The Trouble with Love
Page 43

Emma took a swallow of wine, but it did nothing to help her sudden shortness of breath, nor the pounding of her heart. “Okay…so if not surprise—”
“Fear.”
“Fear?” That had so not been what she’d expected. She’d been thinking smugness. Maybe relief or curiosity. But fear?
“What were you scared of?”
He shook his head and looked away. “I have no idea.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “That’s what you want me to put in print? That you were scared, but don’t know why?”
He met her eyes. “You and I both know that this story was never about Stiletto. You’ll write the story. I’ll print the story. But let’s not pretend for one second that this isn’t one hundred percent personal.”
“I won’t deny that,” Emma said, keeping her voice level. “It still doesn’t explain why your reaction to my acquiescence was fear. Whatever my reasons for taking on this story, I’m still committed to making it accurate.”
They fell quiet for several moments before Cassidy broke the silence. “Perhaps my fear came from the suspicion that there was more unfinished business between us than I cared to admit.”
She started to write down his response out of habit, but then stopped. “Has that suspicion proved correct?”
He studied her. “TBD.”
Emma threw her hands up in exasperation. “Okay, I can’t write that, either. So far, my story is going to be like eleven days of exes, and one day of a big fat question mark.”
His lips twitched. “Why don’t we go on to the second question? We’ll figure out the first one later.”
“Fine,” she muttered. “When you think of our time together, what do you most remember? It can be a general feeling or a specific moment—”
He held up a finger. “You can save the explanation. Heard this one before.”
Emma made a by all means gesture with her wineglass and sat back casually as though his answer to this question had no effect on her whatsoever.
Which was, of course, the biggest of lies.
From the moment she’d come up with the three stupid questions for her story, her nights had been haunted by wondering just what he’d have to say.
She didn’t want to hear that he had regrets—she wasn’t sure she could handle it. But the alternative was almost worse.
What if Cassidy looked back on their past and felt nothing but relief? Relief that he’d escaped what had been doomed to be a loveless marriage at the last hour.
Because Cassidy must have known all along that their marriage wasn’t one for the fairy tales. Just as her father had known.
And her sister.
Emma had been the only clueless one.
“What I remember most about our time together…” Cassidy took a sip of his wine and considered.
“Oh, come on,” Emma said impatiently. “You’ve had, like, three weeks to think about this.”
“You’re right. I’ll just go get my daily journal then, shall I? The one where I’ve spent hours agonizing over this conversation?”
He hooked a finger into his collar as though it was too tight. A decidedly un-Cassidy-like gesture.
She leaned forward as realization dawned. “You’re nervous.”
He set his glass on the table with a clink and stood, looking a bit like a caged animal. “I’m not nervous. I’m just…”
She set her own glass and notebook aside. “Just what? What is it you remember about us, Cassidy?”
Instead of answering he shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the chair before going to the window and crossing his arms. He rolled his shoulders as though he was still agitated before loosening his tie.
Emma watched him in puzzlement. This was not the Cassidy she’d grown accustomed to in the past year.
This was the old Cassidy; the one who seemed to have too much energy, too much ambition, too much feeling to be contained in one person’s body.
This was the Cassidy who had taken his team to the national championship despite debilitating issues with his hip flexors.
The Cassidy who had wanted to be a star soccer player, president of his frat, top student, and later, wunderkind at her father’s company.
The Cassidy who wanted more than what he knew how to make happen.
Acting on instinct, she went to stand beside him. She didn’t touch him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to—or could. But she wanted to be there for him, somehow. Wanted to ease whatever restless pain seemed to be eating at him.
Wanted to help him. Even as she knew she was the cause for his torment.
“You want to know what I remember,” he said quietly, his fingers fiddling with his cuffs as he rolled the sleeves up to his elbow, his eyes locked on the view before them.
She nodded.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and dipped his head just slightly, glancing at the floor before lifting it and staring out at the night sky.
“I remember everything.” His voice was low. Raspy. Intimate.
Emma closed her eyes, even though he wasn’t looking at her.
“I remember every damn thing,” he continued, gaze still straight ahead. “I remember how I thought you were so shy up until our first date when I realized you had a bawdy, brash sense of humor. I still remember the jolt I got when you first touched my hand. I remember our first kiss, our first fight.” He took a deep breath. “I remember our last kiss, our last fight.”