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She was set to walk right past him, when he said her name. “Emma.”
She paused, not looking at him, and he almost smiled. He was almost starting to enjoy this game they played. A few months ago, the ignoring of each other had been complete and genuine. But watching her ignore him now, even though they’d shared a hamburger and wine last weekend, gave him a strange sense of intimacy. As though the two of them held a secret.
“Can you come by my office later?”
She looked at him then, her eyes wide. “You mean I’m actually getting a meeting with my illustrious boss? I hope you let me type something for you. Maybe I can bring you coffee? Do you need me to fetch your dry-cleaning first?”
He rolled his eyes. “Just be there. Two o’clock?”
She rolled her eyes back and walked out of the room without a response.
He figured there was a fifty-fifty chance of her showing up. He almost relished the surprise.
Alex went back to his office on the Oxford floor of the building, only to have a cluster of fire drills to put out. The most recent cover shoot had been a disaster because the action movie star had been stoned. Yet another advertiser had pulled out. Two of his designers had called in sick. One of Cole’s scorned women had come by seeking vengeance. Two of Lincoln’s women had come by looking for an office booty call.
Two o’clock rolled around before he knew it, and he hated himself for checking his watch and the door every thirty seconds.
She arrived at 2:10.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you,” he said, gesturing her in.
She put a hand over her chest, and her pretty eyes went wide as she slipped into a southern accent. “Why, goodness me, Mr. Cassidy, I should never think to stand up a man expectin’ me—you just never said whether I should be gettin’ you a coffee or pickin’ up your dry-cleanin’ or—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I issued a command like that. It was poorly done.”
She studied him, then entered the office and sat across from him. She was wearing a dark green dress with a high neck and wide belt. Her heels were at least four inches high, her hair pulled back into some sort of knot thing, and she looked . . . untouchable.
Which was too bad, because his hands itched to untidy her hair, to wrinkle the too-perfect dress, to remind her of how it had been—
He cleared his throat.
She crossed her legs and leveled a stony stare at him.
He stared right back. “Give me a break, Emma. You think I want to be your boss right now?”
“You didn’t hesitate to use the opportunity to give me a story you knew would be miserable.”
“You didn’t look so miserable the other night some guy had his tongue down your throat.”
She tilted her head. “You know, if Camille were here, she’d tell me that kiss would only serve to make my story more interesting.”
Alex clicked his pen and fought for calm. She was right, of course. He should be responding to her as editor-in-chief. Not as personal anything.
But with every day that passed, Alex seemed to grow more aware of their history. More conscious of their unfinished business.
More aware of Emma.
As a woman.
As his woman.
Well. Former.
Damn it.
“Fine,” he said, sitting back in his chair and spreading his hands to the side. “Tell me about this guy then. As a boss.”
She folded her hands on her lap. “Joel Lambert. We dated for two years.”
