The Trouble with Love
Page 57
But neither Mitchell nor Julie would be showing up for a run the day after their wedding. Obviously.
Alex tied his shoes, before standing and rolling his shoulders.
No big deal. He’d run alone. He’d done so plenty of times before. He didn’t need Mitchell. Or Julie.
He certainly didn’t need Emma and her hoity-toity, sneak-out-in-the-middle-of-the-night—
Hell.
Alex was in deep shit if he was resenting a woman for not wanting to stick around for the awkward morning after. Especially a woman with whom he had a rather disastrous history.
Of course she didn’t want to stick around and do pancakes and coffee.
Alex couldn’t blame her.
And yet…
He wished she were here.
She should be here.
Maybe it was the result of too many fantasies made by his twentysomething-year-old self, back when he thought he’d have a lifetime of breakfasts with Emma, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were supposed to be spending Sunday morning together.
Alex swore as he poured coffee into his mug, took a sip while it was still too hot, burned his mouth, and starting swearing all over again.
He set the mug back down with a clank, bracing his arms on the counter as he hung his head and tried to figure out what the hell had crawled up his ass and pissed him off.
He tried to tell himself it was lack of sleep.
And oversleeping—he was normally an early riser. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d forgotten his Sunday morning run would be out of whack for the next month or so while Mitchell was in honeymoon phase.
Then Alex tried to blame it on the fact that the day before had been a long one spent running interference with Mitchell’s uptight relatives, wearing a penguin suit, and watching as a half-dozen guys that were not him dance with Emma.
His head snapped up.
And there it was. Emma.
He rapped a fist against his forehead. It had been a mistake to request that song. A mistake to ask her to dance.
But, hell, the mistake had started long before that. It had started when he’d had to watch her walk down the aisle, knowing that she wasn’t walking toward him.
And the pain had only grown sharper when, through some mix of a blessing and a curse, the groomsmen had gotten out of order and he’d had to walk her back down the aisle, the same way they would have seven years ago had things not gone to hell.
And then he’d had to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening watching her flirt with other guys and dance with her girlfriends, and just all around ignore him.
So yeah. He’d asked her to dance.
And the dance had turned into something more.
Which had led to damn fine sex, which had led to…
Her sneaking out at the crack of dawn?
It didn’t make sense.
Except it did.
Because Emma and Alex weren’t just two sexually attracted people who’d met at a wedding and practically lit the bed on fire.
They were two people who’d spent the past year and a half trying to ignore the fact that the other was alive.
The fact that the sex was great…that had been a fluke.
It was just the sexiness of the night at work. In the light of day, there was still a 787’s worth of baggage between them.
She’d been right to remind them both that last night was just that: one night.
Emma was also probably right to leave before they could wake up and do the awkward morning-after thing.
So why was he in a foul mood?
Alex thought about calling Cole Sharpe, who’d been known to be game for a morning run now and then, but then he remembered that he’d spent a good part of the previous evening wanting to punch Cole after he’d danced needlessly close to Emma during that Etta James ballad that played at every damn wedding.
No, he didn’t want to call Cole. Or even see Cole.
Hell, he should fire Cole.
Maybe he should call Jake. Or Sam.
Except then he’d have to watch every damn word that came out of his mouth for fear that his state of being would be reported back to Grace and Riley, which would then be reported back to Emma….
Fine. He’d call no one.
Only…being left alone wasn’t exactly good for his mental state, either. His brain seemed to be going in circles.
This brought Alex back to square one.
He’d call Cole.
He retrieved his cellphone from the nightstand, scrolling through his contacts until he found the sports editor.
Alex’s thumb hesitated over the call button.
And then his thumb moved, scrolling to another name. He dialed before he could change his mind.
Alex’s eyes closed in a silent prayer at the sleepy female voice on the other end as he asked the all-important question….
“Do you still like pancakes?”
Chapter 23
Sleeping with Cassidy hadn’t been the mistake. Not really. Neither had her mistake been agreeing to go to brunch with him.
And the mistake hadn’t been eating three decadent bananas Foster pancakes when she probably should have just had one.
None of those had been her smartest moments, to be sure, but they weren’t the real problem.
The real problem came when she proceeded to spend the rest of the day with him.
As in, she spent all of Sunday with Alex Cassidy.
And, it was…wonderful.
“Okay, Emma, I’m just going to come clean here,” Cassidy said as they stepped out of Starbucks with holiday beverages in hand.
