Emma smoothed the periwinkle cap sleeve dress down and slipped into nude Louboutin stilettos. Her hair was flat ironed—a battle she had fought and won—but if the humidity climbed any higher, her waves would mount a counterattack. Reaching down to the bed, she scooped up the seven sets of bras and panties she had considered, ridiculous as it was, and refolded them. Anything to bolster her receding confidence was a must. As she tossed the lingerie into its drawer, her eye caught the cornflower blue tie tucked away in the corner. The reminder of the best part of one of the worst nights of her life. The tie made her feel strong, and it reminded her that there were people in the world she could trust. She pulled it out and rested the thinnest part under her nose like a silk mustache. It didn’t have the soft fragrance anymore, but the action comforted her. She rerolled it and returned it with much more care than she had the underwear, threw her Mac into a leather messenger bag, and stepped into the hall, determined to put the events of last night behind her. Take two.
Caroline tumbled through the front door, looking like she’d been in a hurricane, because she had, in fact, been in a hurricane. Her stick-straight strawberry blonde hair was tumbling out of an actual rubber band hanging near her shoulder. Her startling amber eyes were ringed with makeup and fatigue. Caroline worked for CNN and took whatever crappy job they threw at her. In six months, she had been sent to landfills, contaminated lakes, disputed gang turf, and now a hurricane. She had just arrived back in town and didn’t know about Emma’s unfortunate run-in the night before. Emma decided to keep it that way.
“Don’t you dare say it,” she threatened.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. It’s too easy,” Emma winked.
“Oh, and get this: it’s Hurricane Caroline.”
“No way.”
“I know, right? When we left for the Outer Banks, it was a tropical storm, but when we landed it was Hurricane Caroline. It’s moving up the coast. It won’t seriously affect us, but we will get a shit ton of rain.”
“We have to go out tonight. You’re a hurricane! We have to celebrate!”
“That’s not the best part.”
“Oh my God, what?” Emma had a feeling she knew what Caroline was going to say.
“I’m on camera!” she squealed.
“Finally. How’d you get it?”
“Felicity refused to go.” Then she leaned toward Emma conspiratorially. “The YouTube video of her hair extensions coming out in that tornado has made her a little gun shy about, um, weather.”
“Should have made her gun shy about cheap extensions.”
“I know, right?”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks.” Her fatigue seemed to resurface as she turned toward her bedroom door and pulled what looked to be a produce bag twist tie out of her hair. Emma waited for her delayed response, and just like that, Caroline turned back and gave her the once over.
“Oh, and wow.” She ran her hand, palm up, through the air from Emma’s toes to her head.
“Thank you. About time.”
“Sorry, I’m going on thirty-eight hours with nothing but coffee and stale bagels.” Realization hit. “Holy fuck. Nathan?”
Emma inhaled a shaky breath in answer.
“Well, keep your expectations low, Em. He’s not the adorable tween you remember. The Huff Post article I skimmed last week referred to him as, ‘ruthless as a landmine.’ Or was it a percussion grenade? Either way.”
Emma had already figured that out, but she held her tongue.
“Probably both. When you’re a defense contractor, the metaphors flow.”
“I’m just saying, keep the bar low.”
Little did Caroline know, if the bar were any lower it would be rolling around on the floor. Emma agreed. “Just an hour of Q and A.”
“And eye-fucking.”
“Hell, yes. God, he’s so pretty.”
“I think there will be eye-fucking in everyone’s field of vision. You look per... purdy.” Caroline had quickly amended the descriptor. Emma hated the word “perfect.” She had decided the reason was that it reminded her of all the ways in which she wasn’t. She had an almost visceral reaction to the word. It nearly made her sick.
“Purdy?”