The Trouble with Love

by Lauren Layne

  “My apartment flooded,” Emma said, since her news wasn’t much of a secret. “It started with the pipe above the bathroom and my closet, but it’s an old building, and there was some sort of chain reaction thing, and before I knew it, the entire apartment was six inches deep in water.”

  Camille tapped her fingernails on the desk. “Everything ruined?”

  Emma shrugged. “I’ll know more when I get back today. But it didn’t look good when I left. My landlord is bringing some people in to survey the situation. Figure out what’s salvageable.”

  “Hmm.”

  Emma waited for her boss to say more, but Camille fell silent.

  “Your turn,” Emma prodded.

  To her surprise, Camille’s usually intense, take-no-prisoners expression transformed into a girlish grin. “I met someone.”

  Emma’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re taking three months off work because you met someone?”

  Camille merely leaned back in her chair and grinned wider. “So skeptical, Emma. You’re one of my Love girls. Surely you can understand what it’s like to fall, and fall hard.”

  “Actually, I’m more like your breakup, single-life girl,” Emma corrected.

  “Which is why I brought you in here,” Camille said, straightening a bit.

  Emma held up a finger. “Your story first. ‘I met someone’ isn’t nearly enough information.”

  “Fine. But for the record, your little flood story wasn’t worth this exchange of information,” Camille said, without much heat.

  Emma had the feeling her boss wanted to talk about her sabbatical. Emma just wasn’t sure she wanted to be the one doing the listening. She’d had quite enough of other people’s luck in the love department lately.

  “He’s a photographer,” Camille said. “Ken. Kenny.”

  Kenny?

  “We met a couple months ago when we were each dining solo at a little Italian place in the Village, and it was just . . . we clicked. He’s so different from my ex. Exes, plural. He’s a dreamer. A thrill seeker.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Emma said, knowing from the smitten expression on Camille’s face that her boss wasn’t looking for conversation so much as a chance to talk about her rapture.

  “He’s taking me down under,” Camille continued.

  “Okay, way too much info—wait. Down Under. Like Australia?”

  “You got it, mate,” Camille said in what Emma gathered was supposed to be an Australian accent. “Some tourist company is paying for his apartment in Sydney. All he has to do is capture the local flavor. And he asked me to tag along, and you know? I’ll be fifty-five next year, and I haven’t done anything exciting since I was twenty. I want some adventure before I’m too old to get it.”

  “So you’re going to another country—no, continent—with a guy you just met? For three months?”

  Camille gave a happy shrug. “What can I say, when you’re in love—”

  “Um, when you’re in love, you give it at least six months to see if it will last before gallivanting all over the globe,” Emma suggested patiently.

  “Why so cynical, Sinclair?” Camille paused. “Cynical Sinclair. That’s got to be a nickname of yours.”

  “It’s not,” Emma said drily. “And by all means let’s not let it become one.”

  Camille waved this aside. “Listen, the reason I called you in here is because your last piece was fantastic. The whole surviving singledom while your friends are coupled up thing is going to hit home for a lot of women. Myself included.”

  “Um, thanks?” Emma said, not at all sure where this was going, but pretty sure she wasn’t going to like it.

  “Your story before that was also good,” Camille continued. “I like that you focused on all the reasons modern women might be better off without a significant other.”

  Emma sat back in her chair, bracing for whatever was coming. Camille was a fair boss, but not usually effusive with praise. This little pep talk couldn’t be going anywhere good.

  “And the piece before that—”

  “Camille. Please. Drop the bomb on me already. I can take it.”

  Her boss gave a sigh of relief, then blurted it out: “You’re in a rut. A writing rut.”

  Emma frowned. “But—”

  “I’ll rephrase. The writing is fine. Excellent. You’re one of my best. But the topics are . . . they’re good, but they’re going to get stale if you don’t change it up.”

  Emma had the sudden urge to cross her arms and pout. Pouting had always worked so well for her sister over the years. Too bad Emma had never perfected it.

