The Trouble with Love

by Lauren Layne

  “Probably because the damn thing wasn’t done yet,” Emma muttered.

  But she didn’t blame Grace for being puzzled. Emma always turned in her stories on time. They all did. Well, except for Julie, who could get away with pretty much anything simply by being Julie.

  Riley put her phone away, set the package of doughnut holes on the desk, and brushed the sugar off her fingers as she looked at Emma.

  Emma managed not to squirm. Barely.

  “Do you need help with the story? Want to talk it out?” Riley asked.

  Emma bit her lip. Truth time. Because if you couldn’t tell your friends, who could you tell?

  “I finished my story,” she blurted out. “Early this morning.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Grace said. “Are you worried he’s going to chew you out for being a couple days late, because—”

  “I didn’t write about Cassidy,” Emma interrupted.

  Riley sat down in her chair and leaned forward. “Wait, you decided not to write the story about exes?”

  Emma scratched her nose. “No, I did write that, I just didn’t write about . . . him. I did the twelve days of exes minus—”

  “Minus the one who mattered,” Grace said quietly. Her voice was gentle and not at all accusatory, but Emma covered her face with her hands in shame.

  “I couldn’t do it!” she wailed. “I couldn’t put it out there for everyone to read.”

  “Sweetie, it’s okay,” Riley cooed, coming beside her to pet her head. “Just because you write for Stiletto doesn’t mean you’re obligated to spill your guts for the world to see.”

  “You guys did,” Emma said, looking at her friends. “All three of you were brave.”

  “We didn’t write about our respective love lives because we were brave, Emma,” Grace said. “We did it because in some way, for us, at that time, it was cathartic. That doesn’t mean that it’s going to work that way for you and Cassidy.”

  “There is no me and Cassidy,” Emma said glumly.

  Riley gently poked Emma’s cheek. “Really? Because I know orgasm-induced glow when I see it and your complexion is looking quite dewy this morning.”

  Emma ignored this. Good—no, excellent—sex with Cassidy was the least of her worries. That had never been their problem.

  She leaned down, rummaging around in her bag until she came up with the blue folder where she always kept her in-progress articles. She held it up.

  “So what do I do?”

  “The story is done?” Grace asked.

  “Yup.”

  “It’s just Cassidy free,” Grace clarified.

  Emma nodded.

  Riley shrugged. “So? Tell him that. He can’t make you write about him. It’d be a repulsive abuse of power, and that’s not what he’s about.”

  “And yet,” Grace said, holding up a finger, “he was the one who had her write this in the first place. That right there was a power play.”

  “True. But he won’t push it,” Riley said. She glanced at Emma. “Not now.”

  “He won’t?” Emma asked hopefully.

  “I don’t think so,” Riley said thoughtfully. “I think he got what he wanted.”

  “Did you finally think of a word that rhymes with pussy?”

  “No, damn it.” Then her friend smiled. “Look, I’m not going to say that you two haven’t been dripping some sort of strange sexual tension since I met you. But I don’t think that was his goal, either. I think he just wanted you to see him.”

  “Naked,” Grace chimed in. “He wanted you to see him naked.”

  “Definitely,” Rile mused. “But not just that.”

  “Okay, enough with this,” Emma said, waving in a circular motion at Riley’s face. “What’s with the strange oracle vagueness? Just spit it out already.”

  “Cassidy wanted to get your attention,” Riley clarified. “That’s why he had you write the article. And now that he has it? I don’t think he’s going to push you to write about him. Hell, he may actually prefer that you don’t. Besides, it’s not like your guys’ history is any big secret around here.”

  “Okay, hold on,” Emma said. “You’re making it seem like he and I are getting back together. Cassidy and I did sleep together, but that’s all it was.”

  Riley shrugged. “Fair enough. But a word of advice?”

  “Oh, no,” Grace muttered.

  “What?” Emma asked warily.

  “When you tell him that you cut him out of your article while writing about eleven other guys you’ve slept with?”

