The Trouble with Love

by Lauren Layne

  Two months later, they were spending nearly every evening and most weekends together.

  Two years later, Joel had taken Emma to a swanky steakhouse in Rockefeller Center, and proposed sometime between Emma’s filet migon and the crème brûlée they’d agreed to split.

  Two minutes after the proposal went down, the only thing splitting was Joel and Emma. She’d finished the crème brûlée alone.

  No ring.

  No Joel.

  She didn’t blame him for being angry and hurt. She did sort of blame him for the way he shouted “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” which had brought the entire restaurants’ attention their way. Didn’t exactly love getting stuck with the enormous bill on a then-paltry salary, either.

  But she got it. She understood. Her embarrassment had been nothing compared to his pain. And she was betting her credit card had recovered a lot faster than his pride.

  But the worst part was that Emma truly hadn’t known that she didn’t want to marry Joel. She knew he thought she’d played with his heart . . . strung him along only to publicly humiliate him. But she truly hadn’t known until he’d been down on one knee that she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t marry him. Didn’t want to marry anyone.

  True to his last words, Joel Lambert had never called her again.

  But maybe his bitterness had dissipated in the three years since they’d parted ways, because he’d promptly and courteously responded to her request to meet.

  Either he was over their heated parting, or he’d be showing up with an ax hell-bent on revenge.

  The phone buzzed, and she told the doorman to send Joel up.

  She bit her fingernail. Maybe she should have invited someone over for moral support on this one. But Julie, Grace, and Riley didn’t know the full story about Joel, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to answer their inevitable questions about why she’d said no to a trust fund millionaire who had the facial features of a young Brad Pitt and would walk out of his way through the Flower District on his way home to get her fresh tulips.

  She didn’t even know how to explain it to herself, other than it hadn’t felt right.

  Emma took a deep breath and opened the door to a soft but assertive knock.

  He looked . . . the same.

  A little heavier. He’d always been a bigger guy—not overweight, just the body type that was naturally suited toward bear hugs and cuddling. He seemed every bit larger than life now, with broad shoulders and a wide smile.

  Yes, a smile.

  No sign of an ax.

  “Hey, Ems.”

  “Joel.”

  He opened his arms and she went to him, squeezing him because he felt good. Like a warm blanket you pull out of the closet on the first night of fall that feels perfectly cozy.

  His hug enveloped her, and he squeezed her tight. She squeezed back, laughing a little, before she leaned away and ushered him in.

  He shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the hook as he looked around. “This is so not how I imagined your place. You used to hate clutter.”

  “Still do,” she said. “I’m in between homes. This is my boss’s place, but she’s letting me stay in the guest room while she’s out of the country with a new boy toy.”

  “Well, the view’s great, even if the rest of the place looks like a Versailles replica,” Joel said, strolling toward the window to take in the evening view.

  “Right? Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Whiskey?”

  Joel had never been a wine guy.

  “Scotch? Neat. If you have it.”

  “I do.” Well, Camille had it. But Camille had said to help herself. Hopefully the Scotch wasn’t ridiculously expensive. But, hey, even if it was . . . this could be counted as a work expense. Sort of.

  “So, Ems, a story on ex-boyfriends?” he said, smiling his thanks as she handed him the glass. “That doesn’t seem like you.”

  “Does it seem like anyone?” she asked, pouring a glass of iced tea for herself. “I’ll confess, it’s not exactly my idea of a good time, but it’s part of the job.”

  “Right. Stiletto, huh? That’s what you said in your email? When we were together you were still at the fashion one—”

  “Runway,” she said, picking up her notebook off the counter and moving to the living room.

  “Right.”

  “And you?” she said. “Still at the same firm?”

  “Yup. Angling toward partner in the next couple years if I play my cards right.”

  “Congrats,” she said, meaning it. Joel didn’t need to work. His family was richer than sin. But he’d loved his job as a corporate law attorney.

