But somehow Emily managed to dance with hers.
It made me want to dance with mine.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I looped my arms around Emily’s waist and pulled her close. She laughed, letting me know it was okay. We began to move again, slower this time. I was actually sort of decent at this now. I was careful not to press her against me. But my body was very much aware of hers. Its heat. Shape. Movements. I knew this body.
I’d known it ten years ago. And I knew it now.
She slipped her hands around my neck again. Her breasts brushed against my chest. She was all softness. All girl.
For half a heartbeat, the entire world contracted to the space between my body and hers. There was no crowd, no terrible remixes, no fake engagements. It was just the two of us in our own private universe. And weirdly enough, I felt like I belonged there. Belonged with her.
I blinked, trying to get a grip on my thumping heartbeat. But that was hard to do when Emily was moving against me like this, when she was laughing like this, when her smile touched her pretty green eyes like this.
The energy in the room had changed. This wasn’t stupid dancing; this was real dancing.
I was really dancing with Emily. And I liked it.
“Your hips okay?” I murmured in her ear.
Her eyes flashed when they met mine. “Totally.”
I was more confused than ever about why she’d let me touch her hips but not her hand. I wasn’t about to ruin the moment, though, by asking. So I slid my hands down to her hips. She rolled them slowly—provocatively—against me, teasing.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek.
She was singing along again, looking down at her feet as she pulled me closer. Her fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of my neck. My body leapt, and for half a second I froze.
This felt…good. Too good and too real.
I liked this sense of freedom too much. I imagined dancing with Emily like this all night, only leaving when they turned on the lights and kicked us out. We’d flirt in the cab home. I’d take her up to my room. I’d fuck her slow and lazy and deep, like we had all the time in the world. Like I could just be a man for an hour. A man who was honest about what he wanted.
My heart strained against my breastbone. I wanted that so bad.
Emily’s nose brushed against my chin. I waited for her to freeze, to pull away. Instead, she looked up, keeping her face close to mine. Our eyes met. My stomach dipped. She was looking at me like…like she was interested. Genuinely interested. The air between our bodies crackled. Her eyes flicked to my lips; her body was moving slower now, closer. For half a crazed heartbeat, I thought she was going to kiss me.
And in that moment, I wanted her to. I wanted her to kiss me. Because bloody hell, I wanted to kiss her, too.
Which was a big fucking problem.
Chapter Thirteen
Kit
A sudden flash. The crowd was all over us, taking pictures like mad. Emily looked down. Her arms loosened around my neck.
I remembered, with sudden, crushing clarity, that this wasn’t a fun, flirty night out. It was all an act. An elaborate deception. I was a tit for allowing myself to believe otherwise, even for a moment.
The song ended, and I pulled away, pointing a thumb toward our table. Emily nodded. When we got there, she grabbed a glass of water and took a long gulp. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Ready to go?” I asked. “I’m knackered.”
She set her empty glass down. “Yeah. Sure. Me too.”
We left through the back entrance as planned. And, as planned, a handful of photographers were waiting for us, along with a Jaguar at the curb. I looked at Emily, making sure she was close. Her face was flushed from dancing. She met my eyes and smiled, a radiant, slightly shy thing. She moved a little closer to me. I resisted the impulse to put my arm around her.
I imagined how we looked. A sickeningly cute couple, smiling at each other as they snuck out of a club early because they wanted to be alone.
It was a brilliant image. Exactly the sort of thing the public would love. Excitement surged through me. Excitement, and something else. Something sharper. Less pleasant.
Emily and I were really great at pretending. I told myself that was a good thing. Hell, most of my job was pretending. But after not pretending on the dance floor just now…I don’t know. The shallowness of it made me feel a bit raw on the inside.
I didn’t like this feeling. I liked the feeling I’d had back there, when I’d had Emily in my arms.
Without thinking, I grabbed Emily’s hand, twining my fingers with hers. The photographers shouted their approval, the flutter of their camera shutters filling the night air.
Emily’s hand was limp in mine. My heart dipped. Shit. I forgot.
It all happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to react. Emily slowed her steps. She yanked her hand away, the motion so strong and so urgent I had no doubt it was visible to the photographers and everyone else watching us.
No. No no no.
I blinked to see panic written all over her face. I was so bloody confused. She’d been okay with me touching her on the dance floor. She’d been okay with me touching her far more intimately ten years ago. So why the fear in her eyes? Why pull away from me like—like I’d burned her?
My thoughts churned. What the hell were we going to do about these photographs? The paparazzi loved Emily’s sudden scare more than her smile. A few of them had the bollocks to even ask us about it.
Trouble in paradise?
Get into a fight, did you? Has Kit got a wandering eye?
We were seriously fucked if these pictures were published tomorrow. Emily and I were supposed to distract the media from a controversy, not create one.
“Come on,” I said, opening the car door for Emily. She ducked inside, and I followed her, slamming the door behind me. I felt sad. Angry. A potent combo. “Go,” I grunted at the driver, and we took off, the force of the acceleration pressing me back into my seat.
Emily looked out the window. She was hurting. Yes. But she’d agreed to do this. She should’ve never signed the contract if she knew she couldn’t hold my hand without losing her shit.
