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Emily had not been inside Runway in nearly a year, which in itself was nervewracking enough.
The receptionist was different, younger than Emily remembered anyone being allowed to look behind that desk, but the polished black surfaces and the low churn of people moving with the deliberate speed of those who wanted to appear busier than everyone around them remained unchanged. Emily stood just inside the doors in a pale grey coat and sunglasses she did not remove immediately, taking in the familiar atmosphere with the detached interest of someone revisiting a school she had once hated and subsequently discovered she missed in highly selective ways.
The receptionist looked up. “Can I help you?”
“I’m meeting Andrea Sachs.”
Recognition flickered, though Emily could not tell whether it belonged to Andrea or to her.
“Of course. She said you might be early.” The girl smiled carefully. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Out of the blue, Nigel appeared from the corridor to her left, carrying a garment bag over one shoulder and reading something on his phone. He looked up and his entire face changed as soon as he spotted her.
“Well, Jesus Christ.”
Emily took off the sunglasses. “Hello to you too.”
Nigel crossed the lobby and hugged her before she could decide whether she wanted him to. She allowed it anyway, one hand briefly pressing between his shoulder blades.
“Look at you.” He said warmly, “I heard things were good at Coach.”
“They are, yes.” Emily smiled, “It’s not Dior but it’s going alright.”
Things were good, that part was not a lie. Different, certainly, but good in ways Emily had spent years learning not to distrust.
Nigel nodded, and there was enough genuine warmth in it that Emily let some of her instinctive reserve go. “I’m glad.”
A beat passed. Not awkward exactly, though both of them knew there were ten years’ worth of things that could have filled it and neither seemed particularly interested in excavating them in the middle of the lobby.
Nigel glanced toward the elevators. “You seeing Andy?”
Emily’s mouth twitched. “Apparently everybody calls her that now.”
“Not everybody.” He smiled, “Going for lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Tell her she owes me the market piece before three - Oh, that might be her.”
Emily smiled despite herself as she followed Nigel’s line of sight. Instead of Andrea, Amari came around the corner a moment later, walking beside Charlie and talking about something on a tablet. She spotted Emily first.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Hello.”
Amari stopped. Charlie did too, half a pace later. It was perfectly cordial. Emily had learned over the years that perfectly cordial could contain an astonishing amount of information.
“You look good,” Amari said.
“So do you.”
“How are you?”
“Thriving, evidently.” She said carefully.
Amari glanced at Nigel. “We have that review in five.”
Emily could tell he was about to say something, when the lift doors opened. Andrea came out at speed, carrying her bag, phone and what looked like three folders badly balanced against one hip. Her hair was loose, her expression distracted, and she was saying, “No, if he wants the quote changed, he can call legal himself because I am not having that conversation again,” into her phone before seeing Emily and stopping.
Her face lit immediately.
“Hi.”
The difference between everyone else’s measured reception and Andrea’s unguarded pleasure was so pronounced that Emily almost laughed.
Andrea shifted everything into one arm and crossed the lobby. “You came up.”
“You told me to.”
“I thought you might wait downstairs.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. Atmosphere.”
Emily glanced around. “It’s less frightening up here when you’re not being shouted at.”
Andrea grinned, then noticed Nigel. “What?”
“Your market piece.”
“It’ll be there.”
“Three.”
“Yes.” Andrea laughed, then looked at Amari and Charlie. “We’re going to lunch.”
“We gathered,” Amari said.
Andrea seemed entirely immune to the faint layer of reserve still hanging over the group. “Great. See you later.” She caught Emily lightly by the elbow as she turned toward the lifts. “Come on. I’m starving.”
Emily let herself be steered away.
Behind them, Nigel called, “Three.”
“Yes Nige,” Andrea did not look back. “I heard you.”
By the time they reached the pavement, Andrea was already asking about Roark’s football team.
That was one of the things Emily had come to appreciate about her. Andrea could change environments without changing herself. She had spent long enough at Runway now to know its rhythms, the hierarchies and the small negotiations necessary to survive a working day there, but she had not acquired the habit of treating every interaction as strategic. She could leave Miranda’s floor, walk three blocks and genuinely care whether a ten-year-old had been moved from midfield to defence.
“He hates it,” Emily said as they waited at the crossing.
“Defence?”
“Being told where to stand.”
“That does sound hereditary.”
Emily looked at her. Andrea smiled innocently.
“Bronwyn, meanwhile, has decided she wants fencing lessons.”
“That’s cool.”
“It’s also maddeningly expensive,” Emily sighed, “And do I want a prepubescent teenager to have a sword, is the question.”
“She probably won’t get to take it home.” Andrea paused, “Right?”
“I hope so, or I’ll be skewered before the year is up.”
Andrea laughed as they crossed.
The restaurant was one Andrea had chosen, close enough to Runway that she could get back without sacrificing the entire afternoon, but sufficiently far from the usual Condé Nast lunch circuit that Emily did not expect to spend the meal nodding at people she had no desire to speak to. They were shown to a table near the window. Andrea slid into the chair opposite and immediately picked up the menu.
“Are you drinking?”
Emily looked up at her from the wine list. “Maybe just one.”
“Great.” Andrea put her napkin across her lap, “I didn’t want to drink alone at one in the afternoon.”
They ordered, then settled into the kind of conversation that had become surprisingly ordinary between them over the past year. Andrea complained about an interview subject who had answered every question with some variation of wanting to protect their peace. Emily described a Coach meeting in where the main topic of conversation ended up being whether a shade of brown was emotionally accessible in AW26. Andrea said this was exactly why fashion frightened her. Emily said she had been working in fashion for more than fifteen years and it frightened her too.
They discussed the news briefly, then football, because Andrea had somehow started following Arsenal after Roark informed her she needed a team and assigned her one without consultation.
“You can’t keep texting me during matches asking what offside means, by the way,” Emily said. “You’re a journalist, do your research.”
“I know what offside means now.”
“You literally asked me last Sunday.”
“I was checking if you remembered, actually.”
Emily took a sip of wine. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Andrea smiled and cut into her food. Emily’s phone began vibrating against the table. She looked at the screen, then turned it facedown.
Andrea glanced at it. “You’re not going to answer that?”
“No.”
They continued eating. Two minutes later, it rang again.
Andrea looked up.
