The Trouble with Love
Contents
eBook Information
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Lauren Layne
About the Author
Advance Reader's Copy — Not for Sale
The Trouble with Love
A Sex, Love & Stiletto Novel
Lauren Layne
Loveswept
This is an uncorrected eBook file.
Please do not quote for publication
until you check your copy against the finished book.
Tentative On-Sale Date: March 3, 2015
Tentative Publication Month: March 2015
Tentative eBook Price: $2.99
Please note that books will not be available in stores
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Loveswept, an imprint of Penguin Random House
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
The Trouble with Love
Sex, Love & Stiletto Series
Lauren Layne
New York
This is an uncorrected eBook file. Please do not quote for publication until you check your copy against the finished book.
The Trouble with Love is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept eBook Original
Copyright © 2015 by Lauren Layne
Excerpt from Worth the Risk by Claudia Connor copyright © 2015 by Claudia Connor
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Loveswept is a registered trademark and the Loveswept colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 9781101883433
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Chapter 1
Emma had considered calling in sick.
The flu. Cramps. Measles. Dysentery. Mental health day. Whatever.
At the very least, she probably should have waited until after the morning rush hour. Or perhaps snuck in the back door of her office building along with the water cooler delivery guy.
But Emma Sinclair was not a fan of letting life’s little hiccups inconvenience her.
Although . . .
She supposed one could argue there was nothing so little about the fact that her apartment had gone from completely normal to entirely flooded in less time than it took her to curl her eyelashes.
And as for the fact that said water catastrophe had resulted in her entire building losing power . . . well, that was pretty much just a straight-up apocalypse.
Still. There were worse things than coming into work with your hair soaking wet and your makeup nonexistent, dressed in a hot pink bridesmaid dress from your cousin’s wedding that was the only dry item in your closet thanks to its protective plastic covering.
Emma had barely bothered to look in the mirror before she’d dashed out of her apartment chased by a string of F-bombs from her frazzled landlord. But then, she didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that her look was one part too glamorous for the office, one part street rat.
Besides, who needed a mirror when you had friends like Julie Greene?
Emma was digging through her bag for the badge that would let her pass through security at the Ravenna office building where she worked when Julie strolled up behind her, Starbucks cup in hand, smile firmly in place as always.
“Hi, Em . . . aaahh,” Julie said, breaking off in horror as she took in Emma’s appearance.
Emma gave Julie a droll look. “You like?”
“I don’t even understand what’s happening here,” Julie said, her voice mystified. She held out her Starbucks cup. “Here. Take my caramel macchiato. You need it more.”
Emma started to give a dismissive nah, that’s okay, but on second thought, accepted the offering. Her friend was right. She did need it more. The Incident had happened mid coffee-brew, which meant Emma was running on a caffeine deficit.
She took a sip as Julie continued to stare at Emma’s outfit in dismay.
“Explain?” Julie said.
Emma sighed. “The apartment above me had some sort of water disaster. My entire apartment looks like the set of Titanic, minus the nubile Leo.”
Julie eyed Emma’s wet hair. “So, is your hair wet from, like, dirty pipe water?”
“No,” Emma said, taking a last sip of Julie’s coffee and handing the cup back as she located her badge. “Fortunately, I’d showered before the pipe burst and I managed to dodge the worst of the spray. Unfortunately, drying my hair wasn’t an option.”
“Right. That whole electrocution thing,” Julie said as they swiped their badges and headed to the elevators.”
“Um, yeah, I couldn’t have gotten electrocuted even if I wanted to,” Emma said, punching the up button. “The power went out.”
Julie’s brown eyes bugged out. “Seriously? Flooded and you have no power? Is everything ruined?”
“Of course not. I still have this lovely dress,” Emma said, pulling the hem of her dress out to the side, curtsy style. She pretended not to notice the way the two girls who had been gossiping happily as they crossed the elevator lobby immediately quieted when they spotted her.
The dress would have been a distraction all by itself. The drippy wet bun was also atypical for a swanky office building in which sophisticated and polished was the unofficial dress code for women.
But a lack of makeup made everything worse. Much worse.
Not that Emma was really a glam type of girl, but she had a distinct disadvantage of having very fair eyelashes, despite her medium brown hair. And her eyes’ shape made it worse. They were both large and tilted upward in a semi-distinctive manner. Bambi eyes, her mother had always called them.
But without eyeliner and mascara, she was more Lord of the Rings’ Gollum than adorable baby deer.
“You know, it’s a good dress, if a bit out of place for work,” Julie mused, as they followed the two gossiping girls and a middle-aged man yapping into his phone onto the elevator. “Sexy. A little slutty even. Go you!”
