And seeing as Riley and Sam had avoided just such a conversation for ten damn years, Emma knew she should listen.
But every time she wanted to go there—to ask what the hell they were doing—she chickened out. She was too afraid he’d tell her exactly what she’d told him. That it was just sex.
Tonight, however…tonight, Emma hadn’t let herself think about any of that. It had been about turkey and too much wine and delicious carbs and pie. Definitely pie.
It was the usual bunch: Julie and Mitchell, newly back from Maui; Grace and Jake; Sam and Riley. Camille had shown up for appetizers and to inform Emma that her second bedroom was still available and that her “real” building had an elevator.
And Cassidy was there.
Cassidy had been there all day. Prepping the turkey. Arguing with her about the best way to mash potatoes.
He was everywhere, all the time.
And she liked it.
“I ate too much,” Riley said, clearing a salad bowl from the table and setting it by the sink with an exhausted thunk.
“Riley McKenna. I can honestly say I never thought I’d hear those words coming out of your mouth,” Julie said, licking vanilla ice cream off her thumb before putting the scoop in the dishwasher.
“It was Emma’s fault,” Riley groaned. “What the heck did you put in that stuffing, lard? It was the most horrifyingly glorious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Horrifying only because you had six helpings,” Mitchell called from the table, where the guys were sampling Sam’s latest whiskey.
Riley pointed a finger at Julie. “Jules, tell your ball and chain to shut his trap.”
“I’ve tried,” Julie said. “It never works.”
“Yeah, because I’m the chatterbox of the family,” Mitchell muttered.
Emma tried to squeeze one last glass into the dishwasher, then gave up, because the damn thing was stuffed to max capacity. She added detergent and started it, before reaching for another bowl to wash.
“No. Sit,” Grace said, batting her hand. “Put your skinny ass on that bar stool and drink your drink. We’ll clean.”
“Actually,” Emma said, wiping her hand on a towel, “let’s all sit. The cleaning can wait until tomorrow.”
“You hear that, boys?” Julie called. “You can stop your mad dash to help with the dishes.”
The men didn’t pause in their debate over whether the whiskey had elements of leather in its flavor profile.
Emma picked up her glass of wine and started to follow the women into her tiny living room, and then paused, looking around and taking in the scene in front of her. It was a cheesy thought, but she actually felt her heart swelling.
Which didn’t make sense, because the tableau was a familiar one: couples playfully bickering, Riley eating too much, Sam’s wonderful whiskey, free-flowing wine, nonstop laughter…
Maybe tonight felt different because it was almost the holidays.
But in the back of her mind, Emma knew she was lying to herself. Something was different tonight, sure, but it wasn’t the proximity to Thanksgiving.
Her eyes sought and found Cassidy’s.
It was him. No, them.
They’d been at the same dinner party before, but never like this. Never as a couple.
Were they a couple?
It didn’t seem like it. It was so different from how things had been with her previous boyfriends. Heck, for that matter, it was different from how it had been with Cassidy all those years ago.
It was startlingly comfortable. There was no trying the other person on for size, no trying to adjust to their quirks and habits. No trying not to get annoyed at the other person’s chewing, no painful getting-to-know-you chats in which you scrambled to remember whether Jackson referred to his second-grade best friend or his childhood dog.
They simply were. They simply fit.
He lifted an eyebrow, as though to ask if she was okay, and she smiled and gave a little shake of her head.
I don’t want to talk about it.
Because talking about it might jinx it.
And therein lay the real problem…the downside of everything feeling so perfect.