Emily ignored it.
The third call came while Andrea was telling her about a piece she was trying to get through legal.
“Persistent,” Andrea said.
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
“Frank.”
Andrea paused. “Is everything okay with the kids?”
“They’re at school.”
“Then why’s he calling three times?”
“Because he believes persistence is a substitute for being interesting.”
Andrea took another bite. “You should probably answer.”
“No.”
“It’s the fourth time.”
“Yes. He’s very persistent when nobody wants to speak to him.”
Andrea’s mouth twitched. “Em.”
Emily looked at the phone again as it began vibrating for a fifth time.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She picked it up. “Frank.”
Andrea lowered her eyes to her plate, though the table was small enough that Emily knew she could hear at least half the conversation.
“No, I wasn’t in a meeting. I was ignoring you.” A pause. “Yes, I saw the calls.” Another pause. Emily picked up her wine. “What do you want?”
Andrea’s eyes flicked up. Emily listened. Her expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“This weekend?” She set the glass down. “Yes, obviously the children will want to see you.” Another pause. “Who?”
Andrea stopped eating. Emily’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Francesca.”
Andrea immediately looked at her plate again.
“No, I heard you. I was just wondering whether you’d done it deliberately.” Frank apparently asked something. “Nothing.” Andrea pressed her lips together. “Yes, Sunday is fine. I’ll tell them.” Emily’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass as Frank continued. “Saturday?” She glanced at Andrea. “For dinner.” There was another pause.
Emily’s entire posture shifted into the particular elegant rigidity Andrea had learned meant she was seconds from saying something unwise.
“I’m not busy.”
Andrea looked up. Frank spoke again. Emily blinked once, then smiled, though Frank could not see her.
“Absolutely. We’d love to.”
Andrea froze. Emily’s eyes met hers. A second passed before Andrea mouthed, We? Emily ignored her.
“No, that sounds lovely. Send me the details.” Frank apparently said something else. “Yes. See you Saturday.”
She hung up. Andrea stared at her. Emily placed the phone very carefully beside her plate, and cut into her fish.
“What did you just do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said we.” Andrea paused, “Are you dating someone?”
“Obviously not.” Andrea waited. Emily picked up her wine and drank considerably more of it than she had intended. “Right.”
“What happened?”
“He’s engaged.”
Andrea’s eyebrows went up. “Oh.”
“To a woman called Francesca.”
A tiny pause. Andrea looked down.
Emily pointed at her. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I genuinely didn’t.”
“Frank and Francesca.”
Andrea covered her mouth with her hand.
“It’s not funny, Andrea.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“He’s bringing her to meet the children on Sunday.”
That wiped the smile away.
Andrea’s face changed. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel about that?”
Emily gave her a flat look. “I have known for approximately ninety seconds.”
“Fair.”
“And now, apparently, I’m having dinner with them tomorrow night.”
“With whoever you’re dating.”
“Yes.”
“Who doesn’t exist.”
“Yes.”
Andrea leaned back in her chair. Emily stared at the table.
“I cannot possibly turn up alone now.”
“You could just tell him you misspoke.” Andrea offered.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then I would look unhinged.”
Andrea considered this. “You did say we to a man who didn’t ask if you were dating anyone.”
“He did ask.”
“Oh.”
“He said I should bring whoever I’m seeing.”
“And you said we’d love to.”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
Emily sighed and put a hand over her eyes for a second. “I obviously didn’t think it through.”
“You think?”
Emily lowered her hand. “Please don’t become irritating now.”
Andrea softened immediately. “Okay.”
“I have less than forty-eight hours.”
“To do what?”
“Procure a date.”
Andrea blinked. “You could ask someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. You must know people.”
“My reputation is in tatters after the Benji Barnes situation.” Andrea stared at her. Emily lifted one shoulder. “It was public.”
“You broke up six months ago.”
“Publicly.”
Andrea laughed quietly.
Emily exhaled and looked out toward the street, her irritation already beginning to give way to practical panic. “I’m not taking some stranger to dinner with my ex-husband and his new fiancée. That’s psychotic.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m certainly not going on an emergency date tonight in the hope of recruiting somebody for tomorrow.”
“Also reasonable.”
“And nobody I know well enough is remotely appropriate.”
Andrea pushed a piece of food around her plate.
Emily continued, mostly to herself now. “I just don’t know any straight men that I could ask. Or ask men if they have friends I could ask - Charlie would know immediately. Nigel would make it worse. Anyone from Coach would turn it into a professional event. God, imagine.”
Andrea was quiet, quiet enough for Emily to glance at her. Andrea was still moving her fork around without eating, looking down at her plate. Then she leaned back.
“… I could do it.”
Emily frowned. “Do what?”
“Go with you.” Emily stared. Andrea met her eyes. “To dinner.”
Another beat. Emily’s expression slowly rearranged itself.
“You.”
“Yes.”
“As my girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
Emily looked genuinely baffled.
Andrea’s confidence faltered for the first time. “What?”
“In what universe would anybody believe that?”
Andrea’s eyebrows lifted. Emily realised, perhaps a fraction too late, how that sounded.
“You don’t think anyone would believe I’d date you?”
“That is not what I said.”
“It sounded very much like what you said.”
“I mean us. Together.”
“We’re friends.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve known each other for years.”
“That’s also true.”
“I know your kids.”
“You do.”
“I knew Benji.”
“You’ve met him twice.”
“That’s still more than most fake girlfriends would manage.” Emily opened her mouth, then closed it. Andrea continued, warming to the argument despite herself. “I know what you order when you’re hungover.”
“That is unfortunately persuasive.”
“And I know enough details that we wouldn’t have to invent everything.”
Emily studied her.
Andrea shrugged, then added, “And I think you’re attractive.”
Silence.
Andrea went still. Emily’s eyebrows rose. There was a faint flush appearing across Andrea’s face now, which seemed to annoy her almost as much as Emily’s expression.
“Okay, what?” she said. “Is it a crime to think you’re attractive or something?”
Emily looked at her for another second, before the corner of her mouth lifted.
“No.” Andrea waited. Emily took a sip of wine. “You’re not too bad yourself.”
Andrea’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Not too bad.”
“Don’t push it.”
Emily looked at her again, longer this time. The idea was ridiculous.
