She whirled to face him. People streamed around her, ignoring her, staring at the incredible Arthur Pineclaw, who came to a stop beside her. Still smiling, still beautiful, the kind of beauty that demanded attention. No wonder they loved him so much in the big city. No wonder they plastered him all over their screens when he looked like that—when he could look at people the way he’d looked at Jennifer in the café, the way he’d looked at Emma last night. It took a special talent to make you believe in romance with one look.
Emma swallowed, trying to drag back the anger. “This is a bad idea. This whole thing was a bad idea. I should never have met up with you last night. We shouldn’t have—”
“Whoa, hey.” Arthur stepped closer, voice lowering. “Where is this coming from?”
She threw her arms up. “Gee, I don’t know! Christmas, twelve years ago?”
He was still smiling, watching her with something too close to hope—that movie star smile fading into something scarily genuine. Then it grew, turning back into the smile he used with paparazzi.
“Emma,” he started. Too smug, tooknowing. She hated that he knew her so well, even after all this time. “Come on. We had a great time last night. Don’t ruin it with this thing you do.”
“Thing?” Emma hissed. “Whatthing, Arthur?”
Arthur hesitated. His smug smile wavered, but only for a moment.
“You feel something you don’t like,” he said slowly. “And then you get mad because it’seasierthan feeling whatever’s under it.”
Emma clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. A thousand fleeting conversations with her parents and her short-lived therapist ran through her head at once.
“I don’t do that,” she mumbled.
“Youdo,” he said. “You were getting better atnotdoing it. I hoped you’d be over it by now.”
Emma swallowed. He’d said something the other day about herlikingcertain waves of anger. She’d lain in bed that night, fuming, determined that he was just getting under her skin. Was this something he actually believed about her? Something he’d believed even back when they were together? She didn’t like anger. She didn’t rely on it to cover stuff up, she just…got angry sometimes. The world was frustrating. That wasn’therfault.
A strange, shaky feeling came over her. It felt a lot like a realization. Then rage rushed to cover it, as blinding and reliable as ever.
“Yeah,” she snapped. “I hoped you’d be different, too. That you’d stop with all your empty, panderingbullshit. So, apparently, we’re both disappointed!”
She pushed past him.
“Emma,” he tried.
He reached for her. She dodged it, whirling on him.
“Don’t. Just go back and finish the scene, alright? Don’t let mehold you back.”
It should’ve felt good, throwing that back in his face. Turning his own last words against him. Turning her back, the same way he’d done to her all those years ago.
But it was a hollow victory. The anger dissipated as soon as it came. She was too stuck on how the smile had fallen off his face for good when she left him there. He’d been trying to pull it back up, but she’d seen it.
Hehadmissed her. That part was true, at least.
CHAPTERNINE
Arthur did notslump.
It was trained in him at a very young age that presentation was everything. His parents even gave him etiquette training, which would have gotten him teased if he was anyone else. Fortunately, Arthur had enough charisma to make telling the other small-town kids about the proper way to use a shrimp fork look cool.
The point was that he didn’t slump. But he was coming pretty damn close as he leaned against the bar at Sour Claw, which was one of the only places that hadn’t changed since he left. Granted, he’d only been in here a few times. He’d even brought a fake ID as a teen, which was utterly useless since everybody knew him. The bartender let him drink anyway. They hadn’t been too strict with carding back then.
“I just can’t believe she’s still not over it,” Arthur complained as he nursed his second whiskey of the night. “She isn’t answering my texts. She hasn’t even been at the shoot for days!”
Rusty shook his head, tapping away at his phone. “Like I said, man. Crazy.”
“Ha ha,” Arthur said, ignoring the itch of irritation that rose every time Rusty said something like that about Emma. “She’s notcrazy. She’s just…dramatic. She feels things really deeply.”
He took another drink, wincing at the subpar taste. He hadn’t had whiskey this cheap in almost a decade. He thought he’d been misremembering how crappy it was. Apparently not.
