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“Okay, about that,” she said pointing a finger at him. “If we do this story, I do it my way. You write it as I publish it. No interference, no power plays as my temporary boss, and no getting weird because of our personal history.”
“But you’ll write it?” he asked.
“Of course. If I don’t write it, won’t you manage to convince yourself that I’m trying to hide something?”
He watched her over his glass. “Trust me, Em, you’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m all but dead to you.”
She tilted her head. “Mutual though, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” he replied. Because he had to.
Their eyes held for a second too long, and suddenly he became all too aware that for the first time in years, he and Emma Sinclair were in the same room. Alone.
Making matters worse, he was recently single, she was available, as far as he knew, and between the wine and the dim lighting and the quiet jazz, the mood was . . . arresting.
No. The woman was arresting.
But that wasn’t what was eating at him. What burned at the corners of his consciousness was the realization that this could have been their path. Would have been their path had they not been two foolish kids who’d let pride and secrets rip them apart.
He’d used to dream about this. In college, when his life had mostly been a whirlwind of media attention for his soccer career and parties, he’d dreamed about what would happen after, when it was just the two of them, and he could just be.
Emma had been his place of calm. The one who’d centered him.
Right up until the point she’d left him.
She took another sip of her wine. “I should be going. You hardly look devastated over your breakup, so there goes all of my plans of making you cry yourself to sleep.”
He smiled. “I liked Danielle.”
“But?” she said, lifting her eyebrows.
“You really want to hear this?” he asked.
“Cassidy, give me a break. You’re going to be reading about twelve of my exes. I think I can handle hearing about one of yours.”
“Well,” he said, topping off their glasses, “I could imagine Danielle in my life just fine. She was smart. Pretty. Sweet.”
“But . . .”
He shrugged. “It was also pretty damn easy to picture my life without her. In fact, the thought of her not being there didn’t cause so much as a pang. I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way.”
“No, it’s not,” she murmured.
Everything in her tone said she wasn’t a stranger to the feelings he’d just described. And when she spoke again, it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“I should go,” she said again.
Don’t. Please don’t.
The thought caught him off guard and he frowned.
But it was the first time in so long that she’d let him near her. The first time she’d talked to him, even if there seemed to be miles of distance between them instead of just a kitchen counter.
He didn’t want it to end.
“How’s Daisy?” he asked, desperate to keep her around.
Her gaze flicked up. Wary, at the mention of her twin sister. “She’s good.”