This issue needed to be fixed. Immediately.
I dug my phone out of my pocket and started making calls. My secretary, the Queen’s, our press office. I hadn’t a clue what we would do. I’d think of something.
Exhaustion settled on my lap like a two ton weight. There would be no sleep for me tonight. There wouldn’t be sleep for any of us.
Emily continued to look out the window the whole way home, legs crossed, her body turned away from me.
It was only when we were on the front steps of Primrose, the light from the lanterns catching on her face, that I saw she was crying.
Cue the proverbial record scratch. Emily, crying? But she was so capable and self-contained and strong.
I remembered the weariness I saw in her eyes. The heartbreak. Something—someone—had clearly defeated her. Luke again?
I wanted to know what the fuck that someone had done to make her cry like this.
Chapter Fourteen
Emily
I felt Kit’s eyes on me, but I kept my gaze trained on my feet as I stepped through the door and into Kit’s apartment. I hated to cry. Especially in front of other people. I was stronger than that. I’d taken care of myself for years now.
But the tears kept coming. Fat. Hot. Relentless.
I felt terrible about what happened. Of course I hadn’t meant to pull away from Kit in front of the cameras. I’d been fine with him touching me on the dance floor. I was fine with dance floor touching, period. That kind of contact was impersonal and shamelessly sexual. It meant nothing, and led to nothing except some making out and/or—if I got lucky—a solid hook up.
I thought I could slowly begin to tolerate Kit’s relationship-y touching, too. I’d let him put a hand on the small of my back when he introduced me to his friends. I’
d helped him with his hair, although that hadn’t bothered me all that much. We’d touched a lot when we were dancing.
Then Kit reaches for my hand, interlocking his fingers with mine the way Luke used to do, and it was like a bomb went off inside me. The memories it dug up, the reminder of everything I’d lost—
It had been too much. So I pulled away out of panic. Out of shame and embarrassment.
And now we were in deep shit. I heard the fear, the frustration, too, in Kit’s voice on the calls he’d made.
I climbed the stairs, one steadying hand on the railing. Kit was a step behind me. I got the feeling he intentionally kept close, like he was waiting for me to explain myself.
Which was the last thing I felt like doing. Yes, I absolutely owed him an explanation. I’d likely just torpedoed our little effort to save his sister. He had as much on the line as I did—more, even. But the thought of spilling my guts to the Ice Prince made me feel like dying.
Kit didn’t do vulnerability. Neither did I.
Although the way he’d looked at me on the dance floor…call me crazy, but I almost thought he wanted to kiss me. Not for show, but for real. Which was ridiculous, of course. The contract had made clear Kit had no interest in kissing me like that.
I kept climbing the stairs. My legs felt heavy. So did the silence between us.
Damn it.
I gripped the railing and stopped. I could hear Kit breathing right behind me, short, angry inhales and exhales.
My gaze still on my feet, I said, “I’m sorry.”
A beat of silence stretched between us.
“I’m sorry you feel so out of sorts. But I need to know what’s going on with you, Emily. If you can’t do this…”
I wiped away tears with the back of my hand. “I can. Or I thought I could.” I scoffed. “A fake relationship sounded right up my alley.”
More silence. It was unbearable.
“Why?” he said. His voice was soft, and my heart seemed to go soft with it. “Because a real relationship isn’t?”
I looked at him. My pulse skipped at the exhaustion I saw written so clearly on his face. The concern. God, where was the Ice Prince when I needed him? He wouldn’t be interested in why I’d behaved the way I did.
“Emily.” He moved onto my step, sliding his hands into his pockets. “What is going on?”
My eyes welled with tears. “It’s kind of a long story, and it’s late…you look tired…”
“I’m fine.” He held up his forearm. “Here, use my sleeve.”
“Your sleeve?” I started at his sudden show of kindness. I peered at the fine, almost silky fabric of his blazer; when he moved, a sliver of his blue button down appeared at the cuff. “But I’m all snotty. And my makeup—”
“I don’t care.” He looked at me. “Seriously, I’ve got a whole closet of these things. And this is my least favorite out of all of them.”
I laughed. Look at him, making me feel better already. Who knew he had it in him?
He reached up and brushed my hair out of my face. My breath caught in my throat.
“I’ve got two brothers who are eternal adolescents living next-door,” he said. “I am an expert in cleaning up bodily fluids.”
I gathered the edge of his sleeve in my fingers and ducked down, using it to mop up the mess of tears underneath my eyes. The blazer smelled like him—like boy, just a hint of something lemony and clean. The lump in my throat loosened.
I didn’t want to trust Kit with the truth. But I had to.
“Thank you,” I said. Putting a hand back on the railing, I sunk down onto the step. My feet were killing me. These booties were cute, but holy God did they hurt. For some reason, I thought Kit might be less intimidating, or maybe less handsome, if he were sitting, too. I patted the tread beside me. “Here, sit down.”
Kit’s weary gaze lingered on me for a beat.
“Give me a moment,” he said at last.