  He sat across from her, dwarfing the chair in a way none of the other men had, and leaned forward, glass between his big hands, studying her intently. Curiously.

  “You look exactly the same,” he said, sounding slightly awed.

  She laughed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I assure you, we women like to hear it.”

  “I’m serious!” he said. “Ever since I got your email I’ve been wondering how you’d changed. If you changed. But you’re still the exact same woman I remember.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I like the sound of that, seeing how we ended.”

  His smile didn’t fade, but it did soften a bit. “Well . . . let’s just say one really shitty night doesn’t erase a bunch of great ones.”

  Emma swallowed a lump in her throat. This was going to be hard.

  She looked down at her notebook. “Okay, so . . . I’ve been asking all the guys—”

  “All of them?”

  She glanced up warily, but he merely gave her a playful wink and settled back in his chairs. “Sorry, go ahead. You’ve been asking all of us . . .”

  Emma smiled. “The same three questions. Answer as honestly as you can. I promise not to put your name in it.”

  “Yeah, but you promise not to cry?”

  Her mouth opened, and he laughed at her expression. “Kidding. I’ve got no intention of being cruel, and even if I did, I cannot imagine Emma Sinclair shedding a tear.”

  She glanced down. Nope. All dried up.

  “Okay, Lambert, first question,” she said, faking a jovial tone. Then she looked up, met his eyes. “And remember, be honest.”

  He gestured with his glass for her to continue. “When you got my email requesting a meeting . . . what was your first reaction?”

  Joel’s eyes stayed steady on hers. “Hope.”

  Emma had been poised to take notes, but her pen faltered. This had been everything she’d been afraid of.

  “Sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear,” he said softly. “But you’re one of those girls a guy doesn’t forget, Ems. Especially a guy who wanted to marry you.”

  Her eyes closed briefly and she opened them, forcing herself to write down his response even though she knew she wouldn’t be forgetting this awkward moment anytime soon. Damn Cassidy for putting her in this position.

  “Okay, next question,” she blurted out, even though his statement deserved a response. A response she couldn’t give. “When you think back to our relationship, the time we spent together, what do you remember? It can be a moment, a feeling—”

  He took a sip of his whiskey, his expression thoughtful. “I doubt this is the most clever response you’ve gotten to that question, but that first night we met feels like it’s forever ingrained in my memory. I knew you were the one for me. I know it was one-sided. Knew that there was no love at first sight on your end. But that was okay, I told myself. I told myself I’d make you love me. In a nonpsychotic way, of course,” he added with a grin.

  “Of course,” she murmured, her fingers feeling shaky as she wrote in her notebook.

  Then she made herself look up. “Joel . . .”

  He shook his head. “You don’t have to say anything. Just ask your last question.”

  She let out a sigh, unsure if she was relieved he wasn’t going to force the conversatio
n, or disconcerted that he was dropping all sorts of bombs on her and she was just sitting there like an emotionless lump.

  Compared to him, she felt . . . cold. Well, compared to pretty much anyone she felt cold. Like all the love and feeling that came effortlessly to other people was dead inside her. And Joel’s words magnified that feeling tenfold.

  “Okay, last question.” Her voice was croaky, so she tried again. “Last question. What do you remember about why we broke up?”

  His smile was forced this time. “Well . . . that’s an easy one. I wanted to get married. You didn’t. A guy definitely doesn’t forget getting rejected in public while he’s down on one knee.”

  Emma withheld the wince. Barely.

  “I had to ask,” she said, feeling foolish. “I mean, I’m trying to keep the interview questions the same with everyone, so it’s not like I wanted to rub it in—”

  “Ems.” He leaned forward and smiled. “It’s been a few years. I said I hadn’t forgotten, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t healed. I promise I’m not going to throw myself out the window on this incredibly high floor you’re living on.”

  She nodded toward his near empty Scotch glass. “More?”

  “Nah, I’m good. What else do you need from me?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. As promised, this was short and sweet. I just needed five minutes. But if there’s anything else you want to add . . .”