  “Change it up how?” Emma asked.

  Camille picked up her cellphone. “Well, my college roommate’s nephew just moved to New York from San Francisco—”

  Emma closed her eyes and groaned. “No.”

  “No, you can’t say no,” Camille said as she scrolled through her photos. “Just look.”

  She held the phone across the desk until Emma relented and looked at . . . an absolutely gorgeous guy.

  “Right?” Camille said smugly. “His name is Benedict Wade, and he’s a VP of sales for some . . . actually, don’t remember, don’t care. I only see the dimples. But he’s one of the good ones, Emma.”

  “Then why is he still single?” Emma asked, taking a closer look in spite of herself. The dimples really were first-rate. As was the slight wave to his dark blond hair, the even row of white teeth, and the tiniest bit of crookedness to his nose, as though it had been broken once or twice.

  Camille heaved a sigh. “See? You’re cynical. But because I, too, have been cynical, I’ll be patient with you. Benedict’s only recently single. He broke up with his girlfriend a couple months ago when she got a job offer in London just as he got one in New York, and he realized they were moving in different directions.”

  “Not really,” Emma mused. “If they both lived in California, and he moved to New York and she to London, they moved the same direction. East.”

  Camille’s eyes narrowed. “You’re doing that on purpose. Trying to throw me off the scent. Cassidy warned me you’d do that.”

  Emma froze. “You talked to Alex Cassidy about this? About me?”

  “Well, of course. Who better to know your type than your ex-fiancé?”

  Emma threw up her hands in exasperation. Does everyone know about that?”

  Camille shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  Emma gritted her teeth, just for a moment, at the thought of her private life being not so private. If it were up to Emma, the unpleasant past she shared with Cassidy would have gone to the grave with them, and she was pretty sure he felt the same. Without ever having talked about it, she knew that was part of the reason they both played the cold war game, frosting each other out whenever possible. It kept both of them from losing their temper and saying something they shouldn’t.

  But then Emma had gone and let him get under her skin at a baseball game, of all places. Julie’s fiancé had overheard them, and though Mitchell Forbes wasn’t prone to gossip, he’d mentioned it to Julie, and Julie . . . well, God bless her, she’d apparently gone and told the entire world.

  Emma didn’t really blame everyone for being interested. She knew that a failed engagement was juicy gossip. A failed engagement between a relationships columnist and a hotshot editor in chief was even more intriguing.

  Still, just because Emma understood the interest in her personal life didn’t mean she had to like it.

  A grumble snuck out before she could stop it. “What happened to the genteel world where people didn’t talk to other people about their exes? Isn’t that off-limits in polite society?”

  “You’re so cute when you go all Magnolia Manners,” Camille said gleefully. “Was that a little drawl I heard creeping into your voice?”

  Emma pressed her lips together. She’d worked long and hard to banish the soft North Carolina lilt from her speech. She wanted no trace of the naïve girl she’d been back then to show.

  Emma tried agai
n. “I’m just saying—”

  Camille gave another of those dismissive waves of her hand. “I know what you’re just sayin’. And don’t worry, I don’t usually go around throwing previous relationships in people’s faces. But you and Cassidy have always seemed so at peace with your past.” She paused. “Aren’t you?”

  “Definitely,” Emma said. Firmly.

  “So then,” Camille said with a shrug, “I figured there’d be no harm in getting his opinion on whether or not you and Benedict might hit it off.”

  Emma remained silent, and Camille gave her a knowing look. “You want to know what Cassidy said, don’t you?”

  Emma pursed her lips and made a deliberately indifferent face. “Not really.”

  Camille leaned forward. “He thought you and Benedict would be excellent together.”

  Not a trace of emotion flickered across Emma’s face. She was confident in that. When it came to Cassidy, she’d long ago learned to ward off pesky things like feelings.

  Emma handed back Camille’s cellphone. “I’m not really looking for a relationship right now.”

  “Fine,” Camille said with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean that you can’t date. Have sex. Have fun.”

  “I can have fun without a man.”