It was also, annoyingly, practical.
Andrea knew Frank. She knew the children. She knew enough about Emily’s life that she would not need cue cards under the table, and she was capable of talking to almost anyone without making Emily want to leave the room. More importantly, Emily trusted her, which eliminated a substantial number of possible disasters.
Andrea picked up her glass.
“So?”
Emily sighed.
“Fine.”
Andrea smiled. Emily pointed at her with one finger.
“Do not look so pleased.”
“I’m not pleased.”
“You are visibly delighted.”
“I like a challenge.”
Emily shook her head and reached for her phone.
“I’m going to regret this.”
Andrea lifted her glass toward her.
“Probably.”
Emily clinked hers against it anyway.
Andrea arrived at Emily’s house just past seven on Saturday evening. The babysitter had arrived twenty minutes earlier. Bronwyn was upstairs trying to negotiate a later bedtime on the grounds that Saturday was not technically a school night, while Roark had decided Andrea’s presence meant he was entitled to come downstairs twice under the pretence of needing water.
Emily was in the hall fastening one earring when the bell went.
“I’ll get it,” Bronwyn called from somewhere above.
Emily crossed the hall before Bronwyn could make it downstairs and opened the door.
Andrea was standing beneath the porch light in a black coat over a dark green dress, one hand tucked into a pocket against the cold. Her hair was down. She had made enough effort that Emily noticed it immediately, though Andrea looked otherwise exactly as she usually did when she had somewhere to be: composed, faintly amused, apparently unaware that she had been standing on Emily’s doorstep for less than five seconds and already complicated the evening.
Andrea looked at her, then stopped.
“Oh.”
Emily’s hand was still on the door. “What?”
“Nothing,” Andrea recovered. “You look good.”
Emily glanced down at herself, though there was no need. She had spent forty minutes deciding on the dress and another twenty pretending she had not. It was black, close-fitting without being ostentatious, with a narrow neckline and sleeves to the wrist. She had chosen it because it looked expensive, understated and entirely unbothered.
Frank would, Emily hoped, find this deeply inconvenient.
“Thank you.”
Andrea smiled.
Emily looked at her properly now. “You’ve made an effort.”
“I thought that was the assignment.”
“You own that dress?”
Andrea glanced down. “Yes.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“That’s because we don’t usually go on fake dates.”
Emily’s mouth twitched.
From upstairs, Roark shouted, “Is Andy here?”
He appeared at the top of the stairs before Emily could stop him, wearing pyjama bottoms and a football shirt.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” Andrea said.
“Where are you going?”
“Dinner.”
“With Mum?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied.
Bronwyn appeared behind him. “Is it a date?”
Emily turned very slowly to face her teenage daughter. Andrea coughed, trying to hide her initial reaction of a hybrid between shock and delight.
“No,” Emily said.
Bronwyn looked between them. “You’re both dressed up.”
“We are having dinner with your father.”
“Oh.”
There was enough immediate loss of interest in Bronwyn’s face to be insulting.
Roark leaned against the banister. “Is Francesca going?”
Emily stared at him. Andrea went very still beside her.
“Yes,” Emily said.
“Dad said she’s nice.”
“I’m sure she is.”
Emily reached for her coat from the hook by the door.
The babysitter came into the hall from the kitchen. Emily gave her the relevant instructions, pointedly ignored Bronwyn calling something about screen time from upstairs, and was halfway through reminding Roark that he could not have crisps in bed when Andrea took her coat from her.
Emily looked over. Andrea held it open. There was a tiny pause, before Emily slid her arms into it.
“Getting into character already?”
Andrea settled the coat over her shoulders. “I’m being polite.”
The taxi was already waiting at the kerb. Emily gave the house one last glance before getting in, then immediately checked her phone to make sure Frank had not changed the restaurant, the time, the guest list or any other material aspect of the evening in the twelve minutes since she had last looked.
Andrea slid in beside her and shut the door.
“We’re fine,” she said. Emily looked at her. “You’ve checked that message four times.”
For the first few minutes, they moved through the city in comfortable silence. Emily watched the familiar stretch of brownstones disappear behind them. Andrea adjusted the cuff of one sleeve, then glanced over.
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
Andrea leaned back into the seat. “I’m kind of excited.” Emily turned to her. “What?”
“I cannot believe you’re enjoying this.”
Andrea shrugged. “I’ve never been hired as somebody’s fraudulent girlfriend before.”
“You’re not being paid.”
Andrea considered that.
“Then I’ve made a terrible professional decision.”
Emily laughed before she could stop herself.
Andrea smiled at the window. “That’s better.”
Emily looked at her. “What is?”
“You looked like you were being driven to a sentencing.”
“I’m having dinner with my ex-husband and his fiancée, who apparently enjoys museums and has a name like a bad gag.”
“Francesca’s a normal name.”
“Not when paired with Frank.”
Andrea turned her face away, smiling.
Emily folded her arms. “I’m glad my suffering is entertaining.”
“I’m not entertained by your suffering.”
“You’ve been cheerful since you arrived.”
“I’m cheerful because this is objectively weird.” Andrea looked at her again. “Also, if it’s awful, we leave.”
Emily shook her head. “No, we don’t.”
“If it’s genuinely awful.”
“We are not storming out.”
“I didn’t say storming.” Andrea paused. “You care a lot about Frank thinking you’re fine.”
Emily’s eyes moved to the window. There was no accusation in the comment, which made it more difficult to dismiss.
“I care about not looking pathetic.”
Andrea was quiet for a moment.
“You don’t.”
The answer came easily enough that Emily looked at her. Andrea had already returned her attention to the passing traffic. Something in Emily’s chest shifted, small and irritatingly noticeable, so she looked away too.
After another block, Andrea said, “We should probably agree on some basics.”
Emily frowned. “What basics?”
“Our relationship.”
Emily turned back. “I thought the point was that we already know enough.”
“We know enough about each other. That’s different.”
“What do you want, a dossier?”
Andrea ignored that. “How long have we been together?”
Emily sighed. “Three months.”
“Okay. Who made the first move?”
“No one is going to ask that.”
“They might.”
“They absolutely will not.”
Andrea gave her a look that suggested Emily had never met another human being.
“Fine,” Emily sighed again. “You.”