  He held her gaze. “There’s lots I want to add. Nothing you want to hear.”

  And then he stood, draining the rest of his drink before moving to the kitchen and setting the glass carefully in the sink. She hadn’t remembered him being that tidy when they were together.

  “Thanks for coming, Joel,” she said, setting her notes on the coffee table and standing. “I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

  He shrugged. “Well, I admit my first reaction was to say no, but then I realized that I needed to say something to you.”

  Emma swallowed.

  He clasped his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling as though looking for the right words. “I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he said.

  She blinked. So not what she expected.

  “Sorry for causing a scene that night. Sorry for leaving you with the bill, obviously. But mostly . . . I’m sorry for asking you to marry me. I meant it when I said you’d make me the happiest man on earth, but I knew—I knew—that I wasn’t the one that could make you happy. But I asked anyway.”

  He glanced down at the counter. “It was selfish of me. And I’m sorry.”

  Emma groaned. “Joel, you are ridiculously good. You know that, right? An annoyingly good guy. You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “Not even for the restaurant bill?” he asked with a smile.

  “Okay, yes, two-hundred-dollar champagne wasn’t exactly in my budget.”

  “Well, I’d say I owed you, but I was only able to get fifty percent of the cost of the engagement ring back, sooo . . .” He winked.

  “Call it even?” Emma said as she walked him to the door.

  He pulled his coat off the hook, draping it over his arm as she opened the door.

  He stepped into the hallway then turned back, his broad body taking up all the space in the door.

  Joel’s smiling eyes turned sad for a moment as he looked down at her, his smile fading into something that looked like contentment. As though he knew this was the last time they’d see each other, and was at peace with it.

  He used two fingers to tilt her chin up to his, then laid his lips against hers, softly. Lingering only for a second before pulling away. “Good-bye, Emma. I hope you find whatever you’re looking for. Or ditch whatever haunts you.”

  Joel turned away then, nodding with a quiet good night to the man who’d just approached to the neighboring apartment.

  Cassidy.

  Cassidy nodded briefly to a departing Joel, but his eyes never left Emma’s. His expression betrayed nothing, but Emma knew he’d seen the whole thing. Seen the kiss.

  She lifted her chin, refusing to feel embarrassed or guilty.

  He unlocked his door and entered his apartment. The door closed without a word uttered between them.

  Emma closed her own door, then stood there for several moments, unmoving.

  Then she leaned her forehead against the door and closed her eyes. Joel’s parting words echoed in her ears.

  I hope you find whatever you’re looking for. Or ditch whatever haunts you.

  It was good advice.

  But what if what she was looking for and what was haunting her were the exact same thing?

  Chapter 16

  There were few things Alex dreaded more than the weekly meetings with the Stiletto team. Not because they weren’t a group of competent, driven, and insightful women. In many ways, the types of discussion weren’t unlike his weekly meeting with the Oxford team.

  But the topics of discussion?

  Painful. Utterly painful.

  “Mr. Cassidy?” one of the shy girls asked from the other end of the table. Kristen? Kirsten? “Any thoughts on which direction you want to go?”

  Shit. He’d zoned out. And not even in a distracted sort of way, but in the deliberate way in which someone lets the brain wander because it simply does not have an opinion on tampons, types of yogurt, or navy nail polish.

  “I trust your judgment,” he said, giving the petite blonde a confident smile.

  He was pretty sure he heard a snort from the Relationships section of the table. Most of the rest of the Stiletto team seemed either in awe of his presence or embarrassed by it, but Grace, Riley, and Julie seemed amused. At his expense.

  As for Emma . . . hard to tell. She was doing her usual stone-faced thing.

  Had been ever since that night he’d caught her kissing her ex-boyfriend. Alex’s fingers clenched on his pen, and he shifted his attention to her end of the table.

  “What about you four? How are things coming on the December articles?”