  “Of course you can. We all can. But, Emma . . .” Camille’s face was kind, and that was unnerving. “You’re young. You’re beautiful. And from one cynic to another . . . if you wrap yourself in bitterness too long, it will start to seep inside you.”

  Emma swallowed. She knew she could be a bit . . . distant at times. But bitter? She wasn’t bitter.

  Was she?

  The thought chafed. Her eyes dropped to the phone in front of Camille.

  Maybe she should ease off the whole ice queen thing. Give a guy a chance.

  “I’m handing the reins over to Cassidy by the end of the week,” Camille said, her voice quieter than usual. “But I do have one last assignment for you before I leave.”

  Emma’s eyebrows lifted. “Assignment? I pick my own stories.”

  “Not this time you don’t.”

  Emma slumped back in her chair. “I was wondering when you’d try to pull this.”

  “Pull what?” Camille fluttered her eyelashes—or tried to—but the effect was . . . ghastly.

  “Well, let’s see,” Emma said, tapping her nails against the arm of the office chair. “You assigned Julie a story about what comes after the first kiss . . . she got engaged. Then you had Grace work on a battle-of-the-sexes story with Jake—”

  Camille held up a finger. “Hey, Grace volunteered for that—”

  “So you had nothing to do with Grace and Jake getting together?” Emma pushed. “Didn’t get involved at all?”

  Camille made her eyes go wide and innocent.

  “Uh-huh,” Emma said knowingly. “And then you set Riley up to spill her guts and she ended up with Sam—”

  “I fail to see the problem,” Camille said. “Your three besties are all in happy relationships. I refuse to apologize.”

  “Fine. But I’m not looking for a relationship,” Emma said.

  Camille’s lips twitched. “Neither were they.”

  Emma’s fingers found her temples. She knew there’d be no winning this argument. “Just tell me. Tell me what you want me to do so I can get it over with.”

  “A blind date story. Julie told me you’ve never been on one—”

  “Because they’re a terrible idea,” Emma muttered.

  Camille continued as though Emma hadn’t spoken. “So spin it. Do whatever take on the story you want. “My First Blind Date.” “Are Blind Dates a Thing of the Past?” “The Horrors of a Blind Date.” Do it however you feel moved. . . . Just . . . give Benedict a chance. At least try, Emma.”

  “It doesn’t feel fresh,” Emma said, as a last-ditch effort. “Surely Stiletto has done a million blind date stories over the years.”

  “Oh, you know how that goes,” Camille said, standing up as though the conversation was over. “Everything old is new again, et cetera.”

  “Camille—” Emma begged, standing so they were eye to eye.

  “It’s one date, Emma.” Camille’s voice was impatient now. “A mere two hours out of your life.”

  “So this is nonnegotiable?”

  Camille nodded once.

  Emma ran a tongue over the front of her teeth as she inhaled a long calming breath through her nose.

  Fine.

  Fine.

  Camille was right. A date with a good-looking guy wouldn’t kill her. Worst case, it’d be a disaster and her story would all but write itself.

  “All right. Set it up.”

  “Already done,” Camille replied, her attention on her phone.

  Emma rolled her eyes. “So this entire conversation was just a formality?”

  Camille glanced up. “Next Friday at eight. Benedict will text you the location.”

  “Can’t wait,” Emma muttered, heading toward the door.

  “Oh, Emma,” Camille called, just as Emma had nearly made her escape.

  “I’ve all but moved in with Kenny. To his place. And we leave next week for Australia.”

  “Um, okay?”

  Camille shrugged. “Stay at my place. Until yours is back to normal. If you want.”

  Emma jolted a little in surprise. The offer was unexpected and generous. She’d been to Camille’s place once or twice for staff dinner parties, and the apartment was gorgeous. She’d be crazy to say no to a luxury high-rise on the Upper West Side with a view of the park, and just steps from the Stiletto office. Plus, she was guessing the repairs on her apartment would take weeks, if not longer.