Andrea’s eyebrows went up. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wouldn’t.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I mean I wouldn’t in the invented scenario.”
Andrea smiled. “Right. So I asked you out - where?”
“You’re overcomplicating this.”
“Frank knows you.”
“So?”
“So if I say something bizarre, he’ll know.”
“You are hardly close with my ex husband.”
“He has social instincts.” Emily gave her a flat look. Andrea amended, “Some.”
“Fine. Over dinner.”
“Where?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Andrea laughed. Emily shook her head, but there was no real irritation in it now.
“A restaurant.”
“Excellent. Very specific.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What if he asks?”
“He won’t.”
Andrea waited.
Emily stared ahead for several seconds, then said, “Somewhere downtown.”
“Great.”
“Happy?”
“Very.”
Emily looked at her. “This is exactly how people get caught in lies.”
“You’re the one who invented the girlfriend.”
“Yes, in a moment of weakness.”
The taxi slowed at a light.Andrea shifted slightly closer, enough that their knees brushed. Emily felt it. So, apparently, did Andrea, because she moved her leg half an inch away. Neither of them commented on it, but Andrea looked down at her hands with a sudden interest.
“What do you call me?”
Emily frowned. “Andrea.”
“No, if we’re dating.”
“You don’t stop having a name.”
“You know what I mean.”
Emily considered it.
“Andy.”
Andrea looked surprised.
“You hate when people call me Andy.”
“I hate when everybody else calls you Andy.”
“What’s the distinction?”
“I knew you first.”
Andrea smiled slowly. Emily looked away.
“Fine,” Andrea said. “And I call you Em.”
Emily turned back immediately.
“No.”
Andrea laughed. “Why?”
“Because you don’t.”
“But I have.”
“Once.”
“I’ve definitely done it more than once.”
“Not enough to establish precedent.”
Andrea was still smiling. “Frank knows I call you Emily?”
“Frank knows I call myself Emily.”
“You realise couples use pet names.”
“Not all couples.”
“Okay.”
Andrea sounded suspiciously agreeable.
Emily narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re planning something.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m improvising.”
“That is exactly what I’m worried about.”
The taxi began moving again.
Andrea settled back against the seat. “Relax.” Emily gave her a look. Andrea corrected herself immediately. “Sorry. Terrible word. I know what I’m doing.”
“You also once texted me from a bathroom because Miranda had asked you to make conversation with a French designer and you’d forgotten his wife’s name.”
“I remembered it.”
“After I told you.”
Andrea smiled. “Exactly. Teamwork.”
Emily stared at her, then gave up and looked out of the window. A few minutes later, they pulled up outside the restaurant.
Andrea leaned forward to look through the glass. “Oh, wow.”
Emily followed her gaze.
The place occupied the ground floor of an old hotel, all dark stone and discreet lighting, with a doorman outside and two black cars idling at the kerb. Frank had chosen somewhere expensive enough to communicate that he had chosen somewhere expensive.
Andrea sat back. “This is nice.”
“It’s fine.”
Andrea looked at her.
Emily unfastened her seat belt.
“What?”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been here before.”
“Of course you have.”
The driver got out to open the door. Andrea reached for her bag but Emily was quick to put a hand on her wrist. Andrea stopped. For a second, neither of them moved. Emily glanced toward the restaurant entrance, then back at her.
“Three months.”
Andrea nodded.
“You asked me out.”
“Downtown.”
“Do not invent anything catastrophic.”
Andrea smiled. “Define catastrophic.”
Emily tightened her fingers once around Andrea’s wrist.
“I mean it.”
Andrea looked at her hand, then up at Emily.
“I’ll behave.”
Emily released her. The taxi driver had opened up the door and Andrea got out of it with a swiftness that should have worried Emily. She followed, smoothing one hand over the front of her dress as she straightened on the pavement. The restaurant windows reflected them faintly back at themselves, two women dressed for dinner, standing close enough that there was nothing particularly implausible about the picture.
Andrea glanced at her.
“Ready?”
Emily exhaled.
“No.”
Andrea smiled and offered her arm.
Emily looked at it. “This is excessive.”
Andrea kept it there. Emily rolled her eyes and slipped her hand through anyway.
“Fine.”
They walked inside together.
Frank had already arrived.
Emily saw him before the maître d’ finished checking the reservation, seated at a table toward the back with a woman whose profile was partially obscured by a vase of white flowers. He looked much as he always did when he was pleased with himself: relaxed, expensive, and faintly overprepared. His jacket fit perfectly. There was a bottle of wine breathing beside the table.
Andrea followed Emily’s gaze.
“Is that Frank over there?”
“Yes.”
“And Francesca?”
Emily did not answer immediately. The woman turned and Emily felt her blood run cold. Her expression changed just a smidge - Francesca was blonde. Not the same blonde as Emily, which would have been absurd, but close enough to be irritating. Her hair was cut just below her shoulders and tucked neatly behind one ear. She wore a charcoal silk blouse, black trousers and a thin gold watch. Even from several feet away, Emily could see that her posture was excellent.
Andrea looked at Francesca, then at Emily.
“Don’t you dare, Andrea.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Andrea pressed her lips together as the maître d’ led them across the room.
Frank stood when they reached the table. “Emily.”
“Frank.”
He kissed her cheek. Emily returned it with the exact degree of warmth she considered appropriate for an ex-husband who had announced his engagement yesterday and was now standing beside the woman he planned to introduce to their children in the morning.
Then Frank turned to Andrea.
“Andrea. Good to see you again.”
“You too.”
His eyes moved briefly between them. Nothing obvious, though Emily knew him well enough to recognise the small recalibration.
“Francesca, this is Emily.”
Francesca stood.
“Finally.”
She had an English accent. Of course she did.
Emily smiled, despite wanting to gauge out her eyes with the starters fork. “Hello.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I hope some of it was accurate.”
Francesca laughed and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Probably not enough of it.”
She turned to Andrea.
“Hi! Francesca.”
Andrea smiled. “Hey, I’m Andrea.”
Frank’s hand settled briefly at Francesca’s back as everyone sat down.
Emily noticed, then was annoyed with herself for noticing.
Francesca picked up her glass. “I should say, before we get into anything else, I know tomorrow’s a big deal. Meeting the children. I don’t want you to think I’m treating it casually.”