  “Great!” Grace said. “‘Stocking Stuffers He’ll Actually Use’ is nearly done, even though it’s been a pain in the ass to write it in October.”

  Alex nodded distractedly. It was weird discussing Christmas in October, but it was the nature of the magazine timeline.

  “Ri?”

  “Well, since you wouldn’t let me do ‘Logistics of Sex Under the Christmas Tree,’ I’m going with ‘Festive Lingerie.’ Found a bra with little gingerbread men on the nipples.”

  Alex winced.

  “There’s a how-to on under-the-tree sex?” Emma asked. “Don’t you just do it?”

  Riley gave her a patient look. “Five words: pine needles up the ass.”

  “Jesus,” Alex muttered. “Julie, how’s your story?”

  “Not started,” she said with a cheeky grin. “I get married in two weeks. I’ve been prioritizing. But it’ll get done.”

  He clicked his pen. “Refresh my memory?”

  “‘Surviving the In-Laws.’”

  “Speaking from personal experience?” Riley asked.

  Julie sighed. “Mitchell’s mom is planning ahead and insisting on a posed family photo in front of the Christmas tree. She bought me a red headband. With sparkles.”

  “Pretty,” Emma said. “Do you get to wear a jumper, too?”

  Alex rubbed his temple. A headache was definitely on its way. “Emma? Your story?”

  Her eyes locked on his. “It’s fine.”

  Everyone looked at her, waiting for her to say more.

  She didn’t.

  Then everyone looked at him, waiting for him to demand more.

  He didn’t.

  Alex looked away from her as though he didn’t care one way or another about her story. As though he didn’t want to know every little detail about the guy who’d been kissing her in the hallway the night before.

  He did want to know.

  But he didn’t trust his own reaction. Not with an entire conference room full of women watching him.


  “Okay, fitness team, you’re up.”

  He swore he saw Emma give her friends a smug smile out of the corner of his eye, and he gritted his teeth. If she thought she’d gotten out of having to update him on her progress, she had another thing coming.

  The second the meeting was over, Alex was the first one to the door, but he stopped and let everyone else exit before him. He did so under the guise of calling them each by name and letting them know he was here if they needed him, despite the fact that he didn’t understand girly bullshit.

  But mostly he was waiting for her.

  She was the last one out. Intentionally so, if he knew her at all. Which he did.

  She was set to walk right past him, when he said her name. “Emma.”

  She paused, not looking at him, and he almost smiled. He was almost starting to enjoy this game they played. A few months ago, the ignoring of each other had been complete and genuine. But watching her ignore him now, even though they’d shared a hamburger and wine last weekend, gave him a strange sense of intimacy. As though the two of them held a secret.

  “Can you come by my office later?”

  She looked at him then, her eyes wide. “You mean I’m actually getting a meeting with my illustrious boss? I hope you let me type something for you. Maybe I can bring you coffee? Do you need me to fetch your dry-cleaning first?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Just be there. Two o’clock?”

  She rolled her eyes back and walked out of the room without a response.

  He figured there was a fifty-fifty chance of her showing up. He almost relished the surprise.

  Alex went back to his office on the Oxford floor of the building, only to have a cluster of fire drills to put out. The most recent cover shoot had been a disaster because the action movie star had been stoned. Yet another advertiser had pulled out. Two of his designers had called in sick. One of Cole’s scorned women had come by seeking vengeance. Two of Lincoln’s women had come by looking for an office booty call.

  Two o’clock rolled around before he knew it, and he hated himself for checking his watch and the door every thirty seconds.

  She arrived at 2:10.

  “Wasn’t expecting to see you,” he said, gesturing her in.

  She put a hand over her chest, and her pretty eyes went wide as she slipped into a southern accent. “Why, goodness me, Mr. Cassidy, I should never think to stand up a man expectin’ me—you just never said whether I should be gettin’ you a coffee or pickin’ up your dry-cleanin’ or—”