The Trouble with Love

by Lauren Layne

  “Want to make the same mistake again?”

  She smiled back. “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 22

  She’d left him.

  They’d made love until three a.m. At least.

  But when Alex had awoken at seven a.m., there was no sign of her, save for the faint smell of her floral perfume and a satiated feeling his body hadn’t felt in way too long.

  Sex with Emma was the best sex he’d had in a long while.

  Maybe ever.

  And yet . . . she’d left. Snuck out as though she were merely some sort of late-night bootie call.

  A thought hit Alex as he grumpily scooped coffee into his French press and he froze. What if he’d been the bootie call?

  Emma hadn’t been drunk, but she’d been plenty plied with champagne. Enough to make her mellow enough to dance with him.

  Enough to make her come home with him? Was that why she’d slept with him?

  No. That didn’t feel right. She’d been a little buzzy earlier in the evening; they all had. But he’d gone to college with Emma. He knew what drunk Emma looked like, and last night wasn’t it.

  But it still didn’t explain why she’d left.

  Alex changed into his running gear while waiting for the coffee to steep, only to belatedly realize that this wouldn’t be his usual Sunday morning routine. Typically he and Mitchell met every Sunday at Columbus Circle to do a long run around the park; they would occasionally be joined by Julie, who’d do a “short run,” aka, a “hot dog vendor” run.

  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 twenty-something-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 glass 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—”

  He shook his head, turning to walk backward in front of her, somehow managing to avoid running into anyone as he gave her a scathing look. “Eggnog lattes are where it’s at. Everyone knows that.”

  Emma made a gagging motion. “Why would anyone ruin a perfectly good espresso beverage with eggnog?”

  “Take it easy, Scrooge. But, anyway, your crappy taste in holiday coffee beverages wasn’t what I was going to complain about. . . .”

  Emma rolled her eyes, reaching out a hand to tug at his sleeve to prevent him from mowing over a teen with at least a dozen piercings coming from the opposite direction.

  “Fine, get whatever you need to
say out of your system,” she said, hiding her smile by taking a sip of her coffee. Extra caffeinated, courtesy of last night’s lack of sleep.

  He halted in the middle of the sidewalk, holding up a palm so she had to stop, too.

  All traces of teasing dropped from his face, and Emma felt her smile slip. “You sure you want to hear this?” he asked.

  She nodded, even though she wasn’t at all sure.

  Cassidy leaned in slightly. “That museum exhibit you raved about all during breakfast and then dragged me to?” he paused dramatically. “That was probably the worst thing I’ve ever had the misfortune of looking at. And that’s including the time Joe Falet and Chris Dorian both went for a header sophomore year and Joe’s head split wide open. I think I saw brain.”

  Inside, Emma melted in relief. Outwardly, she never lost her droll expression as she jabbed a finger at his chest. “That exhibit is on loan from Vienna, and includes some of the most highly acclaimed art of the century.”

  “This century? Because this century’s pretty young, and I have to think that there’s plenty of time for a golden retriever and some finger paint to set a new standard in the next fifty years.”

  Emma rolled her eyes and continued walking. “You never could appreciate art.”

  But he’d agreed to go with her. No, he’d suggested it, after she’d gotten a bit too enthusiastic about the newly opened MoMA exhibit at brunch.

  “I like art,” he protested. “I’ve evolved. I can identify an impressionist painting, and I’ve got proper respect for Michelangelo’s David, but modern art? No. I stand by my toddlers and dogs can do better theory.”

  “Agree to disagree?” Emma said, taking another sip of her gingerbread latte.

  “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “If you’re okay being wrong.”

  He shifted again, back into that walking-backward position, and she smiled, because he looked so charmingly boyish in his gray hoodie and jeans.

  Her footsteps faltered then as she realized what she was seeing. She was seeing old Cassidy. She stopped altogether, earning an irritated glare from the man behind her, but she barely noticed.

  Cassidy stopped with her, giving her a puzzled look. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she made herself say. “Yeah, just . . . tired.”

  “Drink up,” he said, reaching out a hand and tapping the top of her lid. “Unless, of course, you’d rather have a taste of the eggnog.”

  Emma pushed at his shoulder as they resumed walking.

  “Where to now, Sinclair?” he asked.

  It was such a simple question. One he might have asked a million times if they were together . . . if they were married.

  She took another sip of coffee, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him what the hell they were doing, roaming around the city together like two people who hadn’t agreed just a week ago to stay the hell away from each other.

  He was glancing down at her profile, his expression knowing. “Don’t do it.”

  “Don’t do what?” she asked.

  He smiled ruefully. “Don’t take us there. Not yet. Let us just have one day as friends. For Julie and Mitchell’s sake.”

  “Julie and Mitchell aren’t even here,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “And I’m pretty dang sure they are so not thinking of us right now.”

  He was silent for several minutes. “I’m happy for them.”

  She glanced at him. “You sound surprised by that.”

  He cupped his paper cup with both hands and glanced down as they walked. “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that I’m happy for them . . . but also jealous. Fiercely so.”

  “Ah,” she said, in understanding.

  “Aren’t you?” he asked.

  Emma hesitated a little. “Julie’s one of my best friends. Mitchell, too.”

  They’d come to the western edge of Central Park, and by silent agreement, they sat on one of the available park benches.

