I hate to admit it but I feel that burning reflex I haven't felt in a while—competition. It reminds me I'm not half as evolved as I'd like to be.
But then again, she's not just a woman. She's Lisa.
And Lisa isBen's wife.
My eyes drag to him. He's angled over her, scanning the newspaper, his hand settled on her shoulder in a way I don't like one bit.
I notice the front page with his face smiling above the title.Ben Bellini's Heart for the City: The Doctor Behind the Mobile ER.
Huh. He's here a few days and already managed to become best friends with the receptionist, and that too?
Somehow, I don't expect any less from him.
I sigh, drag my hands over my dress, paste a smile I reserve for polite torture, and force my legs forward.
The second he spots me, his mouth drops like air knocked out of him.
Not sure if it's because he didn't expect me or because of what I'm wearing.
"Emma." His hand slips off her shoulder all too fast, and he waves between us. "Lisa, this is Emma."
I'd smile at how fast he retreated if I wasn't busy bleeding out on the inside.
"I told you about her," he adds and I blink.
What? Told her what, exactly? No way he told her everything.
"The writer?" she asks, voice gauzy behind the paper, but doesn't put it down.
He nods, smiling at me. "Yeah. That's her. She's brilliant."
Oh. Brilliant. Not neurotic. Not inappropriate.Brilliant. He deserves at least a little smile back, so I give him one.
Lisa still doesn't show her face, too busy flipping a page. "Why did they use this photo? You have better ones."
I raise a brow at him, pissed at the dismissal, and he shifts slightly, thrown off by his wife's insolence.
"Emma lives in the building," he says, then adds quickly with too much emphasis, "with her husband."
There's a shift behind the paper and her voice comes out pointed. "Really? You didn't mention that."
He scratches the back of his neck, guilty-boy-tell. "Just didn't get to that."
She folds the paper and finally deigns to acknowledge me.
So yeah, she is pretty. Has those lagoon-blue eyes, but I don't know, something about her face makes you not like her.
Might be that snobbish tilt of her chin; might be personal. Who knows.
She gives me a once-over, the way women do when they judge a threat, and too bad for her—she caught me on the day when I look my age, when my hips are lethal.
"Nice to meet you," she says with obvious reservation.
"Nice to meet you too," I say back, stiff as granite.
She gives me a tight-lipped smile. "What a coincidence, we ended up in the same building."
I give her an even thinner one. "Tell me about it."