“That’s great, Jules. Slutty was just what I was going for on a random Wednesday morning at the office.”
“Well then, you should have called me. We’re the same size–ish. I could have lent you something.”
“I’ll be taking you up on that tomorrow,” Emma said as Julie hit the button for the twelfth floor. “Everything I have will need to be dry-cleaned at best, burned at worst. But this morning, I couldn
’t make it from Upper East over to Upper West in the middle of traffic and still make it to the office in time.”
The elevator doors had just started to close when a male hand stuck between them, activating their sensors so that the doors reopened.
Great. Really freaking fantastic.
A lesser woman would have groaned in dismay at the sight of the man in front of her.
Emma merely straightened her shoulders, ignoring Julie’s softly uttered, “Oh, dear.”
It was him.
The man was gorgeous in the sort of way that made women stop and stare. The tall and lean athlete’s body was as impeccably dressed as ever in a trim, perfectly tailored black suit. No sign of a tie today, although there often was one.
His dark hair was perfectly styled, the clean-shaven face showing off a strong jaw and symmetrical lips.
And the eyes . . . green today, although they often could burn blue.
But Emma didn’t have to look at the man to know all of this.
She knew it all from her memories. Bad memories.
He didn’t falter at the sight of Emma and her low-cut cocktail dress and ugly wet bun.
In fact, he didn’t look at her at all.
Nothing—not surprise, not even acknowledgment—fluttered across his features at her presence.
The man was in control.
Always.
Julie shifted to the corner of the elevator to make room for him, and he nodded briefly at her before turning so that he and Emma were standing shoulder to shoulder.
The doors closed, and Emma lifted her eyes to the little screen that indicated the floor number.
He mimicked her posture, his eyes also focused on the spot where the L became 1, then 2 as they ascended.
“Emma,” he said politely, not looking at her.
“Cassidy.”
“You’re looking well.”
“And you,” she said, her tone smooth. Monotone.
“You didn’t get dressed up on my account, I hope.” His voice never lost its casual politeness.
She didn’t so much as glance at him. “Oh, do you not like it? I’ve been so hoping a fancy dress is all it would take for you to ask for my number.”
The elevator stopped on the seventh floor, and Emma and Cassidy stepped to the side so the man in the back corner could exit. In sync, they moved immediately back into their previous positions as the door closed.
They still had not looked at each other.
“You know, it’s a little bright for my taste,” he mused, as though they’d never been interrupted. “I like more subdued colors on a woman. Say . . . white. I always like to see a woman in a white dress. Do you own one?”
Julie cleared her throat, although Emma couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a laugh.
The elevator stopped at 12. Emma’s stop. Finally.
“Excuse me,” she murmured to Cassidy as she stepped off, her voice sugary sweet.
Julie followed her.
And much to Emma’s dismay, so did Cassidy.
“Wrong floor, Cassidy,” Julie said sweetly, with a pretty smile for the wretched man.
Traitor.
“Not today it’s not,” he replied.
“Ah,” Julie said. “Got a meeting with Camille?”
“I do.”
Camille Bishop was the editor in chief of Stiletto magazine, and Julie and Emma’s boss. Since Cassidy was the editor in chief of Oxford magazine, Stiletto’s brother publication, it wasn’t strange that he occasionally stopped by the twelfth floor.
Didn’t mean Emma had to like it.
“See you ladies around,” Cassidy said with a smile for Julie. Emma barely warranted a glance. “Oh, and Emma, just a friendly reminder that winter’s right around the corner. Careful you don’t catch a cold with that wet head.”
He moved away before Emma had a chance to respond. Or give him the finger. Not that she would have bothered.
“Friendly reminder my ass,” Emma muttered, glaring briefly at his back before she and Julie headed toward the office they shared.
“I think it’s sweet. Maybe he cares,” Julie said, linking her arm in Emma’s.
Emma grunted in response. “Give me the rest of your coffee. I need it.”
Julie complied and the two of them stepped into their office. Grace and Riley were already there. Grace, texting on her phone . . . probably sexting with her husband, if her dirty smile was any indication.
Typical.
Riley was eating a doughnut. Also typical.
Riley paused in her chewing when she saw Emma. “Whoa. Is it prom already? Nobody told me! I didn’t even order a corsage.”
Emma dropped her purse on her desk. “Tell me one of you has a hair dryer.”
“Yeah, I totally carry one in my purse,” Riley said, even as she shook her head to indicate that she most definitely did not have a hair dryer.