  “But, yeah,” Emma said, once they’d settled on the bench. “I get jealous sometimes, too. Not in a begrudging their happiness kind of way, just—”

  “You just wish there was enough to go around,” he said quietly.

  Emma lifted her shoulders. “I guess. But sometimes I’m not sure. It’s like we talked about when I first started my article on my exes. Way back when, I did want to get married. I wanted the husband and the babies and the happily ever after. But now—”

  “You still want that, Emma,” he said, leaning forward and then turning his head to look at her. “I know you do.”

  Emma glanced up at the overcast sky. “Maybe. Do you?”

  He turned his head away, staring down at his coffee cup as he fiddled with the paper sleeve. “Depends.”

  “On?”

  He didn’t respond, and Emma waited. And waited.

  But after a couple minutes of what she assumed was him thinking things over, he turned his face back to hers, the haunted expression of a few moments earlier nowhere to be seen.

  “You ready to make it up to me?”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Make what up to you?”

  “The horrible art exhibit. What else would I be referring to?” he asked with a wide grin.

  “Good question,” she said slowly. “What else would you be referring to? Because we both know that of the two of us, I’m the saint while you—”

  Cassidy stood, dropping his now-empty cup into a nearby trash can and holding a hand out to her. “Come on. You owe me for making me stare at that blue blob for thirty minutes and then having another thirty-minute conversation over whether it was inspired by the artist’s dead wife or his morning dump.”

  “Um, that was your assessment, not mine,” Emma said, accepting the offer of his extended hand and standing. “If you would have read the placard, it clearly said—”

  Cassidy put a finger over her mouth. “Creepy art time is over. No, what I propose is a little less hoity-toity, but a lot more fun.”

  “Sex?” Emma asked, giving him a you’re such a guy look.

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “I like where your head’s at, Sinclair, I do, but I was thinking more along the lines of gelato at Eataly.”

  “Gelato? We just ate breakfast.”

  “Good point,” he said, putting up no fight whatsoever. “We’ll go with your idea. Sex it is. My place or yours? Scratch that . . . my place. Because your place is actually Camille’s place, and my package refuses to be exposed to that environment.”

  “Your package isn’t going to be exposed at all,” Emma said, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “We agreed that last night was a onetime thing. Remember?”

  “Sure,” he said, slipping his hand in hers and pulling her back in the direction of their building. “But that was before.”

  “Before what?” she asked, looking up at him.

  He gave her a slight frown, as though the answer was obvious. “Pancakes, Emma. Clearly. Why, what were you thinking?”

  Emma didn’t reply, but she did smile.

  Come to think of it, she’d smiled more today than she had in a long, long time.

  Chapter 24

  With Julie out of the office for the next two weeks, Emma had high hopes of getting off easy when it came to the postwedding rundown.

  She’d known that Julie had seen her dancing with Cassidy, but was pretty sure Grace and Riley hadn’t.

  Five seconds after walking into the office on Monday morning, those hopes were dashed.

  The door to their office was generally kept open to avoid a claustrophobic feel, but it was closed when Emma arrived.

  Opening it, she found Grace and Riley doing a goofy slow dance to . . . that damn Carrie Underwood–Randy Travis song.

  Emma dropped her purse on her desk, trying to look stern, but a smile slipped out as she put hands on her hips. “Really. Really?”

  “Shh,” Grace said, resting her head on Riley’s shoulder. “We’re having a moment.”

  “The good kind of moment,”
Riley said, before starting to make some sort of Elvis pelvis move.

  Emma stuck her arm between their bodies, pushing her friends apart. “Ha. Freaking. Ha. Let me guess: Julie called you and reported that I’d danced with Cassidy?”

  “Of course she didn’t call,” Grace said, going to her laptop to stop the music blaring from its crappy speakers. “It was her wedding night.”

  “Yeah, don’t be a dolt, Ems,” Riley said, pulling a box of doughnut holes—they still made those—from her purse and popping one in her mouth. “She texted.”

  Emma started to ask what Julie’s text had said, but clamped her mouth shut. The less said, the better. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her friends, but neither was she about to volunteer that she and Cassidy had spent all of Saturday night in bed. And she definitely wasn’t about to tell them that they’d spent half of Sunday day in bed, too.

  Watching her friends fall in love had given Emma plenty of I told you so moments. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to be on the receiving end, even though she’d definitely earned it. Karma really was a bitch.

  But to her surprise, Grace and Riley didn’t ask. They didn’t even fish. Grace had turned back to her computer, and Riley was eating her third doughnut hole as she used her thumb to scroll through Twitter on her phone.

  Emma’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but when they still didn’t say a word, she turned her chair around to boot up her computer.

  “Oh,” Grace said, in a casual, by-the-way tone. “Cassidy stopped by this morning. Asked if you could head up to see him.”

  Ah. There it was.

  Emma matched Grace’s casual tone. “Did he say what he wanted?” Emma asked, toying with a hair rubber band as she spun her chair around to face them.

  “You know, he did,” Riley said around a mouthful of doughnut. “Starts with a p and rhymes with . . . with . . . wait, is there no word that rhymes with pussy? That can’t be right.”

  Emma flicked the rubber bad at Riley, hitting her between her impressive boobs.

  “Ow!” Riley said, rubbing the spot.

  “Seriously, did he say what he wanted?”

  “Said your article wasn’t turned in with the rest of ours on Friday,” Grace said, her voice curious.