The Trouble with Love

by Lauren Layne

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I issued a command like that. It was poorly done.”

  She studied him, then entered the office and sat across from him. She was wearing a dark green dress with a high neck and wide belt. Her heels were at least four inches high, her hair pulled back into some sort of knot thing, and she looked . . . untouchable.

  Which was too bad, because his hands itched to untidy her hair, to wrinkle the too-perfect dress, to remind her of how it had been—

  He cleared his throat.

  She crossed her legs and leveled a stony stare at him.

  He stared right back. “Give me a break, Emma. You think I want to be your boss right now?”

  “You didn’t hesitate to use the opportunity to give me a story you knew would be miserable.”

  “You didn’t look so miserable the other night some guy had his tongue down your throat.”

  She tilted her head. “You know, if Camille were here, she’d tell me that kiss would only serve to make my story more interesting.”

  Alex clicked his pen and fought for calm. She was right, of course. He should be responding to her as editor-in-chief. Not as personal anything.

  But with every day that passed, Alex seemed to grow more aware of their history. More conscious of their unfinished business.

  More aware of Emma.

  As a woman.

  As his woman.

  Well. Former.

  Damn it.

  “Fine,” he said, sitting back in his chair and spreading his hands to the side. “Tell me about this guy then. As a boss.”

  She folded her hands on her lap. “Joel Lambert. We dated for two years.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Two years. Not insignificant.”

  She shrugged. “We were together for three.”

  “Look how well that worked out.”

  She smiled. “Exactly.”

  “So why’d you break up?”

  “You’ll have to read the article.”

  “Well, I would, if you’d finish it,” he said.

  “It’s not done yet,” she snapped. “It’s the most time-consuming story I’ve had in months.”

  Wrong. He leaned forward. “You sure the reason you’re not done yet has nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been saving the most crucial interview for last?”

  “You flatter yourself,” she said, looking at her fingernails.

  “I proposed,” he half-snarled. “I should think that earns me a spot in your story about exes.”

  She gave a bored sigh and met his eyes. “So did Joel.”

  Alex’s agitated pen clicking pen stopped immediately, and for some reason, he felt like his stomach had dropped out at the thought of Emma engaged to another man.

  He wanted to ask questions.

  When Joel had asked. If Emma had said yes only to rip the guy’s heart out when she later backed out.

  If she’d loved him.

  But he was too worried about what it would give away. So instead he pushed her. “When are we finishing this, Emma?”

  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, that 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 damned 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, but not in a trendy, hipster kind of way, but in a way that showed off his trim build in 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.

  Emma didn’t even argue as she shut the front door. It probably was better.

  “So why am I annoying?” he asked as she wandered back into the kitchen. He’d already found the wine glasses.

  She waved a hand over him. “Just . . . too good looking.”

  His hand faltered in pouring the wine. Just briefly, but enough for her to know she’d caught him off guard.

  “Don’t get excited,” she said, reaching out and plucking a wine glass from his hand. “I point it out as an annoyance because the good looks hide a rather dismal character.”

  He blinked and although she’d meant the comment as off-the-cuff and teasing, she had the strangest sense that she’d hurt him.

  Then he blinked again, and the moment was over. He clinked his glass against hers and gave her a cocky wink. “You once thought that dismal character was pretty damn alluring.”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed “Mmm. That part of my life is all very fuzzy. Shall we?” She gestured toward the living room. She’d done every single one of her interviews there, and she was determined to keep Cassidy’s exactly the same.

  To prove to him—and to herself—that he wasn’t special.

  The knowing look on his face said he knew exactly what she was about, but gave a gracious nod. “This is the hot seat, right?” he asked, gesturing to the chair where the other guys had sat, before settling his long frame.

  Emma found her spot on the love seat, and traded her wine glass for the notebook on the table. “I bet Camille had no idea just how many male butts would be visiting her furniture while she was gone.”

  “Have you heard from her?” Cassidy asked. “I’ve gotten a few emails, but all work related with bossy demands about the magazine.”

  Emma shook her head. “She checked in the first week to see if I was settling in okay, but nothing since then.”

  “She gets back in a month and a half, right? She’ll miss Julie’s wedding.”

  “Yeah, I was surprised about that,” Emma said, picking up her glass and swirling it. “Julie’s been at Stiletto longer than any of us, and Camille’s always been almost a mother figure to her.”

  “Was Julie upset that Camille won’t be there?”

  “Surprisingly, no. Julie’s turned into a full-on romantic now that she and Mitchell are approaching wedded bliss. I think she’d much rather have Camille off having naked time with her man than make a token appearance at her wedding.”

  Cassidy winced. “Camille having naked time? You had to throw that out there? You hate me that much?”

  Emma smiled. “You’ll have to read my article to find out about my level of hate. But first . . .”

  Cassidy leaned forward, his expression turning intense. “Right. The questions.”

  “Yup. You only get three, just like everyone else. Which you probably know, considering you forced your way into the meetings with Jason and Leroy.”

  Leroy was a guy she’d dated for about two weeks when she was feeling especially lonely, and consequently blind to the fact that Leroy was weird. Like, watching her sleep weird.