  And she had a blind date on her calendar. Camille owed her.

  “Okay,” Emma said. “I accept. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  Camille shrugged as though it was no big deal, but just as Emma turned to go back to her office, she could have sworn she caught a flash of triumph on her boss’s face.

  And Emma had the unsettling feeling that she’d just walked into some devious master plan . . . that her staying in Camille’s apartment had been the endgame all along.

  But why?

  Chapter 4

  “Okay, this definitely counts as an upgrade from your last place,” Grace said as she accepted the mimosa Emma handed her and took in the panoramic view of the city.

  “You mean because you don’t need rain boots to be in there?” Emma asked.

  “Emma, honey, even before the flood, your apartment was . . . um . . .” Julie broke off and looked at the other women for help.

  “Smelly? Cold in the winter, hot in the summer? Noisy?” Riley suggested, throwing herself onto Camille’s white living room couch.

  “The word you’re looking for is prewar,” Emma said, sitting across from Riley. “It’s romantic.”

  “Renovated prewar is romantic,” Grace said. “Otherwise it’s just old—”

  “And damp,” Julie chimed in. “And—”

  “Okay! I get it!” Emma said, laughing. “My apartment sucked. But it was cheap, and it had a fireplace—”

  “That you couldn’t use,” Grace muttered.

  Emma glanced around at Camille’s luxurious apartment. She took in the granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, the corner windows with their abundance of natural light and stunning views. . . .

  “Yeah, okay,” Emma admitted. “This is better.”

  “Excellent. We’re all in agreement then? We’ll hang out at Emma’s for the next three months,” Julie said, standing to fetch more champagne.

  “Do you think Camille and Kenny did it on this couch?” Riley mused.

  “Eew. Why are you so okay sitting there?” Grace asked.

  Riley shrugged. “You guys have all sat on my couch, and Sam and I—”

  Emma held up a hand. “No. Don’t finish that sentence. Let’s all live in an happy, ignorant world where nobody does it on couches where their friends sit.”

  Julie returned
with the champagne bottle and carafe of OJ and began topping everyone off. “So what’s on tap for the rest of the day?” Julie asked. “I thought helping Emma move was going to take longer.”

  “I guess that’s one of the perks of all your stuff getting ruined,” Emma said, licking up a trail of champagne running down the outside of her glass. “Not much to move.”

  “Do you have any idea when the insurance paperwork will get all worked out?”

  “No,” Emma said. “I’ll give them a call on Monday.”

  Her friends exchanged a look at Emma’s cavalier tone, but she truly wasn’t worried about it. Sure, most of her furniture had to go, and a good portion of her clothes had been tossed, but Camille’s apartment had everything she needed for the short term. Although, Emma had definitely ignored Camille’s insistence on taking the master bedroom. The smaller guest room would be just fine, and came with fewer horrific mental images of Camille and Kenny “doing it,” as Riley would say.

  And while Emma couldn’t help but feel a little stressed by it all, there was also something very freeing about being forced to start over from scratch.

  Despite the fact that she didn’t have a home and had only about five outfits to her name, Emma felt lighter than she had in months. Like something exciting was about to happen. Like, maybe, for the first time in . . .

  “Did I tell you guys I have a date on Friday?” Emma blurted out.

  “Yeah? Who with?” Grace asked.

  Her friends looked curious, but not completely surprised. Emma may not be looking for a relationship, but she did date occasionally. She liked getting dressed up. Liked conversation with men.

  She liked sex, if the mood was right. Although it hardly ever was.

  But this time . . . this time felt different.

  Hopeful.

  Emma fiddled with her wine glass. “His name’s Benedict. Camille set it up.”

  “Camille?!” Julie said. “So that’s why she let you stay here. It was a bribe!”

  Emma shrugged. “Basically.”

  “Is he cute? And I thought you forbid us from setting you up on blind dates?” Grace said.

  “Well, if you guys had a twenty-fourth-floor apartment overlooking Central Park to bargain with, maybe I would have reconsidered,” Emma said.