  “Yessssss?” Emma asked, when Riley didn’t continue.

  Her friend reached down and quickly flicked one of the buttons on Emma’s shirt, revealing a bit more cleavage.

  “There,” Riley said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “That ought to help the matter.”

  Emma rolled her eyes and stood, tapping her blue folder against her palm. “Okay. I’m heading up to his office. Wish me luck.”

  Grace nodded in the direction of Emma’s boobs. “Keep your shirt like that, and I don’t think you’re going to need it.”

  Emma gave them both an exasperated look before she walked out of the office and headed for the elevator.

  She did not, however, rebutton her blouse.

  Chapter 25

  Emma nearly ran headfirst into Cole Sharpe, who was about to get onto the elevator as she was getting off on the Oxford floor.

  “Miss Sinclair,” Cole said, managing to grab her hand and kiss the back of it before she realized what was happening. “What brings you up to the forbidden man cave this morning?”

  “The man cave? Is that what you call it? Because it looks an awful lot like the Stiletto floor except with sports paraphernalia instead of cosmetic samples.”

  “Nope, it’s definitely a man cave,” Cole said. “You’re just blind to it on account of your ovaries. You can’t help it.”

  Emma smiled, sucked in by his easy charm like she always was. “You know that you’re a contractor, right?” she said, as they stepped aside so a group of men could exit the elevator. “You don’t have to be here.”

  “True, but then who would be around to tally how many times Malone and Grace sneak into the stairwell? Plus, I like to keep an eye on old man Cassidy. Gotta knock him down occasionally so he doesn’t go all crazy Roman emperor on us. Speaking of which—”

  Emma held up a finger. “Do. Not. Don’t even think about it.”

  “I was just going ask you if you were headed into the boss’s office, and if so, if you could tell him that I took off for the day,” Cole said, his eyes the picture of confusion.

  “Oh,” Emma said, feeling foolish for her defensive reaction.

  “Annnnnnd to say thank you on behalf of the entire Oxford staff for the boss’s really good mood this morning.” He winked.

  Emma punched his shoulder, although she couldn’t help but smile, because that’s what Cole did. Coaxed smiles. “Get out of here, Sharpe.”

  He winked and pushed the button for the elevator as she walked away.

  “Emma,” he called.

  She stopped, and he walked toward her, his expression more serious than usual. “You’re not going in there to break up with him, are you?”

  Emma frowned, then held up her folder. “Just turning in my story.”

  “Ah,” he said, relief flickering across his features.

  “Also,” she said, lest he get the wrong idea, “I can’t break up with Cassidy because we’re not together.”

  It was Cole’s turn to frown. “But I thought—”

  “That we spent the night together after the wedding? Sure,” Emma said. “But did you spend the night with someone after the wedding?”

  “A gentleman never tells—”

  “Save it,” she said gently. “I saw the girl in the red dress. But my point is . . . are you planning on calling her again?”

  “It was just a casual sex thing,” he muttered.

  “Exactly,” she said smugly, gi
ving his chest a little pat.

  Cole didn’t return her grin, his expression conveying something she couldn’t quite translate.

  Shrugging off the atypical encounter, she headed for Cassidy’s office. The door was open, but Emma stopped short of entering when she saw he wasn’t alone.

  His eyes lifted from whatever he and the other guy had been looking at and locked on hers, and then, damn it . . . his eyes warmed. She actually watched his eyes heat as they looked at her.

  Apparently so did the other guy, because a dark head turned around to see who Cassidy was looking at.

  Emma tore her gaze away from Cassidy and smiled. “Hey, there. Lincoln Mathis, right? We’ve met once or twice but I’m—-”

  “Emma Sinclair,” he said, standing and moving to shake her hand.

  Emma extended her own palm out of habit and manners, but in truth she was just a little dazed. Did Oxford not hire any normal-looking guys? Or was chiseled jaw a part of the job requirement?

