The Trouble with Love
Page 65

She smiled, strangely elated by his answer. “I won’t. But you only have yourself to blame. Your idea and all that.”
He rolled his eyes. “Trust me. I know. It’s going on my list of life regrets.”
“Huh. And this,” she said, gesturing between them and then at the desk. “Will that be one of your life regrets?”
He gave her a hooded look. “What do you think?”
Emma turned away, not wanting him to see what she was pretty sure was a goofy happy smile.
Her hand reached for the doorknob and twisted.
Nothing happened.
She tried again. Nothing.
Then her fingers found the lock. Flicked it.
It had been locked the whole damn time.
This time, the door opened, and she gave him an accusing look over her shoulder.
He winked.
And Emma knew then. Knew that she was devastatingly close to falling in love with him all over again.
Chapter 26
Two weeks later, the Tuesday before the Thanksgiving holiday, Emma hosted a “Fakesgiving” housewarming party at her place.
As in her actual place. Not Camille’s.
Emma had found a new apartment. It was just four blocks north of where she’d lived at Camille’s place, but instead of a fancy high-rise apartment, it was a spacious one-bedroom in a third-floor walk-up.
It wasn’t fancy and new, but it had a fabulous brick wall with a defunct fireplace, and had been recently renovated with brand-new hardwoods, granite countertops, and fancy appliances.
Best of all, it was all Emma’s. Her name on the lease, her dishes in the cupboards, her sheets on the bed.
A bed that Cassidy had been spending an awful lot of time in. What was supposed to have been one night of sex had turned into a weekend of sex…which had continued to the Monday after they’d defiled his Oxford desk.
And then it had just kept going.
But it hadn’t just been sex. There’d also been quiet moments and shared meals, and him talking too much about the ins and outs of wine when all she really wanted was to drink it.
Last night they’d crossed into a whole new territory altogether: Cassidy had stayed the night.
And, yet, they hadn’t talked about it. Not any of it. And certainly not their past.
She’d asked the girls whether she should bring it up, and the verdict had been split. Julie and Grace thought she and Cassidy should go with the flow and see where it took them. Julie had insisted that forcing a conversation they weren’t ready for wouldn’t be good for anyone.
And while Riley had agreed that trying to put a label on what they had before their hearts knew the answer would be disastrous, she had also cautioned that going too long without having the hard conversation might do more damage in the end.
And seeing as Riley and Sam had avoided just such a conversation for ten damn years, Emma knew she should listen.
But every time she wanted to go there—to ask what the hell they were doing—she chickened out. She was too afraid he’d tell her exactly what she’d told him. That it was just sex.
Tonight, however…tonight, Emma hadn’t let herself think about any of that. It had been about turkey and too much wine and delicious carbs and pie. Definitely pie.
It was the usual bunch: Julie and Mitchell, newly back from Maui; Grace and Jake; Sam and Riley. Camille had shown up for appetizers and to inform Emma that her second bedroom was still available and that her “real” building had an elevator.
And Cassidy was there.
Cassidy had been there all day. Prepping the turkey. Arguing with her about the best way to mash potatoes.
He was everywhere, all the time.
And she liked it.
“I ate too much,” Riley said, clearing a salad bowl from the table and setting it by the sink with an exhausted thunk.
“Riley McKenna. I can honestly say I never thought I’d hear those words coming out of your mouth,” Julie said, licking vanilla ice cream off her thumb before putting the scoop in the dishwasher.
“It was Emma’s fault,” Riley groaned. “What the heck did you put in that stuffing, lard? It was the most horrifyingly glorious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Horrifying only because you had six helpings,” Mitchell called from the table, where the guys were sampling Sam’s latest whiskey.
Riley pointed a finger at Julie. “Jules, tell your ball and chain to shut his trap.”
“I’ve tried,” Julie said. “It never works.”
“Yeah, because I’m the chatterbox of the family,” Mitchell muttered.
Emma tried to squeeze one last glass into the dishwasher, then gave up, because the damn thing was stuffed to max capacity. She added detergent and started it, before reaching for another bowl to wash.
“No. Sit,” Grace said, batting her hand. “Put your skinny ass on that bar stool and drink your drink. We’ll clean.”
“Actually,” Emma said, wiping her hand on a towel, “let’s all sit. The cleaning can wait until tomorrow.”
“You hear that, boys?” Julie called. “You can stop your mad dash to help with the dishes.”
The men didn’t pause in their debate over whether the whiskey had elements of leather in its flavor profile.
Emma picked up her glass of wine and started to follow the women into her tiny living room, and then paused, looking around and taking in the scene in front of her. It was a cheesy thought, but she actually felt her heart swelling.
Which didn’t make sense, because the tableau was a familiar one: couples playfully bickering, Riley eating too much, Sam’s wonderful whiskey, free-flowing wine, nonstop laughter…