The Trouble With Love(15)

“They been seeing each other long?”

Emma didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. Ten minutes ago, she’d been ready to offer this guy her lips.

Now she offered him her hand. “Thanks for dinner. I had a really nice time.”

He glanced down at the hand, then back at her face. He wasn’t so gauche as to look relieved at the lack of a good night kiss, but he didn’t exactly seem disappointed, either.

Benedict took the hand and lifted it to his lips in an old-fashioned way that was sweet and gentlemanly, and did absolutely nothing for her.

He made a noncommittal statement about calling her soon, and she made a similarly noncommittal murmur about looking forward to it.

Five minutes later, Emma had poured herself a hefty glass of Merlot and an emergency handful of Goldfish crackers.

She headed to the guest room she’d claimed as her own and curled up cross-legged on the bed, cellphone in hand as she nipped a Goldfish between her teeth and texted her sister. After Emma had moved to New York, Daisy used to call her every three to four days like clockwork. They’d talk about their respective jobs, men, and whichever singing/dancing TV show was hot at the moment, and Daisy would gently remind Emma that “blond highlights don’t maintain themselves.” Emma had eventually given up on highlights altogether, something that Daisy lamented every year at their annual New Orleans weekend together, since Daisy hated the city, and Emma hated anything having to do with North Carolina.

But then Daisy had gotten married.

Emma had never been a fan of Gary. And she really hadn’t been a fan of the way he’d somehow talked her sometimes prima donna sister into a quickie wedding at the courthouse. But Daisy had been happy, and Emma had been determined not to interfere in Daisy’s relationship the way Daisy had in hers. In hindsight, Emma wished she had spoken up.

At first Emma thought her sister’s phone calls had stopped because she was a distracted new bride, but when the text messages began, Emma knew it was the opposite. Daisy was miserable. She and her husband lived in a tiny apartment in Raleigh. Daisy’s only free time to talk was in the evenings after work, which was also when Gary was most likely to be home. So Daisy had texted. Casual complaints at first. He was irritable. Would get mad when she hadn’t made dinner, and then wouldn’t show up when she had. The television was always turned to sports and changing the channel was “not up for discussion.” Then things had gotten worse. He wouldn’t come home at all. He’d leave the room whenever he took a phone call. He’d yell at Daisy whenever she mentioned the prospect of starting a family. The best text Emma had ever received was the one saying Daisy was getting a divorce.

But Emma and Daisy had never gone back to their hours-long phone calls. Daisy said it was because she’d simply grown accustomed to texting, but sometimes Emma worried it was something darker—almost like Daisy knew she could hide behind a text more than she could a phone call. Because if anyone could read into the tone of your voice, it was your twin.

Still, when it came to griping about a bad date, texting did just fine, Emma thought as she chomped her Goldfish and let her fingers fly across the screen as she began to fill her sister in on her evening.

Just got back from the blind date.

Daisy’s response was immediate. Uh-oh. It’s early. Was hoping for love at first sight.

Oh, it was love at first sight all right, Emma texted back.

Wait, what? Do I get a do-over on my maid-of-honor gig?

Don’t buy your bridesmaid dress just yet. He fell in love with someone else. I think I actually WATCHED it happen.

As Emma and Daisy texted back and forth, and as the wine level in Emma’s glass got lower and lower, something dawned on her.

She was annoyed by the entire evening, true.

But what was really eating at her wasn’t that she and Benedict hadn’t hit it off.

It was that Emma couldn’t bring herself to care.

Not even the tiniest bit.





Chapter 7


There was a knock at Alex’s office door.

“Yeah?” he called.

“Boss.”

He glanced up to see Cole Sharpe standing in his doorway. Not who he’d expected.

“Where’s Jake?” Alex asked.

Cole entered the office uninvited and ambled toward Alex’s desk with the easy stroll of a man who never hurried anywhere. Why would he? Everything came to him. The prime stories. The prime women…

“Jake Malone,” Cole answered, picking up Alex’s stapler and clicking it a few times as he sat down, “was last seen entering the stairwell.”

“The stairwell?” Alex leaned back in his chair, not following.

“You know…to meet Grace?” Cole said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Alex clicked his pen. “They do that a lot?”

“Maybe,” Cole said, reaching across the desk and snagging a PowerBar Alex had never gotten around to eating. “Why, got some voyeuristic tendencies?”

Actually, Alex couldn’t care less whether one of his top columnists was copulating with his new bride in the stairwell, but he and Jake did have a meeting scheduled.

And Alex needed Jake’s advice.

More specifically, he needed Jake’s wife’s advice.

But Jake wasn’t here, and Cole was, so…

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard about me taking over Stiletto for a few months?” Alex asked.