Emily had expected small talk. The directness caught her slightly off guard.
“I don’t.”
“I’ve met them on FaceTime, obviously, but that isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
“And Frank and I have talked about taking it slowly.”
Emily looked at Frank.
He nodded. “We have.”
There was something unhelpful about how reasonable both of them were being.
Emily sat back. “Good.”
Francesca smiled. “I’m nervous, actually.”
Andrea glanced at Emily, then took a sip of water. Emily had no idea what expression she was making.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “Bronwyn currently wants a sword. Roark will ask whether you follow football.”
“I’m,” Francesca frowned, “Prepared for half of that, maybe. I do support a football team back home.”
That made Andrea smile.
“What team?” she asked.
“Chelsea.”
Emily closed her eyes briefly. Andrea took another sip of water, entirely comfortable with the way things were going, and therefore unfortunately, letting her guard down. Francesca’s eyes moved between them with mild interest. A waiter arrived with menus, which gave Emily something useful to look at. She had been in the restaurant twice before and already knew what she wanted, but she read the starters anyway.
Frank poured wine.
“So,” he said, once everyone had settled. “How long has this been going on?”
Emily looked up. Andrea looked at her. There it was. Emily put down the menu.
“Three months.”
Andrea said, at exactly the same time, “About six.”
Silence. Frank smiled. Emily turned her head very slowly, unsure whether she had actually heard Andrea fail the very first hurdle of the evening, one they’d practiced in the car, even. Andrea blinked.
“Six?” Emily said.
Andrea recovered almost immediately. “Nearly six.”
Emily held her gaze.
“We agreed three.”
Andrea’s mouth opened. Emily instantly realised what she had said. Frank laughed somewhat too loudly, which would have irritated Emily if Francesca hadn’t been even more annoying by covering a smile with the back of her hand like a shy schoolgirl.
Andrea looked at Emily for one long second, then nodded solemnly. “She still thinks of the first three as probation.”
Emily wanted to kick her under the table. Instead she smiled.
“Yes. Standards.”
Frank looked genuinely entertained. “That sounds like you.”
Andrea reached for her wine.
“Doesn’t it just!”
Emily’s foot found Andrea’s beneath the table. Andrea’s expression did not change, though she stopped talking.
Francesca laughed. “So which is it?”
Emily took a controlled sip of wine.
“Five months.”
Andrea nodded. “Five months, apparently.”
Frank raised his glass. “Glad we cleared that up.”
Emily took a larger sip.
The waiter returned, and the conversation was temporarily redirected toward food. Frank ordered for himself and Francesca after checking with her. Andrea chose the sea bass. Emily had just closed her menu when Andrea said to the waiter, “And she’ll have the lamb, medium rare, with the grilled vegetables instead of the purée.”
Once he had gone, Frank smiled.
“That’s rather domestic.”
Andrea’s hand paused around the stem of her glass. Emily could see her thinking.
“We spend a lot of time together,” Andrea said.
Emily relaxed slightly. That, at least, was true.
Francesca asked Andrea about Runway, and the conversation moved onto work. Andrea was good at this. Emily knew that already, but watching her with Frank and Francesca made it obvious in a different way. She asked questions without making them sound like questions, remembered whatever answer she was given and found clean routes into subjects everyone at the table could contribute to.
Frank talked about the event he was attending that weekend. Francesca mentioned that she worked in architecture, mostly commercial restoration. Small talk continued until the waiter returned with their food. Emily almost felt grateful for having something to focus on rather that conversation, and picked up her fork.
Francesca turned back toward her. “Frank said you’re at Coach now.”
“I am.”
“How are you finding it?”
“Very well.”
Frank smiled faintly. “She likes being in charge.”
Andrea laughed.
Frank’s attention shifted to her. “And you? Still happy at Runway?”
“Very!” Andrea nodded. “Really enjoying my editor’s job actually.”
Emily watched Andrea push a loose strand of hair behind one ear. Frank glanced between them again - That look was becoming more frequent. Emily noticed but did not exactly know what to make of it.
The starters disappeared. Conversation loosened as the wine level dropped. Francesca asked about the children without asking anything invasive, which Emily appreciated despite herself. She already knew Bronwyn had recently started piano and Roark was playing football. She knew which school they attended and that Bronwyn had a habit of reading long past bedtime.
Before long, the main courses arrived. Andrea had somehow ended up with her chair angled slightly toward Emily’s. Their knees had touched twice beneath the table. Neither of them had moved away the second time. Emily had become aware of this ten minutes ago and was making a deliberate effort not to become more aware of it. Then Andrea reached across and touched her necklace.
Emily stopped.
Andrea’s fingers were at the base of her throat for barely a second, turning the small pendant so it faced forward.
“It twisted.”
Emily looked at her.
Andrea withdrew her hand as though nothing had happened. Across the table, Francesca looked down at her plate. Frank, however, did not. Interesting. Emily picked up her knife. Andrea began talking about a profile she was working on, and Emily listened.
She had known Andrea a very long time. Long enough that Andrea touching her should not have registered any differently from Nigel brushing lint from her coat or Bronwyn fixing her hair because she had decided it looked wrong.
It had registered differently, which was proving to be quite inconvenient.
Frank asked, “How did this actually happen?”
Emily looked up. “What?”
“You two.”
Andrea’s fork paused.
Frank gestured between them. “I remember the last time I saw you together. You were friends.”
“We’re still friends,” Andrea said.
Francesca smiled. “Hopefully.”
Andrea laughed. Emily reached for her wine.
Frank said, “Who made the first move?”
Emily nearly closed her eyes. Andrea did not hesitate.
“She did.”
What the fuck. Emily turned to her.
Frank smiled. “Did she?”
Andrea, apparently realising she had committed herself, continued.
“Eventually.”
Emily stared. Andrea met her gaze with extraordinary composure.
Frank looked at Emily. “You?”
Francesca looked between them. “Where were you?”
Emily opened her mouth. Andrea beat her to it. “Her place.”
Emily’s eyes snapped back to her. She was, without a shadow of a doubt, going to murder this woman the second they made it home. Andrea continued, visibly constructing events as she went.
“We’d had dinner. Nothing dramatic. I was leaving.”
Emily’s expression remained pleasant through force.