  Cassidy had intercepted Leroy in the elevator a few days ago, and Emma had been all too glad when he’d once again crashed her interview.

  “Leroy looked a little deranged,” Cassidy said, as though reading her thoughts. “In the elevator he actually referred to you as his ‘illustrious lady love.’ I tagged along to protect you,” Cassidy said.

  “Please,” Emma said, giving him a look. “You were there for the entertainment.”

  Cassidy grinned. “I admit, I so was not expecting him to burst into tears as he reminisced about the afternoon you two spent at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.”

  “Trust me, he is a man who loved flowers way more than he ever loved me.”

  Cassidy studied her. “You don’t seem bothered by that.”

  “I’m not,” she said with a shrug. “It takes an awful lot to get under my skin.”

  “Since when? You didn’t used to be so—”

  “So what?” She leaned forward, matching his posture. “So cold? Unreachable? Bitchy?”

  He held her gaze for several moments without answering. Then: “Ask the questions, Emma.”

  “Why are you so insistent on this?” she asked.

  “Why are you so reluctant?”

  “I’m not,” she protested. “I’m just . . . you know what? Fine. Let’s do this.”

  He lifted his glass and settled back in his chair. Emma pulled her notebook onto her lap as she crossed her legs and took a deep breath. “Okay, so I had to tweak the first question for you. With the rest of the guys, I asked for their reaction when I emailed them asking for their participation about story, but since you were the one that forced this upon me—”

  “You could have said no,” he interrupted.

  She ignored him. “So the revised, special Alex Cassidy version of question one: What was your reaction when I agreed to tell this story?”

  Cassidy swirled his wine. “Honestly, I thought for sure you’d say no. You probably should have. As you’ve rightly accused, it was a jerk power move on my part. So I guess, to be completely accurate, you could say surprise was my first reaction. But to be honest, that feels like the cop-out answer.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because it might have been my first reaction, but it wasn’t the strongest one. Nor the most important.”

  Emma took a swallow of wine, but it did nothing to help her sudden shortness of breath, nor the pounding of her heart. “Okay . . . so if not surprise—”

  “Fear.”

  “Fear?” That had so not been what she expected. She’d been thinking smugness. Maybe relief or curiosity. But fear?

  “What were you scared of?”

  He shook his head and looked away. “I have no idea.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “That’s what you want me to put in print? That you were scared, but don’t know why?”

  He met her eyes. “You and I both know that this story was never about Stiletto. You’ll write the story. I’ll print the story. But let’s not pretend for one second that this isn’t one hundred percent personal.”

  “I won’t deny that,” Emma said, keeping her voice level. “It still doesn’t explain why your reaction to my acquiescence was fear. Whatever my reasons for taking on this story, I’m still committed to making it accurate.”

  They fell quiet for several moments before Cassidy broke the silence. “Perhaps my fear came from the suspicion that there was more unfinished business between us than I cared to admit.”

  She started to write down his response out of habit, but then stopped. “Has that suspicion proved correct?”

  He studied her. “TBD.”

  Emma threw her hands up in exasperation. “Okay, I can’t write that, either. So far, my story is going to be like eleven days of exes, and one day of a big fat question mark.”

  His lips twitched. “Why don’t we go on to the second question? We’ll figure out the first one later.”

  “Fine,” she muttered. “When you think of our time together, what do you most remember? It can be a general feeling or a specific moment—”

  He held up a finger. “You can save the explanation. Heard this one before.”

  Emma made a by all means gesture with her wine glass, and sat back casually as though his answer to this question had no effect on her whatsoe
ver.

  Which, was of course, the biggest of lies.

  From the moment she’d come up with the three stupid questions for her story, her nights had been haunted by wondering just what he’d have to say.

  She didn’t want to hear that he had regrets—she wasn’t sure she could handle it. But the alternative was almost worse.

  What if Cassidy looked back on their past and felt nothing but relief? Relief that he’d escaped what had been doomed to be a loveless marriage at the last hour.

  Because Cassidy must have known all along that their marriage wasn’t one for the fairy tales. Just as her father had known.

  And her sister.

  Emma had been the only clueless one.

  “What I remember most about our time together . . .” Cassidy swirled his wine thoughtfully.

  “Oh, come on,” Emma said impatiently. “You’ve had, like, three weeks to think about this.”

  “You’re right. I’ll just go get my daily journal then, shall I? The one where I’ve spent hours agonizing over this conversation?”

  He hooked a finger into his collar as though it was too tight. A decidedly un-Cassidy-like gesture.

  She learned forward as realization dawned. “You’re nervous.”

  He set his glass on the table with a clink and stood, looking a bit like a caged animal. “I’m not nervous. I’m just . . .”

  She set her own glass and notebook aside. “Just what? What is it you remember about us, Cassidy?”

  Instead of answering he shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the chair before going to the window and crossing his arms. He rolled his shoulders as though he was still agitated before loosening his tie.

  Emma watched him in puzzlement. This was not the Cassidy she’d grown accustomed to in the past couple years.

  This was the old Cassidy; the one who seemed to have too much energy, too much ambition, too much feeling to be contained in one person’s body.

  This was the Cassidy who had taken his team to the national championship despite debilitating issues with his hip flexors.