The Trouble With Love(72)

“You told me you never wanted to see me again,” he whispered. “I believed that. You told me to leave. So I did.”

“I get that,” she said, her voice small. “I understand. But I thought you’d come back. I was so sure of it. It’s why I got up the next morning and let Daisy put cucumbers on my eyes to reduce the puffiness, and let the makeup artist apply a thick mask of foundation to disguise my red nose and blotchy cheeks. I thought you’d come back.” Her voice broke.

“Emma.” He reached out a hand, but she stepped back.

“I waited until an hour after the ceremony was supposed to have ended. I waited even after all the guests left. I waited until Daisy wrapped me in a huge fleece blanket and literally dragged me into Daddy’s car.”

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

Her laugh was small. “Which part was unclear? The sobbing voice mails? The dozens of crazed text messages?”

Cassidy’s eyes closed. “You called me.”

“Like a hundred times.” She hugged herself, lost in her own world of wretched memories. “I begged, Cassidy. I’m not letting you off the hook for using me to wiggle into my father’s company, but I didn’t let myself off the hook, either. I apologized over and over, and I would have done so in person, but you didn’t even give me that chance. That is not the action of a man in love.” She shrugged. “So I did what I had to do. I fell out of love with you.”

Or at least I tried.

He swallowed.

“And I can’t go back,” she said with a small smile. “I’m not doing that again. If you care at all, let me go. Please. Let me heal.”

He stared at her for several painful seconds. Then he moved toward her, smiling sadly when she flinched. His head dipped to hers; his lips brushed her cheek, softly. Sweetly.

“This isn’t over, Emma.”

Then he was gone.

Emma told herself that she was glad. That this was what she wanted—that being by herself was safe.

But she didn’t feel safe.

She felt lonely. Painfully, heartbreakingly alone.

And then she did what she should have done a long, long time ago.

She curled up on her bed and cried.





Chapter 28


Alex realized his mistake about halfway through his flight from LaGuardia to Fort Lauderdale.

There was no reason for the epiphany. No grand gesture, no moment, no strike of lightening. There was no sharp realization that he’d been a complete idiot.

There was only a deep, unshakable sense that something was wrong.

That his life was off course. And that the only way to right it would be to get Emma back. And not just into his bed, or into his life in the peripheral sense of the past couple years.

He wanted Emma as his. And he wanted to be hers.

He loved her. Fiercely.

Perhaps he’d always loved her.

But that wasn’t going to get her back. He needed…something.

Not a gesture, because that seemed cheesy, but then, with their past, it would take more than a conversation. He could maybe reach the thirty-one-year-old Emma, but he was also dealing with the twenty-four-year-old Emma who’d waited for him for hours in a white dress.

Christ.

Only when the lady in the seat next to him on the plane gave him a glare did he realize he’d spoken aloud.

Alex didn’t apologize. His frustration had been well earned. The lady could deal with it. Besides, she had her romance novel to read, where people didn’t deal with this kind of bullshit. Or perhaps they did. He’d never read one.

All he knew was that he needed a plan.

Alex spent the next hour trying to figure out how to undo seven years of damage.

By the time the plane landed…he had nothing.

The next four days were an odd mix of dodging his mother’s unsubtle demands for grandchildren and letting his father win at golf, all while eating turkey, more turkey, and then turkey leftovers.

He loved his parents. Of course he did. But when they dropped him off at the airport on Sunday afternoon with instructions to call them if he changed his mind about Christmas, he was more than ready to get back to New York.

To get back to Emma.

His plane was delayed. Then delayed again.

And when he got back to his apartment at midnight that evening, it was cold and lonely.

Alex dropped his keys on the table by the door, ditched his computer bag and his suitcase, and then, before he knew what he was doing, leaned against his front door and slid down until he was sitting, elbows propped on his knees, back against the door, realizing that in the span of a week he’d gone from blissfully happy to f*cking miserable.

Alex pinched the bridge of his nose and instructed himself to think. He was the most rational person he knew, save Mitchell. He could figure this out. He could write out an action plan, and come up with a nice speech, and—

Fuck it.

He didn’t have a clue. Not a goddamn clue.

Shifting, he pulled his cell out of his back pocket and started a group message.

He might not know what the hell to do…but he had something that a lot of dudes didn’t: a set of guy friends who’d been in his shoes. Good men who’d landed great women but had taken a seriously f*cked-up path to get there.

Granted, none of them had left their woman at the altar.