“You’re regretting not getting the gingerbread latte?” she asked, taking a sip of her own delightful confection. “Because you’re not getting a sip of mine—”
Alex tied his shoes, before standing and rolling his shoulders.
No big deal. He’d run alone. He’d done so plenty of times before. He didn’t need Mitchell. Or Julie.
He certainly didn’t need Emma and her hoity-toity, sneak-out-in-the-middle-of-the-night—
Hell.
Alex was in deep shit if he was resenting a woman for not wanting to stick around for the awkward morning after. Especially a woman with whom he had a rather disastrous history.
Of course she didn’t want to stick around and do pancakes and coffee.
Alex couldn’t blame her.
And yet…
He wished she were here.
She should be here.
Maybe it was the result of too many fantasies made by his twentysomething-year-old self, back when he thought he’d have a lifetime of breakfasts with Emma, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were supposed to be spending Sunday morning together.
Alex swore as he poured coffee into his mug, took a sip while it was still too hot, burned his mouth, and starting swearing all over again.
He set the mug back down with a clank, bracing his arms on the counter as he hung his head and tried to figure out what the hell had crawled up his ass and pissed him off.
He tried to tell himself it was lack of sleep.
And oversleeping—he was normally an early riser. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d forgotten his Sunday morning run would be out of whack for the next month or so while Mitchell was in honeymoon phase.
Then Alex tried to blame it on the fact that the day before had been a long one spent running interference with Mitchell’s uptight relatives, wearing a penguin suit, and watching as a half-dozen guys that were not him dance with Emma.
His head snapped up.
And there it was. Emma.
He rapped a fist against his forehead. It had been a mistake to request that song. A mistake to ask her to dance.
But, hell, the mistake had started long before that. It had started when he’d had to watch her walk down the aisle, knowing that she wasn’t walking toward him.
And the pain had only grown sharper when, through some mix of a blessing and a curse, the groomsmen had gotten out of order and he’d had to walk her back down the aisle, the same way they would have seven years ago had things not gone to hell.
And then he’d had to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening watching her flirt with other guys and dance with her girlfriends, and just all around ignore him.
So yeah. He’d asked her to dance.
And the dance had turned into something more.
Which had led to damn fine sex, which had led to…
Her sneaking out at the crack of dawn?
It didn’t make sense.
Except it did.
Because Emma and Alex weren’t just two sexually attracted people who’d met at a wedding and practically lit the bed on fire.
They were two people who’d spent the past year and a half trying to ignore the fact that the other was alive.
The fact that the sex was great…that had been a fluke.
It was just the sexiness of the night at work. In the light of day, there was still a 787’s worth of baggage between them.
She’d been right to remind them both that last night was just that: one night.
Emma was also probably right to leave before they could wake up and do the awkward morning-after thing.
So why was he in a foul mood?
Alex thought about calling Cole Sharpe, who’d been known to be game for a morning run now and then, but then he remembered that he’d spent a good part of the previous evening wanting to punch Cole after he’d danced needlessly close to Emma during that Etta James ballad that played at every damn wedding.
No, he didn’t want to call Cole. Or even see Cole.
Hell, he should fire Cole.
Maybe he should call Jake. Or Sam.
Except then he’d have to watch every damn word that came out of his mouth for fear that his state of being would be reported back to Grace and Riley, which would then be reported back to Emma….
Fine. He’d call no one.
Only…being left alone wasn’t exactly good for his mental state, either. His brain seemed to be going in circles.
This brought Alex back to square one.
He’d call Cole.
He retrieved his cellphone from the nightstand, scrolling through his contacts until he found the sports editor.
Alex’s thumb hesitated over the call button.
And then his thumb moved, scrolling to another name. He dialed before he could change his mind.
Alex’s eyes closed in a silent prayer at the sleepy female voice on the other end as he asked the all-important question….
“Do you still like pancakes?”
Chapter 23
Sleeping with Cassidy hadn’t been the mistake. Not really. Neither had her mistake been agreeing to go to brunch with him.
And the mistake hadn’t been eating three decadent bananas Foster pancakes when she probably should have just had one.
None of those had been her smartest moments, to be sure, but they weren’t the real problem.
The real problem came when she proceeded to spend the rest of the day with him.
As in, she spent all of Sunday with Alex Cassidy.
And, it was…wonderful.
“Okay, Emma, I’m just going to come clean here,” Cassidy said as they stepped out of Starbucks with holiday beverages in hand.
“You’re regretting not getting the gingerbread latte?” she asked, taking a sip of her own delightful confection. “Because you’re not getting a sip of mine—”
