The Trouble With Love (17 page)

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 whatsoever.

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.

The Cassidy who had wanted to be a star soccer player, president of his frat, top student, and later, wunderkind at her father’s company.

The Cassidy who wanted more than what he knew how to make happen.

Acting on instinct, she went to stand beside him. She didn’t touch him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to—or could. But she wanted to be there for him, somehow. Wanted to ease whatever restless pain seemed to be eating at him.

Wanted to
help
him. Even as she knew she was the cause for his torment.

“You want to know what I remember,” he said quietly, his fingers fiddling with his cuffs as he rolled the sleeves up to his elbow, his eyes locked on the view before them.

She nodded.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and dipped his head just slightly, glancing at the floor before lifting it and staring out at the night sky.

“I remember
everything
.” His voice was low. Raspy. Intimate.

Emma closed her eyes, even though he wasn’t looking at her.

“I remember every damned thing,” he continued, gaze still straight ahead. “I remember how I thought you were so shy up until our first date when I realized you had a bawdy, brash sense of humor. I still remember the jolt I got when you first touched my hand. I remember our first kiss, our first fight.” He took a deep breath. “I remember our
last
kiss, our
last
fight.”

“Cassidy.” Her voice was a whisper.

He grinned then. She saw it out of the corner of her eye. “I love that you’ve only ever called me Cassidy.”

She shrugged. “It was all anyone called you back then.”

“Which made sense when everyone knew me best by what was written on my jersey. But you’ve kept it up even with my soccer days long behind me. And you’ve got everyone else doing it, too. Nobody ever calls me Alex.”

Emma pressed her lips together, not wanting to admit that part of the reason she held on to the old name was because she was trying to hold on to the old memories, in some tiny, harmless way.

Except there was no such thing as harmless memories. Not when it came to the two of them.

He turned to face her, his familiar features shadowed. “Ask me what else I remember.”

She started to turn away, but his hand touched her arm.

“Ask me,” he commanded.

Emma shook her head, feeling both terrified and the most alive she’d felt in years.

He waited patiently until her eyes met his. “I remember
us,
Emma.”

Emma couldn’t look away.

In the light of day, it was easy for Emma to convince herself that she was an independent woman who didn’t need a man.
Any
man.

But at night, with nothing but the twinkling Manhattan skyline and Alex Cassidy in her vision?

It was harder.

Harder to remember that this was the man who’d once left her standing all alone in a very puffy white dress.

And harder to forget that once being in this man’s arms had been the best part of her day.

The best part of her
life
.

She told herself to move. To
run
. But his eyes held her still.

He moved closer and slipped an arm around her, his hand finding the small of her back.

“You used to love it when I put my hand here.” Cassidy’s voice was rough.

She lifted her chin slightly. “Did I? Must have blocked that out.” But the way the heat from his palm branded her made the lie come out just a little bit breathlessly.

His hand pressed, pulling her closer until there was nothing between them but their stormy past. “You sure about that?”

“Yup,” she said, her eyes looking anywhere but his. “You’re utterly forgettable.”

His other hand found her chin, his fingers lifting her face to his. “Prove it.”

Emma’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes found his mouth, which was now just inches away from hers.

He stepped even closer, and Emma couldn’t breathe.

He whispered her name and she closed her eyes. She could smell him, feel him . . .
wanted
him.

She wanted this. She wanted so badly to have his lips on hers again. To remember how it had felt to be in his arms.

To remember how it felt to be loved and cherished.

Cherished
.

Emma’s eyes flew open.

Cassidy had never cherished her. Not really. Not in the way that was lasting and real. He had walked away the
second
things got hard.

What am I doing?

It had taken her years to pick up the pieces after this man shattered her heart. She couldn’t do it again.

Wouldn’t
do it again.

Emma stepped back.

His hand at her back resisted only briefly before he let her go, his gaze puzzled.

She stepped back even further. “If you want to take a trip down memory lane, have at it, but don’t expect me to come with you.”

Hurt flashed across his face before anger settled over his features. “I wasn’t the only one feeling it, Emma. You forget that I
know
you. I know I’m not the only one who wishes we could turn back time. I’m not the only one who wants—”

“We can’t just go back, Cassidy.”

Her hardly spoken words seemed to rattle against the window, echoing through the apartment before hanging between them like a poisonous ghost.

There
. She wished some of her old boyfriends could see her now. There was nothing cold and unfeeling about her current state of turmoil. It was always there. Always threatening to boil over.

His jaw clenched and he inhaled, but said nothing.

“We can’t just go backward,” she said, more calmly this time. “We have good memories. A lot of them. But we have bad memories, too, and—”

“And we get to choose which ones we hold on to,” he interrupted. “We get a
choice,
Emma. And you’re intentionally making the wrong one—”

“The safe one, Cassidy. I’m making the
safe
choice, and I won’t apologize for it.”

He crossed his arms, looking both agitated and disdainful. “We’re adults. Don’t we owe it to each other—”