The Trouble With Love(2)

Emma merely straightened her shoulders, ignoring Julie’s softly uttered “Oh, dear.”

It was him.

The man was gorgeous in the sort of way that made women stop and stare. The tall and lean athlete’s body was as impeccably dressed as ever in a trim, perfectly tailored black suit. No sign of a tie today, although there often was one.

His dark hair was perfectly styled, the clean-shaven face showing off a strong jaw and symmetrical lips.

And the eyes…green today, although they often could burn blue.

But Emma didn’t have to look at the man to know all of this.

She knew it all from her memories. Bad memories.

He didn’t falter at the sight of Emma and her low-cut cocktail dress and ugly wet bun.

In fact, he didn’t look at her at all.

Nothing—not surprise, not even acknowledgment—fluttered across his features at her presence.

The man was in control.

Always.

Julie shifted to the corner of the elevator to make room for him, and he nodded briefly at her before turning so that he and Emma were standing shoulder to shoulder.

The doors closed, and Emma lifted her eyes to the little screen that indicated the floor number.

He mimicked her posture, his eyes also focused on the spot where the L became 1, then 2 as they ascended.

“Emma,” he said politely, not looking at her.

“Cassidy.”

“You’re looking well.”

“And you,” she said, her tone smooth. Monotone.

“You didn’t get dressed up on my account, I hope.” His voice never lost its casual politeness.

She didn’t so much as glance at him. “Oh, do you not like it? I’ve been so hoping a fancy dress is all it would take for you to ask for my number.”

The elevator stopped on the seventh floor, and Emma and Cassidy stepped to the side so the man in the back corner could exit. In sync, they moved immediately back into their previous positions as the door closed.

They still had not looked at each other.

“You know, it’s a little bright for my taste,” he mused, as though they’d never been interrupted. “I like more subdued colors on a woman. Say…white. I always like to see a woman in a white dress. Do you own one?”

Julie cleared her throat, although Emma couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a laugh.

The elevator stopped at 12. Emma’s stop. Finally.

“Excuse me,” she murmured to Cassidy as she stepped off, her voice sugary sweet.

Julie followed her.

And much to Emma’s dismay, so did Cassidy.

“Wrong floor, Cassidy,” Julie said sweetly, with a pretty smile for the wretched man.

Traitor.

“Not today it’s not,” he replied.

“Ah,” Julie said. “Got a meeting with Camille?”

“I do.”

Camille Bishop was the editor in chief of Stiletto magazine, and Julie and Emma’s boss. Since Cassidy was the editor in chief of Oxford magazine, Stiletto’s brother publication, it wasn’t strange that he occasionally stopped by the twelfth floor.

Didn’t mean Emma had to like it.

“See you ladies around,” Cassidy said with a smile for Julie. Emma barely warranted a glance. “Oh, and Emma, just a friendly reminder that winter’s right around the corner. Careful you don’t catch a cold with that wet head.”

He moved away before Emma had a chance to respond. Or give him the finger. Not that she would have bothered.

“Friendly reminder, my ass,” Emma muttered, glaring briefly at his back before she and Julie headed toward the office they shared.

“I think it’s sweet. Maybe he cares,” Julie said, linking her arm in Emma’s.

Emma grunted in response. “Give me the rest of your coffee. I need it.”

Julie complied and the two of them stepped into their office. Grace and Riley were already there. Grace, texting on her phone…probably sexting with her husband, if her dirty smile was any indication.

Typical.

Riley was eating a doughnut. Also typical.

Riley paused in her chewing when she saw Emma. “Whoa. Is it prom already? Nobody told me! I didn’t even order a corsage.”

Emma dropped her purse on her desk. “Tell me one of you has a hair dryer.”

“Yeah, I totally carry one in my purse,” Riley said, even as she shook her head to indicate that she most definitely did not have a hair dryer.

“I don’t have one, either,” Grace said. “But we can hit up the girls in the Beauty department. One of them might.”

“Emma had an incident,” Julie said, plopping in her chair.

“What, like a Noah-wouldn’t-let-her-on-the-ark-because-she-was-overdressed kind of incident?” Riley asked.

Emma smiled, despite her bad mood.

“Oh my gosh, Emma!” Grace leaned forward. “Did you go out to that gala at the Guggenheim last night? Ooooh, did you go home with someone? Is this your version of the walk of shame?”

“If it is, I’m impressed,” Julie mused. “My walks of shame involved a lot more sweat pants with USC written across the butt and a dude’s oversized T-shirt and flip-flops.”

“You should totally write a story about this, Em,” Riley said, resuming her dedication to her doughnut. “?‘The Walk of Shame for Grown-ups.’?”