“I don’t have one, either,” Grace said. “But we can hit up the girls in the beauty department. One of them might.”
“Emma had an incident,” Julie said, plopping in her chair.
“What, like a ‘Noah wouldn’t let her on the ark because she was overdressed’ kind of incident?” Riley asked.
Emma smiled, despite her bad mood.
“Oh my gosh, Emma!” Grace leaned forward. “Did you go out to that gala at the Guggenheim last night? Ooooh, did you go home with someone? Is this your version of the walk of shame?”
“If it is, I’m impressed,” Julie mused. “My walks of shame involved a lot more sweat pants with ‘USC’ written across the butt and a dude’s oversized T-shirt and flip-flops.”
“You should totally write a story about this, Em,” Riley said, resuming her dedication to her doughnut. “‘The Walk of Shame for Grown-Ups.’”
“Okay, you guys are making this situation way more interesting than it actually is,” Emma said, holding up her hand with a plea to stop.
“Well, of course,” Grace said, tilting her head. “That’s what we do. We sex things up.”
Emma had to grant her that. It is what they did.
Stiletto was the top-selling women’s magazine in the country, and Julie, Grace, Riley, and now Emma were its darlings as the Love & Romance gurus.
Between the four of them, they covered everything from “Ten Things He Secretly Hates” to “Outside-the-Box Anniversary Plans” to “A Beginner’s Guide to Kinky Foreplay.”
The range in stories varied from month to month based on whatever inspiration each woman had, or whatever whim Camille threw at them, but for the most part, they all had their niche.
Julie was all about fun, flirting, and dating: “First Kisses,” “How to Make Him Pant at First Glance,” and so forth.
Grace’s stories were mainly geared toward women already in relationships: “Making It Last,” “Couples Therapy for Newbies,” “Keeping the Romance Alive.”
Riley was sex. All sex, all the time.
And as for Emma? Emma was the resident heartbreak expert—the one who helped women figure out how to cut him loose, or how to survive the aftermath when you were the one set loose.
Her most recent article was “Surviving the Single Life When Your Friends Are Coupled Up.”
Emma was able to write that one from personal experience. Hell, Emma would even call herself an expert on the topic, because her best friends were very much coupled up. In the best way possible, of course.
When she’d joined the Stiletto team a year ago, Julie had already landed the dead-sexy Mitchell Forbes, while Grace and Riley had been single.
Since then, she’d watched Grace fall head over heels in love with hotshot journalist Jake Malone, who she’d married in a small, gorgeous destination wedding a few months ago.
And Riley? Riley had successfully completed her ten-year quest for the heart of Sam Compton. They were getting married in a few months.
But then there was Emma.
Emma was still most definitely single. Intentionally.
&nb
sp; She dated whenever it suited her, and had had plenty of relationships over the years. But Emma had no intention of shackling herself to a man, no matter how happy her friends were.
Because that happiness could be ripped away faster than a burst pipe could ruin your morning. And then you were left with nothing but a gaping hole where your heart should have been.
“Okay, so if there wasn’t a hurricane or prom date gone wrong, what’s with the weird combination of wet hair, au naturel makeup, and glam cocktail dress?” Grace prodded.
Emma filled them in on her apocalyptic flood situation. As she talked, Julie rummaged around in her purse until she came up with a mascara wand, lip gloss, bronzer, and a hairbrush.
She offered them up to Emma, who reached for them eagerly.
Grace checked her watch. “Sorry, Em. You’ll have to rock that natural look a bit longer. Staff meeting’s about to start.”
“Emma, you didn’t tell them the best part of your morning,” Julie said, as the four of them headed toward the conference room.
“What?” Emma asked. “The part where you gave me your caramel macchiato?”
“Nope,” Julie said, “I’m talking about who we saw in the elevator.”
Emma rolled her eyes. Oh. That.
“Who?” Riley asked. “Was it the Duchess of Cambridge? I heard she and Prince Willy were coming to the States and I must know what hair conditioner she uses.”
“We saw Cassidy,” Julie said in a singsong voice.
“Yikes,” Grace muttered as she pushed open the conference room door. “I hope everyone was bundled up. It’s always like an ice storm when Emma and Alex are in the same vicinity.”
Emma’s eyes flicked to Grace in surprise. It was weird to hear someone refer to him as Alex. When they’d gone to college together, the guy had been known only by the last name scrawled across his back on game day. To Emma, Alex Cassidy had only ever been Cassidy. Had that changed? Had he grown up? Decided to ditch the soccer superstar identity and go by his first name?
Not that she cared. Whether he went by his first name or last name, it all translated to the same thing: jerk.