Hard Sell| ETHMA

10

I reach across the table and stuff some of my Benedict into her yapping mouth.

"Sorry," I say as she chews, glaring all the while.

"Thought I saw Feinstein coming this way. Wanted him to know how besotted I was by sharing my food."

She swallows and opens her mouth.

"And,"I say before she can speak, "I knew their names at the time. It's just . . . been a while. I mean, what are the chances that two women I haven't slept with in years not only know each other but also show up today, in the same restaurant?"

"It's a popular brunch spot," she says, lifting her shoulders. "I know half the people here."

"Yeah, I figured that out. We can't seem to go five minutes without someone stopping by to schmooze with you."

"Which is working in your favor." She points her mimosa at me. "The more people who see us together, the better."

"I know."

She leans forward. "Why do you look so tense? It's just brunch. Don't you like brunch?"

"Not really."

"Everyone likes brunch."

"No, not everyone likes brunch. I hate all the fanfare. Why can't we just get a pile of eggs and be done with it?"

She lifts her eyebrows. "A pile of eggs?"

"You know what I mean." I push my plate aside.

"Brunch is always such a fucking production."

"You're getting pretty pissed about a meal, Dolan. You're still on edge?"

"Yeah, I guess," I admit. I thought my tension was gone, but perhaps it's only eased. I still feel . . . off.

"My plan of showing up where I suspected The Sams would be came dangerously close to backfiring."

"Yes, well, that's why we should follow my plans. But regardless, I think I dug you out of that pile of crap quite nicely. Though, to be honest, I don't see Adam giving you his business. He's very old-fashioned."

"That's fine," I say, taking a sip of mimosa. "I don't want him as a client."

"No?"

I shake my head. "The Sams have been after him for weeks, but if they get him, Kennedy's got dibs. It's a good fit. The two of them can discuss chess strategy or whatever."

Truth be told, I love chess. And I'm damn good at it. But I don't get off on the dignity of the game or whatever, like Kennedy does.

"Yeah, that makes sense," she says thoughtfully. "If nothing else, Kennedy would probably go crazy for the Feinsteins' first-edition Dickens collection."
Snore.

"Also, he just left."

"Who?"

"Adam."

"Thank God," I say, exhaling. "I feel like I've been on display. The Sams didn't leave with him?"

She shakes her head, glancing over my shoulder toward their table. "No, it's just the two of them."

"Probably trying to figure out which one has to fire me."

"I don't think so," Emma murmurs, still watching the older couple. "They seem sort of . . . romantic. She's feeding him a bite of something chocolate, and he just wiped a bit of powdered sugar from her lip."

"Blech."

"I think it's sort of sweet."

I give her a sharp look, surprised to see a wistful expression on her face. "Wait." I lean forward. "I thought you didn't believe in the whole romance thing."

She shrugs. "I don't, not really. Not in the sense that I think there's one person who completes each of us or that romantic love is reliable."

"Right," I say with a nod. "Marriage is crap."

"No, I don't think so," she says.

"Right, and—Wait. What?"

"I don't think marriage is crap," she repeats.

"You just said—"

"I said I think fairy-tale versions of marriage are crap," she clarifies. "But with the right mind-set, I think marriage can be . . . nice. In its way."

"You want to get married?" I say, jarred to my core.

"I don't know. Maybe. Someday. Yeah, I think so," she says, seeming to warm to the idea. "With someone who was on the same page as me about it."

"What page is that?"

She bites her lip and thinks it over. "Well, I don't want a big white wedding, with the whole to love and to cherish bit. But I don't necessarily want to spend the rest of my life alone, either. It'd be nice to have someone to share my life with. A companion."

"You have Juno."

The soft expression on Emma's face fades at my glib tone. "Never mind."

"Sorry," I say, meaning it. "That was a dick thing to say. I'm just surprised. I thought . . ."

"Thought you and I were both cynics?" she says with a small smile. "We are. I'm just saying, in theory, I could see the appeal of having a partner. Someone to come home to, someone to talk to about my day. Someone to have dinner with."

"Someone to go to brunch with," I supply.
"Right. Exactly."

Our gazes lock and hold, and something strange passes between us.

"But you don't like brunch," she says on a rush.

"Right. No. Definitely not."

"Good," she says.

"Great."

We resume our meal in silence, and though she turns the conversation back to my "reputation rehab" and her suggested plan for the upcoming week, I have a hard time keeping my attention on the topic at hand.

All I can think about is Emma and her idea of marriage as a partnership of sorts. And how if and when she finds that partner, it'll mean the end of meals like this one.

The end of us. Whatever we are.