“And what,” Frank leaned back, entertained. “Emily kissed you?”
Andrea nodded. Emily could feel the story growing around her.
Francesca asked, “Was it obvious by then?”
Andrea glanced at Emily. Something shifted in her expression.
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
The answer was quieter than the rest. Emily looked at her.
Andrea went on, “I’d thought about it. I just didn’t know if she had.”
For the first time all evening, Emily could not immediately tell whether Andrea was inventing something. Andrea picked up her wine.
Frank smiled. “And then?”
Andrea took a sip. Emily decided intervention was necessary.
“Maybe this is when we realise the beginning of a relationship over lamb is tedious.”
Francesca laughed. Frank looked amused but let it go. Andrea glanced sideways at Emily, and Emily could see a faint colour high on her cheeks. Interesting. Again. The conversation moved on. Emily waited until Frank and Francesca were briefly distracted by the sommelier before leaning toward Andrea.
“How long did you say we’ve been together?”
Andrea kept her eyes on the table. “Six months.”
“We agreed three.”
“I panicked.”
“You increased the relationship by a fiscal quarter because you panicked?”
Andrea pressed her lips together. Emily could see the smile threatening.
“Five months now,” Andrea whispered.
“Oh, good. Much more coherent.”
“I’m adapting.”
“You’ve also invented a kiss in my hallway.”
“I improvised,” Andrea turned her head slightly. “You wanted convincing.”
“I wanted plausible.”
Andrea looked at her for a moment.
“Was it implausible?”
Emily hesitated, because of everything she had expected Andrea to say, that question was most definitely not at the top of the list.
“No,” she said eventually. “I guess not.”
Andrea’s eyes stayed on hers for half a second longer. Then Frank asked her something, and she turned away.
Emily sat back.
She had intended the evening to be unpleasant in a familiar, manageable way. Frank would be smug. His fiancée would be irritating. Andrea would perform the useful social function of preventing Emily from appearing abandoned. Instead, Francesca was perfectly agreeable, Frank was behaving reasonably, and Andrea had become the most destabilising person at the table.
Emily hated it, although not entirely. Which, in itself, was actually worse.
The restaurant had grown busier around them. A second bottle of wine arrived. Emily declined more. Andrea did too.
Frank seemed surprised. “Nothing for either of you?”
Andrea shook her head. “We’ve got an early morning.”
Emily turned to her. Their mornings were, as far as she was aware, very much not conjoined, and even separately speaking, they were ostentibly unbusy. Frank accepted the answer without question.
“Kids?”
Andrea smiled. “Something like that.”
Emily’s eyes narrowed. Andrea did not look at her.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Emily murmured.
Andrea leaned closer. “A little.”
Her shoulder brushed Emily’s. Emily let it stay there. A few minutes later, someone said Andrea’s name behind them.
“Andrea?”
Andrea turned.
Emily recognised Amari before Andrea did. Miranda’s first assistant stood beside the table in a cream dress and dark coat, one hand resting lightly on the arm of a tall man Emily had never seen before. She looked elegant, relaxed and, for approximately half a second, entirely unsurprised to see Andrea. Then she noticed Emily.
Her level of surprise increased.
“Hi,” Andrea said.
“Hi.”
Amari glanced around the table.
“Emily.”
“Hello.”
Amari introduced her date as Michael. Everyone exchanged the required greetings. Andrea seemed entirely calm, although Emily knew better. She could practically feel Andrea’s knee pressing more firmly against hers beneath the table.
Amari looked at Andrea. “I didn’t know you were coming here tonight.”
“Neither did I until yesterday.”
Frank smiled. “Very last-minute. I’m in town for an event and wanted to meet Emily’s girlfriend properly.”
Amari went still. Emily closed her eyes for the smallest possible fraction of a second. Fuck. When she opened them, Amari was looking directly at Andrea. Andrea looked back, seemingly determined to ride out this disastrous storm. The silence lasted perhaps one second, although contained enough information for an entire deposition.
“Girlfriend,” Amari said.
Andrea nodded.
“Yes.”
Amari’s eyebrows lifted, then lowered. Then, with remarkable professionalism, she smiled.
“Wow.”
Emily considered death.
Frank, oblivious, said, “Apparently we’re all months behind.”
“You could say that,” Amari replied. Andrea gave her a look. Amari’s smile widened by an almost imperceptible degree. “How long?”
Emily said, “Five months.”
Andrea said, “Five.”
For once, they matched.
Amari looked between them. “Five months.”
“Yes,” Andrea said.
Michael, who had no idea why any of this was interesting, smiled politely. “That’s great.”
“Thank you,” Emily said, because somebody had to.
Amari looked at Andrea again. “Congratulations.”
Andrea’s expression suggested murder. “Thanks.”
“We should let you get back to dinner.”
“Good idea,” Andrea said.
Amari smiled at Emily.
“Nice seeing you.”
“You too.”
Then she turned back to Andrea.
“I’ll see you Monday.”
Andrea nodded Emily watched Amari and Michael walk away and disappear toward the other side of the restaurant. Silence settled at the table, and Frank was the one to break it this time, clearing his throat and picking up his glass.
“She seems nice.”
Andrea stared at him.
“She is.”
Emily looked down at her plate. Frank had started to look at them more closely. For a terrible second, Emily contemplated coming clean. Simply wish them both well with their engagement, admit she misspoke on the phone and wave this off as something silly. As she looked up, she realised Frank had been watching them. He met her eyes and smiled - this time, it was not so much smug as it was observational.
“You two make sense.”
Emily’s amusement vanished. Andrea looked at him.
Frank lifted one shoulder. “I wasn’t sure when you said it yesterday.” Emily’s fingers tightened around her napkin. “But seeing you together,” he continued, “yeah.”
Francesca looked at him. “That sounded almost surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
“Why?” Andrea asked.
Frank glanced at Emily.
“Because she never used to date people she actually liked.” Emily stared at him, feeling weirdly betrayed. Francesca laughed. From the corner of her eyes, Emily noticed how Andrea’s mouth twitched. Frank immediately held up one hand. “That came out worse than I meant it.”
“It came out exactly as you meant it.”
“No, I mean…”
“Frank.”
