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“What are you doing here?” He looked her up and down and then into the hall behind her. “Did you bring anything?”
“No.”
“There’s not a game.”
“Not in this city, no.”
“Are you okay?”
“Can you invite me in?” They were still standing in the door, her out in the hallway with nothing but her sweater and her purse.
Simon, realizing his mistake, stepped out of the doorway so she could pass. “Sorry. But what’s up?” Then, catching himself, he added, “I’m happy you’re here. This is a nice surprise.” He put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her in for a tight, warm hug.
“Dad had a heart attack.”
His hug slackened, and he held her back far enough he could look at her face. “Vin? Vin’s indestructible.”
“His heart disagreed.”
“Is he…?”
“He’ll be fine. Tough old man. Doctor said he’d be back in the booth in no time.”
“At least Cubs fans can look forward to one good thing this season.” Simon kissed her forehead.
Over the smell of his too-spicy cologne Emmy picked up the scent of garlic and bread. Her stomach rumbled but felt queasy at the same time. “You’re cooking?”
Simon didn’t cook.
He looked back towards the kitchen like he wasn’t sure of the answer. “Yes,” he said uncertainly.
“For yourself?”
Simon released her from the hug and stepped back. “For you, too, now. You’re staying?”
“I thought so.” She moved past him and into the kitchen. A bottle of wine sat on the counter, and water boiled on the stove with a plastic container of fresh pasta next to it. Another container of pesto was open, and the oven light showed a loaf of garlic bread broiling.
Again, Emmy’s stomach spoke louder than her brain, growling audibly. She hadn’t eaten anything since her dinner the previous evening, and now it was catching up with her.
“Who were you making dinner for?” she asked. There was no way in hell this setup was for him alone. If he’d known she was coming, she might have believed he’d go to the effort for her, but that wasn’t his style. A nice restaurant and vanilla sex was the Simon Howell M.O.
“I was having a friend over.”
“What friend?”
“Cassandra.”
“Your good friend Cassandra,” Emmy repeated, letting the words sink in for herself and parroting them back so he could appreciate the way they sounded from her end. “Cassandra Dano?”
Miss ESPN herself. The name sounded bitter in Emmy’s mouth. She tried to tell herself not to jump to any conclusions, but pesto and garlic bread made it hard not to jump.
“She and I are working on a piece together. I asked her to come by after her evening broadcast so we could compare notes.” He pointed to the MacBook on the counter open to a spreadsheet of scoring stats.
Emmy felt immediately horrible for her toxic reaction. She was the one who was having feelings for someone else, and she had heaped all her crap onto him. Talk about a guilty conscience.
“I can call her and tell her not to come, though,” he said.
“No…” She rubbed her hands on her pants, suddenly sweaty. More than that she didn’t feel like being there when Cassandra showed up. Next to the ten-foot-tall glamazon, Emmy would feel like a disheveled hag, which wouldn’t boost her mood at all. She also didn’t want to overthink everything Simon did or said around the other woman. It looked like he was planning to do actual work, and if that was the case, she was only going to be in his way. “Don’t worry about it. I have a hotel room,” she lied. “I just wanted to come and let you know I was here.”