  It had been a bit like this every other time she’d encountered this guy, and Emma knew she wasn’t alone. Riley, Grace, and Julie were head over high heels for their respective men, but they, too, tittered about the unabashedly good looks of Lincoln.

  The dark curly hair and blue eyes were pretty damn good, but it was the smile that did it. It managed to be both cocky and adorably shy at the same time. Rumor had it that Lincoln was the only guy in the city who had a black book bigger than the Bible and yet not a single bitter ex.

  Women loved him. All women. Including the ones he’d dated, slept with, and then discarded. It was one of life’s great mysteries.

  “You guys have a meeting?” Lincoln was saying. “I can clear out. Thanks for the spare minutes, boss. I think you’re right. We’re definitely past due for another G-spot article.”

  Lincoln gathered up his papers and pen like he hadn’t just dropped G-spot as casually as someone might mention deodorant.

  “See you around, Emma,” he said with a flash of boyish smile before exiting Cassidy’s office.

  Emma stared after him. Butterflies. That’s what Lincoln Mathis did to her. Butterflies. She hadn’t had those since . . . middle school?

  “You’re drooling,” Cassidy muttered as he brushed past her to shut the door.

  “That man . . .” Emma said.

  “Was staring at your cleavage,” Cassidy muttered as he returned to his desk chair.

  Emma hid a smile. This was a side of Cassidy she’d never seen. He was cute when he was disgruntled and jealous.

  She sat across from him, not missing the way his eyes lingered on the aforementioned cleavage. Good call, Riley.

  Except . . . she took a deep breath. This wasn’t Cassidy with whom she’d shared her shower this morning. This was Cassidy, temporary boss.

  Don’t blend the two, Emma.

  Emma took her story out of the folder and slid the papers across the desk. “My story. It’s late.”

  He shrugged but didn’t reach for the papers. “No biggie.”

  “Don’t,” she said in a warning tone. “Don’t treat me differently because of what happened over the weekend. We may have all sorts of personal stuff cluttering our working relationship, but you’re still my boss.”

  He picked up a pen from the desk and clicked it. An irritating habit, but also a telling one. It meant he had something on his mind.

  “About a third of Stiletto and half of Oxford didn’t get their stories in on Friday, Emma. I’m not jumping down their throat about it, and I won’t jump down yours.”

  “I appreciate that,” she said slowly. “I’m also going to need you to respond to this next bit of news with the same professional impartiality.”

  His eyes narrowed and the pen clicking stopped for a couple seconds before resuming. “Okay.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I didn’t write about you.”

  The pen clicking never stopped. “You changed story ideas?”

  “No,” she said, her teeth nipping at her bottom lip nervously. “I still wrote about the ‘Twelve Days of Exes,’ as discussed.”

  She forced herself to meet her eyes. “You’re just not one of them. I found someone else to fill the twelfth spot. A guy from a few years ago . . .”

  Click. Click. Click.

  He watched her. Then: “Okay.”

  Emma waited for the rest of his thought. But it never came.

  “Okay? That’s it?”

  He set his pen aside. Finally. Then leaned forward. “Emma, you want me to treat you like I would the rest of my employees. I want to treat you like the rest of my employees. And if one of them told me they’d chosen not to write about a specific aspect of their personal life, I wouldn’t bat an eye.”

  His statement was so rational, so refreshingly adult, that Emma breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He shook his head as he picked up her story and added it to a pile on the corner of his desk. “You have nothing to thank me for. If anything, you should be berating me for assigning you the story in the first place. My motives were . . .”

  “Personal?” she asked, when he broke off.

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “Yes. My motives were personal, and I’m sorry. I should have done more to separate my work goals from my personal curiosity. But, in better news . . . it shouldn’t be an issue much longer. I got an email from Camille this morning. She’s returning next week.”

  “Next week?” Emma squeaked. She thought she had another month to finalize her apartment plans.

