“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 fuck 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.
“Okay, fuck it,” he said, looking enticingly frustrated. “I’m just going to talk.”
Her heart resumed its pounding. Funny how she hadn’t been all that frightened when he’d started to play with fire, but she was terrified now.
“That day when you came into my office and told me that I wasn’t a part of your article…I was hurt.”
Emma’s heart clenched. “But you said—”
“I know what I said. And I meant it. As your boss, I absolutely did not want to pressure you into writing about something you didn’t want to write about. But as a man…as a man, I wanted to matter enough for you to write about me.”
“Cassidy, that’s not why I didn’t—”
“Emma, sweetie, you have to shut up, just for a second? Okay?”
She pressed her lips together.
He continued. “But I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. And I’m damn glad that I’m not mentioned in those pages.”
Cassidy moved around the counter toward her but stopped just out of arm’s reach. “I don’t want to be in those pages, because those pages are about your exes. Those pages are about your past.”
His eyes roamed over her face, his expression tender. “I don’t want to be your ex, Emma. And I don’t want to be a part of your past. At least, not just your past.”