He paused briefly. Emily did her best to keep her face perfectly straight. Underneath the edge of the table, Andrea reached for her hand - not where Frank or Francesca could see, necessarily. Just two fingers against her wrist. Emily glanced down and then up at Andrea’s face, but the brunette was still watching Frank as he spoke. Andrea nodded as she listened to him try to explain himself. Emily turned her hand over, let their fingers touch briefly. Then, without warning, Andrea’s hand settled into hers.
Emily stopped hearing Frank altogether for several seconds.
It was absurd how different this felt from the rest of the evening. Andrea had touched her arm, her shoulder, her necklace. She had leaned close and allowed their knees to stay together beneath the table.
This was hidden. There was no audience for it, and yet. Emily curled her fingers around Andrea’s and felt the brunette’s thumb move once over the side of her hand. Then Francesca asked Emily something, and she had to rejoin the conversation.
They stayed like that until dessert.
By then Frank had become considerably less irritating, which Emily attributed to the second bottle of wine and the fact that Francesca had started contradicting him whenever he became too pleased with an opinion.
Emily liked her even more for that. This was appalling. At one point Francesca excused herself to go to the bathroom. They all watched her leave, although Andrea seemed particularly interested in Frank looking after her as she walked through the restaurant.
“You’re really happy.”
Frank glanced back.
“Yes.”
Emily looked down at the table.
Frank turned toward her. “I should’ve told you about the engagement before yesterday.”
“Yes,” Emily looked up. “You should have.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Andrea’s hand was still resting near Emily’s on the table now, no longer holding it but close enough to be obvious if anyone cared to look.
Emily took a breath. “Thank you.”
Frank nodded again. “I wasn’t trying to blindside you.”
“I know.”
“And tomorrow, if you want to change anything…”
“I don’t.”
He looked relieved.
Emily added, “Bronwyn will probably interrogate her.”
“She’s prepared.”
“Roark will ask her whether she understands the Champions League.”
“She does.” Frank smiled. “Actually understands it.”
Francesca returned a moment later, and the conversation moved on without any further ceremony. By the time the bill arrived, Emily was ready to leave but no longer desperate to, which was probably the best outcome available.
Frank reached for the check, so Emily did too.
“Emily, I invited you.” Frank gave her a look. “I’m paying.”
Francesca said, “Let him pay. He’s been looking forward to it.”
Emily turned to her. “He has?”
“He’s talked about this dinner all day.”
“Fran, c’mon,” Frank looked betrayed. “You didn’t need to tell her that.”
Francesca smiled.
Emily stared at Frank. Something about the entire evening shifted slightly, maybe not enough to erase the history between them or to make anything uncomplicated, but enough for her to appreciate the man she was once married to.
Emily released the check. “Fine.”
They stood a few minutes later. Frank kissed Emily’s cheek again.
“See you tomorrow at two?”
“Two.”
“Kids know?”
“Yes.”
Francesca hugged her lightly.
“I’m so glad we did this.”
Emily was surprised to discover she could answer honestly.
“Me too.”
Francesca smiled before turning to Andrea.
“It was lovely meeting you.”
“You too.”
Frank shook Andrea’s hand, then apparently reconsidered and pulled her into a brief hug. Andrea looked startled.
Frank said quietly, “Good luck.”
Emily heard him.
Andrea glanced over Frank’s shoulder at her. “I think I’m doing okay.”
Outside, the cold hit immediately. The doorman stepped toward the kerb to flag down their car. Andrea stood beside Emily, hands tucked into her coat pockets. For several seconds neither spoke.
“So,” Andrea said, very quietly, “Frank has a type.”
Emily closed her eyes.
“I knew you were going to say that eventually.”
Andrea smiled. “I showed enormous restraint.”
Emily looked toward the street as their taxi pulled up. “I don’t want to discuss Francesca.”
“I like her.”
“Of course you do.” Emily sighed, “She’s apparently me with better emotional regulation.”
Andrea laughed, and the taxi pulled away from the kerb.
Traffic was slow. The restaurant receded behind them, replaced by the usual Saturday-night procession of taxis and people standing outside bars pretending they were not cold. Emily felt the evening beginning to leave her in layers. The tension around seeing Frank, the anticipation of Francesca. The immediate, private annoyance of discovering Francesca was not only tolerable but genuinely likeable.
“She’s not exactly like you,” Andrea said out of the blue, “Despite being British and sort of your twin.”
Emily closed her eyes. “Can you please not.”
“She’s calmer.”
“Wonderful.”
“She seems less likely to start an argument with a maître d’.”
“I have never started an argument with a maître d’.”
Andrea looked at her.
“And she’s probably nicer to delivery drivers.”
“I am perfectly nice to delivery drivers.”
“I remember a certain incident with Thai food, actually.”
Emily turned fully toward her. “You remember far too much.”
Andrea smiled.
It was true. Emily had known it in an abstract sense before tonight. Andrea remembered the children’s school holidays, which restaurants Emily liked, the date of the presentation she had spent three weeks complaining about, the names of people Emily mentioned once and then assumed everyone else had forgotten. She remembered that Emily hated coriander, preferred gin to vodka and became quieter rather than louder when she was genuinely angry.
Tonight, Emily had been forced to notice all of it.
Andrea tucked one leg beneath herself slightly, angled toward Emily.
“For what it’s worth, you’re more beautiful.”
Emily looked at her. Andrea’s expression had changed. The amusement was still there, but softer now.
Emily lifted an eyebrow. “That sounds suspiciously obligatory.”
“It isn’t.”
“You’ve just spent three hours pretending to be in love with me. You have to maintain standards.”
Andrea looked down at her hands for a second, then back up.
“I’d think you were beautiful even if I couldn’t stand you.”
Emily went quiet.
The line landed with none of the playful exaggeration Andrea had used throughout dinner. She had not dressed it up. She had not smiled after saying it. She had simply said it like something she had known for a while. Emily looked at her face, trying to decide whether there was a sensible response available. There was not.
The taxi turned onto a wider avenue.
For the next few minutes they sat in silence. It was not awkward, exactly, but it had become more deliberate. Emily could feel Andrea thinking beside her, which was unfortunate because she was doing quite enough of that herself.
The hidden hand-holding at dinner returned to her without permission… Andrea had done it when nobody was watching. Emily had held on. That detail had become increasingly difficult to file under performance. She shifted in her seat.
