls that tonight would be her and Cassidy’s “talk,” there’d been much discussion about outfit.
Riley had voted for a short red “booby” dress, because “men couldn’t get too mean with a boner.”
Grace had suggested something pink and feminine to “remind him to be a gentleman.”
Good old Julie had asked if Emma still had her wedding dress, “just for impact.”
The answer to that was a big no. She’d donated the designer ballroom gown to a charity that auctioned off gowns and dedicated the proceeds to victims of sex trafficking.
In the end, Emma had gone with what she felt most comfortable in. For some women, that was yoga pants and a tank top, but Emma liked having a bit more…armor. For Emma, comfort meant feeling invulnerable.
So she was wearing tailored cream-colored slacks, a black silk blouse, and pointy-toed leopard print shoes.
Using both hands she gathered her hair back and pulled it into a smooth pony at the nape of her neck.
There.
Polished, cool, and a little bit badass.
It was the safest way she could think of to go toe-to-toe with Cassidy.
Speaking of which…she glanced at the clock.
Any minute now.
Cassidy knocked, right on time. He hadn’t always been so punctual. When they were in college, she’d forever been getting be there in 5 texts, which she’d eventually learned meant Be there within the hour. Maybe.
It hadn’t been because he’d been disorganized; quite the opposite. Cassidy had always been deliberate in everything he did. Instead, Emma had gotten the sense that Cassidy’s lateness had stemmed from a fear of missing out. As though he was always terrified that he’d miss an opportunity to be richer, smarter, better…
It had taken her a long time to realize that she was his backup plan. The quiet little mouse he could count on when all else failed.
But she wasn’t his mouse anymore. Wasn’t his anything.
Never again.
She opened the door. He was wearing a suit. Always with the damn suits. This one was navy, paired with a white shirt and a navy tie that should have been boringly monochromatic but instead looked sexy as hell for its simplicity. Cassidy always wore skinny ties—not in a trendy, hipster kind of way, but in a way that showed off his trim build to modern perfection.
“You’re so annoying,” she muttered, even though he hadn’t said a word.
He lifted his eyebrows and stepped inside her apartment. “Is that any way to talk to the guy who brought you wine?”
“I have plenty of my own wine.”
“Yes, but this is better,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone as he headed to the kitchen for a corkscrew.
