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“Do I?”
“Yes,” she said, sweeping past him and entering his apartment as though she owned the place. “I talked to Julie and she said that you had in-person discussions with the rest of the columnists about their December stories. I didn
’t get the in-person part, or the discussion. A mandated story topic via email? Really?”
“Gosh, I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to have this friendly chat in person,” he muttered as he shut the door.
Emma moved into the main living room area and looked around. The layout of his apartment was almost identical to Camille’s, but that’s where the similarities ended. Camille preferred fancy, fussy furniture and a billion pillows and pictures and lamps.
Alex was well aware that his own taste was classic minimalist bachelor. A sleek black sofa, basic coffee table, a bar-height dining table for two. He kept the lighting low. Liked the way it accentuated the city lights.
Emma ran a finger over the dark wood of his sideboard as she stepped all the way into the room. “Very . . . you.”
“You know what I like about you, Emma? How you can manage so much insult into just two words.”
She turned to face him, her only response a wink.
“Drink?” he asked.
“Yes, please. I had just poured myself a glass when I got derailed by a visitor.”
“Oh, yeah?” He pulled the cork off a bottle of open red on the counter and reached for two glasses.
“Yep.”
Her voice never lost its perfectly civil edge. Neither did his.
But when she announced that it was Danielle who had stopped by, Alex might have faltered while pouring the wine. Just for a half second.
“My girlfriend came to see you,” he said, handing her the glass.
“Ex-girlfriend from the way I heard it,” Emma said, lifting her eyebrows as she took a sip of wine.
He took a sip of his own wine and watched her. “So that’s the real reason you’re here. Rub salt in the wound?”
“Honestly?” she swirled her glass and watched the wine. “Yes. I had a . . . shall we say bit of pique about the way you forced a story on me via email. Thought this seemed like a good chance to get back at you.”
“Yeah, you’re really the picture of a woman bent on vengeance,” he said, taking in the haughty tilt of her chin and the coolness in her eyes.
Emma shrugged. “The revenge urged passed. Being petty wasn’t worth the effort.”
Alex was surprised by how much her disinterest bothered him. Just once, he wanted her to get riled. Just once he wanted to know how she felt . . . if she felt.
But even as he longed to shake her—to tell her to get mad or frustrated or sad about anything—he couldn’t do so without being entirely hypocritical.
Because, strangely enough, he suspected that he and Emma understood each other better than anyone else. They’d both spent an extraordinary amount of their energy keeping messy emotions at bay.
“Danielle wanted Benedict Wade’s phone number,” Emma said.
That made him choke on his wine. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely immune. He did have some pride, after all. “What?”
Emma nodded. “You did see what went on between them that night when he and I went on our date, right?”
“Damn,” Alex muttered. “I guess I thought it was odd, but I thought it was just a fleeting thing. What kind of woman leaves a stable relationship because of sexy eye contact with a stranger?”
“The smart ones,” Emma said, tapping her fingernails against her glass. “Trust me, you have no idea how rare it is to feel that kind of tug toward another person.”
“That why you have twelve exes to talk about in your next article?”
