The Trouble With Love(74)

Or, she could get a life, and figure her shit out.

Eventually. Eventually, Emma would do just that. But for now, her evening was looking an awful lot like a nice California wine, sour-cream-and-onion chips, and a Sex and the City marathon.

Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda were women who got what she was going through. When her actual friends were unavailable, at least her HBO ones were always free.

It took Emma longer than usual to hoist herself up the three flights of stairs to her apartment, the venture made more difficult by the bulk toilet paper that had been too good a deal to pass up, as well as the grocery bag stuffed with essentials.

And by essentials, of course, she was talking about the three Cs: Chardonnay, chips, and chocolate.

Perfect.

Emma was struggling to keep the TP under her arm while digging around in her purse for her keys when she saw him.

Somehow she managed not to drop the bag. Or the purse. Or the toilet paper.

Somehow her knees didn’t buckle as she approached the man sitting patiently outside her apartment door.

Somehow she managed not to throw herself at him.

“Cassidy,” she said, coming to stand in front of him. No suit today. He was wearing a navy zipper sweater that brought out the blue of his eyes, jeans, and scruffy-looking boots. A brown leather messenger bag was slung crosswise over his body, different from his usual briefcase.

He climbed nimbly to his feet, holding what seemed to be a medium-sized garbage can in front of him.

“Emma.”

She stared at his trash can.

He stared at her toilet paper.

Admittedly, it was a lot for one person.

She held up her key and lifted her eyebrows. He stood to the side, although once her wrist had twisted the lock open he stepped forward to hold the door open for her.

“My toilet paper thanks you,” she said, moving into the apartment.

He followed her inside uninvited, still holding the trash can.

Emma dropped the toilet paper by the door, along with her purse, then heaved the grocery bag onto the counter as she turned to face Cassidy.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s with the trash can?”

Also, what are you doing here?

Also, you look amazing.

Also, please love me. But don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.

He ignored her questions, both the verbal and silent variety, and set the trash can on the ground by his feet as he watched her pull her junk food out of her bag.

“You’ve got the makings of a balanced meal there,” he said, nodding at the chips in her right hand and the M&M’s in her left.

She gave him her best Don’t f*ck with me glare and put the food in the cupboard that doubled as her pantry. The wine bottle went into the fridge to be consumed—possibly in its entirety if this interaction went south—after he left.

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Finally she relented. She’d never been any good at moments like this. Whatever this was.

“Okay, seriously, help me out here with the trash can.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay. But I’m no good at this. And I need you to…I need you to not say anything until I get it out.”

Her heart began to pound. “Okay.”

This conversation was starting a lot like the horrible one last Tuesday, and yet there was something different about him.

He pulled the strap of his bag over his shoulder, set the bag on the bar stool at her counter, and dug around until he pulled out…a magazine.

The upcoming Stiletto magazine, to be precise.

Emma glanced at the Hollywood starlet on the cover whose name she’d already forgotten. The star of some new vampire TV show, if she remembered correctly.

“That’s not supposed to be out on the shelves until next Monday,” she said.

He gave her a withering look, and she made a waving gesture. “But, of course, you probably have access to an early copy. Camille?”

“Yup.”

“Damn it,” Emma muttered. “Julie did warn me that she’d find a way to interfere in all of this. Did you read my article?”

“Oh, you mean this one?” he said, pointing at her “Twelve Days of Exes” headline, which had nabbed the prime, upper-right corner of the cover.

She nodded.

His hand went back into his bag, this time emerging with a box of matches.

“I didn’t read the article,” he said.

Before she could register what the hell was going on, he’d lit the match with one swift stroke, then touched the lit end to the corner of the magazine.

“Here’s what I think of that article,” he said, moving the match toward the magazine.

“Don’t!” she yelped, reaching out a hand. “Cassidy, what the hell?”

He glanced down at his feet. “I brought a metal trash can to contain it. And sand to put it out. There’s no fire risk.”

Emma’s fingers dug into her hair and she tugged. “Quit being nuts. Just tell me what’s going on.”

He shook out the match and dropped it into the metal can, before tossing the magazine onto the counter. “I told them this was an idiotic idea,” he muttered. “They insisted I needed to get your attention.”

“Yeah, well, fire will do that,” she said, peering around the counter into the trash can to make sure the match was dead.