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The cab pulled up outside their building. Cassidy paid the fare then helped Emma out of the cab.
When she placed her hand in his, it was the first time they’d touched since leaving the dance floor, and Emma tried to ignore the flutter his touch caused.
He released her hand almost immediately, and she told herself she was glad.
Save a thank-you for the doorman who held the door for them, neither of them spoke as they waited for the elevator. Nor as they rode the elevator up to their floor.
Emma’s heart was now pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it, but what she wasn’t sure about was whether he wanted her the way she wanted him.
Maybe even guys could get swept up in the romance of a wedding. Maybe the moment on the dance floor had been a fluke.
But one thing was certain: Emma was not going to set herself up for rejection. She wasn’t opposed to making the first move, but not with Alex Cassidy. She’d taken a risk on him once.
And it had broken her.
They came to his door first, and he stopped.
So did Emma’s heart.
He pulled his key fob out of his pocket, jostling it in his hand as he watched her, his expression unreadable.
She faced him, her stomach fluttering with the realization that he was unsure, too, trying to decide whether to make a move.
Make it, she silently begged. Kiss me.
He didn’t.
And then Emma had a humiliating realization.
He wasn’t waiting to make a move.
He was waiting for his jacket.
Oh my God.
Her cheeks burning, she shrugged out of his tux jacket as quickly as possible, all but thrusting it at him, with a fake smile pasted on her face. “Here you go! Thanks for that. I wasn’t counting on it being so cold, although I don’t know why, since it’s November. . . .”
Shut it, Emma. You’ve never been a babbler. Don’t start now.
He hesitated only briefly before reaching out a hand and accepting the jacket.
She managed to shut up, but she couldn’t quite wipe the stupid goofy smile off her face without worrying that she would break into tears. Emma fumbled only slightly with her clutch, hoping he would chalk it up to the champagne and not her embarrassment at so terribly misreading the situation.
All he’d wanted was a harmless dance—a peace offering for the sake of old times.
And she’d been ready for . . . well, a whole different kind of dance entirely.
“Good night,” she said, once her fingers closed on her keys. One step closer to safety.
“Good night,” he said, watching her.
And that was that.
This is what came of two years of dating, an aborted wedding, seven years of cold war, and one very sexy dance.
Two near strangers staring at each other exchanging good nights in the hallway.
She’d had more animated partings with her pizza guy.