He turned and made his way back down the steps, disappearing down the hall. A minute later he returned, a fifth of brown liquor in one hand and a box of tissues in another.
Kit was exhausted, and angry, but he still took the time to be kind. The lump in my throat returned with a vengeance.
He sat down on the step, placing the tissues between us. I held up the bottle he put in my lap. “Bourbon?”
“You said at Jacob’s Club that you liked it. Besides, I hear it does wonders for clearing up snot.”
I unscrewed the cap and took a quick swig. It was good bourbon, fiery and sweet. Just what I needed.
Expectant silence filled the space between us.
“So you know I’m divorced,” I said, passing him the bottle. “As you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m still a little scarred from the whole thing.”
He tipped it back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The sound of his stubble scraping against his skin filled the space between us.
“Still scarred? Em, I can’t touch your hand without you jumping ten feet in the air. Although you did let me touch you when we were dancing. A lot.”
I laughed, letting out a breath. “It’s crazy, I know. I’m totally fine with that kind of stuff because it’s not personal. But hand holding…that is. It’s as personal and lovey-dovey as it gets.”
“I’d agree with that,” Kit said, nodding. He held out the bottle.
“Anyway.” I took it and sipped. I winced; that one hurt. “Luke and I split up about two years ago. We had these, like, big plans to take over the world together. He’d always dreamed of running for public office, and a couple years ago, he finally got the chance—a state Senate seat was up for grabs in Georgia. So he hired a campaign manager.”
I passed the bottle back to Kit. He set it on the tread between us. He didn’t interrupt; didn’t ask questions. He just listened, patiently. Quietly.
He was a good listener. I liked that about him.
“I was a big part of Luke’s platform. You know, the ambitious partner who also happens to be a small business owner. But because I was so busy actually running my business, I ended up missing a lot of the campaign. That year was a doozy for EP Designs. I got my first project in the UK, and I was constantly flying back and forth between Atlanta and London. I lived in a permanent state of jet lag.”
I grabbed the bottle of bourbon and took a healthy pull. I hated this part of the story.
“I knew Luke and I had grown apart. I mean, we’d been married close to six years at that point. I tried to fix it, tried to connect with him when I was home. But we were both so wrapped up in our careers…” I shrugged. “It was hard. Luke’s campaign wasn’t going well, and I know he blamed me. Probably part of the reason why he wanted to sabotage my business.” My voice thinned. “So I come home from the airport one day, and I find him in bed with Miss Georgia.”
Kit furrowed his brow. “Who’s Miss Georgia?”
“A beauty queen.”
“Literally?”
“Literally.” I laughed, a mirthless sound. “Luke didn’t even apologize. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when I walked in on them. It was like he wanted me to catch them in the act. He wanted to hurt me as much as possible. Said it wasn’t his fault it happened—he couldn’t be married to me anymore because I was already married to my job. So he left me.”
Kit ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Em. That’s awful. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
I swallowed. “They were holding hands—Luke and Miss Georgia. Just like Luke used to hold hands with me. Seeing him touch her like that sent me reeling, even more than the sex.”
Kit took a sharp inhale. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “And it made you wonder if the connection the two of you had was ever really…real. If it was ever there in the first place.”
“Exactly. Like, if he was touching this random girl the way he touched me…was he faking that connection the whole time we were together? What else was he faking? Everything?” I shook my head again. “I’ve had a
hard time trusting myself after that. Trusting other people, yes. But the fact that I was so blind to what was going on—over and over again I’ve had to weigh what was real and what was fake. And I still don’t have the answers.”
It was Kit’s turn to shake his head.
“What did you call him? A knob head?”
He laughed, even as something sharp moved across his eyes. This was the first time either of us had mentioned the office incident. Did it bother him?
“Yes,” he said. “I believe that is the term I used to describe the boyfriend who’d cheated on you. Twat was another one.”
“Twat. That’s right. Still so perfect for Luke. Especially when you consider he and Miss Georgia got married a year to the day after we filed for separation. They live one mile from my condo, and they’re expecting their first baby this spring. I run into them all the goddamned time. As much as I hate to admit it, it kills me.”
Was I imagining it, or did Kit’s fingers just tighten around the bottle?
“Even I need a drink after hearing that. Brutal, Em. Absolutely brutal.” He took a long pull. Looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Have you dated anyone else?”
“Not really.” I reached for another tissue. Kit beat me to it; he set down the bourbon and held up the tissue box. “I guess the divorce fucked me up pretty bad. Worse than it fucked up Luke, that’s for sure. Sometimes I think it didn’t fuck him up at all.”
Kit set the box down. “Well. I’d gladly fuck him up for you if you’d like.”
“Really? Could you sic James Bond on him?”
It was Kit’s turn to grin. “Of course—James and I go way back. Tell me, which Bond would you prefer?”
“Hm.” I tapped a finger to my chin, pretending to mull it over. “Either the Daniel Craig Bond or the Sean Connery Bond. Can’t decide.”
“Right then.” Kit nodded, teasing. “Roger Moore Bond it is. He’s my favorite.”
Kit put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. The muscles in his back strained against his blazer. A pulse of awareness broke through the heaviness in my chest.
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