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And the other . . . the other was Joel Lambert.
They’d met when she was twenty-six, and dated for two years, making him her longest relationship since Cassidy.
Joel was an absolutely vital part of Emma’s “ex” picture.
She also suspected he was going to be one ex who didn’t exactly have good things to say about her.
Emma and Joel had met at the most clichéd of New York meet-cute spots: an art gallery opening. Emma’s pre-Stiletto employer had gotten a handful of employees the exclusive tickets after they’d won a prestigious journalism award, and Joel’s sister had been friends with the artist.
She and Joel had one crucial thing in common: new to New York status, which meant that they’d do pretty much anything to develop their social life . . . even if it meant a Thursday night in an art gallery in which the artist’s specialty was sculptures made from dried pasta. For real.
It hadn’t been love at first sight. Or even lust. It had been more beeline for the bar because that’s the only way to survive the evening.
They’d stepped up to the cash bar at the exact same time, and done the whole you first, no you first thing.
Two glasses of Chardonnay later, Joel had suggested they grab a bite to eat at an Italian place around the corner.
Two months later, they were spending nearly every evening and most weekends together.
Two years later, Joel had taken Emma to a swanky steakhouse in Rockefeller Center, and proposed sometime between Emma’s filet migon and the crème brûlée they’d agreed to split.
Two minutes after the proposal went down, the only thing splitting was Joel and Emma. She’d finished the crème brûlée alone.
No ring.
No Joel.
She didn’t blame him for being angry and hurt. She did sort of blame him for the way he shouted “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” which had brought the entire restaurants’ attention their way. Didn’t exactly love getting stuck with the enormous bill on a then-paltry salary, either.
But she got it. She understood. Her embarrassment had been nothing compared to his pain. And she was betting her credit card had recovered a lot faster than his pride.
But the worst part was that Emma truly hadn’t known that she didn’t want to marry Joel. She knew he thought she’d played with his heart . . . strung him along only to publicly humiliate him. But she truly hadn’t known until he’d been down on one knee that she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t marry him. Didn’t want to marry anyone.
True to his last words, Joel Lambert had never called her again.
But maybe his bitterness had dissipated in the three years since they’d parted ways, because he’d promptly and courteously responded to her request to meet.
Either he was over their heated parting, or he’d be showing up with an ax hell-bent on revenge.
The phone buzzed, and she told the doorman to send Joel up.
She bit her fingernail. Maybe she should have invited someone over for moral support on this one. But Julie, Grace, and Riley didn’t know the full story about Joel, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to answer their inevitable questions about why she’d said no to a trust fund millionaire who had the facial features of a young Brad Pitt and would walk out of his way through the Flower District on his way home to get her fresh tulips.
She didn’t even know how to explain it to herself, other than it hadn’t felt right.
Emma took a deep breath and opened the door to a soft but assertive knock.
He looked . . . the same.
A little heavier. He’d always been a bigger guy—not overweight, just the body type that was naturally suited toward bear hugs and cuddling. He seemed every bit larger than life now, with broad shoulders and a wide smile.
Yes, a smile.
No sign of an ax.
“Hey, Ems.”
“Joel.”