  “Don’t worry; she’s not going to kick you out. She specifically said she intends to stay with whatever her boyfriend’s name is when she gets back. You won’t have to be roomies.”

  Thank goodness. Emma knew full well that she needed to get her life together and find a place of her own, but she wasn’t sure what she wanted. From a home, or . . . anything.

  “So they didn’t break up?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Didn’t sound like it. Said she was having a great time, but missed work.”

  “That does sound like Camille,” Emma mused. “Stiletto’s her life. I don’t know how she’s lasted this long away from it.”

  “Well,” he said, standing. “For some people there is no separation between professional and personal. They don’t want it that way.”

  “I suppose,” she said, watching him warily as he came around the desk toward her.

  He stopped several inches away from where she sat, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms as he looked down at her. From the way his eyes heated, she knew that he had a very, very good view down her barely buttoned shirt.

  “Emma.”

  Her throat was dry. “Yeah?”

  “I’m trying really hard to remember that I’m technically your boss.”

  “But . . .” she prompted.

  He stared at her. “But I really want to bend you over this desk, pull up your skirt, and fuck you.”

  The pit of Emma’s stomach dropped out and she felt an immediate empty ache between her legs.

  “Cassidy,” she breathed. “We can’t.”

  “I know.”

  “This morning, we agreed, that was the last time,” she continued, the explanation sounding like a horribly pathetic excuse considering that the sexual energy in the room was rapidly nearing its boiling point. “We can’t do this . . . casual sex thing. Not with our past.”

  Not without one or both of us getting hurt.

  “I know,” he said again, uncrossing his arms and putting his palms on either side of his hips on the desk.

  Emma ran her palms over the fabric of her gray skirt, needing to do something with them other than reaching for him. And if his white knuckles were any indication, he was facing a similar struggle.

  She wanted him. They wanted each other.

  And it was stupid and reckless and probably maybe a little bit forbidden, which made it all the more tempting.

  Emma closed her eyes. “If Ca
mille’s back next Monday, you’re only my boss—”

  “For five more days,” he said slowly. “And if I weren’t to read your story, if I left it for Camille to edit, then I’d only be your boss on a technicality, and not in a way that could represent a conflict of interest.”

  Emma gave a low laugh. “There wasn’t a concern over conflict of interest when you assigned me the damn story—”

  “Which I’ve apologized for,” he said calmly.

  “And which I forgive you for,” she said equally calmly.

  The silence in the room grew. So did the sexual tension.

  When Emma spoke again, her voice was a husky whisper. “The door—”

  “Locked,” he interrupted.

  Then he reached down with one hand, hooked it behind her neck, and pulled her up. His mouth claimed hers in carnal possession.

  That extra button Riley’d undone didn’t end up making a damn bit of difference. Not when he roughly pulled her blouse out from where it was tucked into her skirt, tugging her clothes apart with the same frantic urgency that she tore at his.

  There was no suit jacket today, no tie, just a navy button-down dress shirt that Emma all but ripped from his body before sinking her teeth into his shoulder.

  Cassidy swore, one hand wrapping around her back, the other tangling in her hair as he pulled her mouth up toward his. He spun them around then, so now it was Emma whose hips were pinned against the desk.

  Then his hands slid under her butt, lifting her so she was sitting on the desk, his hands roughly pushing her thighs apart so he could step between them.

  He shrugged out of his shirt before removing hers, and they both moaned when his palms closed over the light pink fabric of her bra.

  “When I watched you put this on this morning, I dreamed of taking it back off again,” he said as he pulled back and ran a finger over the small bow between her breasts.

  “So why don’t you?”

  Instead of complying, he bent his knees, running the tip of his tongue over the upper slope of each breast, moving lower and lower with each swipe until he flicked just under the fabric, but shy of her nipples, which were desperate for his touch.

  To pay him back, she reached for the bulge of his pants, using her nails to lightly trace the outline of his hardness without giving him any kind of relief. His teeth raked her breast and she gasped.