Page 22 of Common Grounds

“Exactly. And I know we can’t pretend the other night didn’t happen, so let’s just acknowledge whatever it was and move on.” She punctuates this statement by tapping her pen on her open notebook, her eyes tracking its movement.

I can tell by her finality that she thinks this is the end of the conversation, but I have to know. “What was it to you?” I ask gently.

She meets my gaze, and studies me for a moment. Her eyes roam over my face, snagging on my lips and jawline as they move slowly back to mine. When she swallows thickly, I know for certain she’s fighting a war with herself about what she wants to tell me.

“It was fun,” she admits.

Fun. I can work with fun. The corner of my mouth ticks up. “Yeah, it was.”

“But I have a job to do here now. It’s…” She sighs through her nose, biting her lip. “There’s a lot riding on this for me. And for you, too. It’s best if we focus.”

She might be right, but her mood has shifted. It’s subtle, but there’s a question in her words. Maybe a little desperation, too.

“You spoke so beautifully about your career the other night.” I wave, indicating the notebook in front of her. “I’m not getting the impression you feel like this is ‘the best way to put people and words together.’”

She stiffens, her grip on her pen tightening. “You remember what I said?” she asks, and from the way she snaps her mouth shut, those words came out before she thought better of it.

“Of course I do,” I say gently. And then I push a bit further. “That whole night is pretty much cemented in my brain.”

Emery softens a tiny bit, but it’s all my heart needs to water the tiny seed of hope that was planted the minute she walked into my shop. Maybe Mike is right. Maybe I’m stupidly optimistic, but I want to believe we were thrown back together for a reason. I need to believe it.

“I need this, Trevor.” For a second, I think she’s echoing my own thoughts. Until she says, “I’m not happy at this job, and this is a way to get back to doing what I love again. And I…” she trails off, looking around the empty shop. “I want to help you too. Please.”

I can’t avoid the image that bubbles its way to the surface of her laying under me, throwing her hips against mine, whispering, Please, Trevor.

But she looks almost anguished now. As much as she’s shown any emotion all night, anyway. And I’m suddenly struck by the realization that I will do anything this woman asks of me, even if it means tamping down my desire.

I nod once. “Got it. Yes. We both need this, and setting this boundary would be… wise.”

“Right,” she says, equally resolved. “Okay. So, tell me about this place.”

Chapter eleven

Emery

I get what I need from him and get out. Randall is only ever interested in two-minute pitches, anyway, so I don’t need much. And staying there any longer than absolutely necessary would be foolish considering the sparkle I catch in Trevor’s eyes every time I look up from my notebook.

I like that sparkle. A lot. And that is a very dangerous thing. I need to keep him at arms’ length, both for the job and for myself. The way he walked with me last week, how he teased me about waffles tonight, when he remembered my exact words about my job, those times we were both clearly thinking about tumbling into bed together…

He’s a good man. I can tell. I don’t want to drag him into my disastrous relationship track record.

I manage to dip out of there before he asks me for my number. I keep waiting for it the whole time we’re talking. I suppose it would be reasonable, under the guise of needing it for the story. Frankly, there’s a fifty-fifty chance at best that Randall accepts this pitch, anyway. If he doesn’t, it’s a moot point.

I really, really hope he does. And not because I want to see Trevor again, which I refuse to let myself admit. In fact, I’m almost positive I can do at least half of this without even talking to him, which might be better for both of us, anyway. I can write these innocuous articles in my sleep.

About halfway to my apartment, my phone starts rapid-fire buzzing in my purse, and I groan. I know it’s Cass and Vi before I even click on the screen.

Cass: Em. Come over NOW.

Vi: Or, you know, when you’re done at the shop.

Cass: Oh, she’s done. You know she bolted as soon as possible.

Then Cass, again:

Cass: I did not hear nearly enough about Hottie McHotterson. You cannot deny a pregnant woman this type of information. I need to live vicariously through you.

Vi: Hi. I’m your wife. Can you maybe avoid talking about living vicariously through your sister’s one-night stand?

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