Andrea noticed. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Tired?”
“Very.”
“Fair.”
Emily checked the time.
“I cannot wait to pay the babysitter and get into bed.”
Andrea nodded. The answer should have closed the subject. Instead, Emily became sharply aware of how it sounded. She glanced over to see Andrea was still looking out of the opposite window.
Good.
Probably.
Emily turned her phone over in her hand and found a message from Frank.
Thanks for tonight. See you at two.
She stared at it for a second, then typed back:
Thanks for dinner. Francesca is lovely.
Andrea glanced over. “Everything okay?”
“Frank.”
“What does he want now?”
“Nothing. He’s saying thank you.”
“That’s nice.”
The taxi turned onto her street. Andrea sat up slightly. Emily saw the familiar line of brownstones ahead and felt relief arrive cleanly for the first time all evening. Home. Children asleep, ideally. Shoes off. Door locked.
The car pulled up outside. Emily reached for her bag.
Andrea was already taking out her phone. “I’ll get it.”
Emily opened the door. Cold air rushed in. She stepped onto the pavement and pulled her coat closed around herself. The taxi remained behind her, engine running. Emily started toward the house but stopped when she heard the other door shut behind her. She turned around to watch Andrea standing on the pavement beside the taxi.
Emily frowned as the driver pulled away.
“You know you don’t actually live here.”
Andrea looked after the disappearing car.
“I know.”
Emily waited. Andrea seemed almost surprised to find herself where she was. Her hands went into her coat pockets.
Emily watched her. “Do you want a drink?” Andrea looked up. “I can postpone unconsciousness for another half-hour.”
There was a pause.
Andrea shook her head. “No. Fuck. I shouldn’t.”
Emily’s eyebrows rose.
Andrea looked briefly toward the street, then back at her. “I don’t even know why I got out.”
Emily studied her. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m not.”
Emily started toward the steps, still watching her. Andrea stayed where she was, which made the whole situation worse. Emily went up one step, then another, then noticed Andrea had barely moved. The blonde sighed and glanced back over her shoulder.
“This is becoming very teenage.” Emily smiled. “Are you going to stand there until I realise you’re waiting for a goodnight kiss?”
Andrea stopped dead. Emily laughed, then stopped in her tracks as well. There was something wrong with Andrea’s face - not wrong per se, but definitely different. Like the colour had suddenly drained from it. Oh. Emily’s smile faded. Andrea looked away and immediately, Emily was hit by sudden mental clarity.
Not one isolated moment. Several of them, rearranging themselves at once.
Andrea at lunch, saying she could do it.
The brief flare of offence when Emily had asked who would believe them together.
I think you’re attractive.
Andrea in the taxi tonight, dressed more carefully than usual.
The necklace.
The invented kiss.
No, she had said, when Francesca asked if it had been obvious. Not really. I’d thought about it. I just didn’t know if she had.
Andrea’s hand finding hers beneath the table when nobody could see.
I’d think you were beautiful even if I couldn’t stand you.
Andrea getting out of the taxi.
Emily stared at her. “Oh.”
Andrea said nothing.
Emily felt the realisation settle completely. “Oh.” Andrea gave a small, humourless exhale and looked down. Emily descended one step without thinking. “No. It’s fine.”
Andrea looked up.
“I was joking,” Emily said. “Obviously.” Her own voice sounded too quick now. “Tonight was for Frank. That’s all. You don’t have to…”
She stopped. Andrea was looking at her with an expression Emily had never seen directed at her before. It was not even embarrassment alone, it was hope, which was arguably worse. Emily’s hand tightened around the strap of her bag.
Andrea swallowed. “Okay.”
Emily waited. Andrea looked as though every available exit had closed behind her.
“What if I’m not,” Andrea blurted out, “Joking, I mean.”
Silence.
Emily could hear a car passing at the end of the street. Somewhere nearby, a door shut. The light above her own front steps clicked faintly in the cold. Andrea held her gaze. Emily did what she always did when confronted with something she had not planned for.
She tried to reason it out: Andrea was her friend, a very good one, apparently. Andrea knew her children. Her ex-husband now believed they had been dating for five months, Amari believed it too, possibly Nigel by Monday morning.
None of those things were relevant.
Emily knew that.
She tried again.
Andrea was attractive. That was also not new information, Emily had eyes after all. Andrea was warm, funny, occasionally infuriating, better with Bronwyn than almost anyone Emily knew, absurdly patient with Roark’s football explanations, and capable of making Emily laugh when she had fully committed herself to being miserable.
Still not enough.
Emily looked at Andrea’s mouth. That was less helpful.
Andrea took a small step back. “You don’t have to say anything.” Emily’s eyes lifted. Andrea was trying to rescue her now. Of course she was. “It’s fine,” Andrea said. “Forget it.”
Emily stared at her. “No.” Andrea went still. Emily came down another step. “I’m not forgetting it.”
Andrea’s face changed.
Emily had one final, sensible thought.
This could go badly.
Then another.
Sod it.
She dropped her bag onto the step. Andrea barely had time to look down before Emily closed the distance between them, caught her by the back of the neck and kissed her.
Andrea froze for half a second, then she kissed her back.
The relief in it was immediate and unmistakable. One hand went to Emily’s waist. The other caught lightly at her coat, pulling her closer without any hesitation now that permission existed. Emily had expected the kiss to feel reckless. Instead, it felt annoyingly natural.
Andrea’s mouth was warm from the car. She kissed Emily with more care than Emily had anticipated from someone who had just admitted to getting out of a taxi with no plan whatsoever. Emily tightened her fingers at the back of Andrea’s neck and kissed her again, slower this time. Andrea made a quiet sound against her mouth.
Emily liked that far too much.
When they finally separated, neither moved very far. For several seconds, no one said anything, before Andrea gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
Emily’s mouth curved. “What?”
“I genuinely thought you were going to tell me to go home.”
“Don’t be silly.” Emily kissed her again, “For future reference,” she said, “you’re dreadful at fake dating.”
Andrea frowned slightly. “I thought I was extremely convincing.”
Emily bent to retrieve her bag. When she straightened, Andrea was still standing there.
“Okay, well,” Emily started up the steps, suddenly aware of her heartbeat in her throat, “Do you want to maybe come in and finish this up like a real date?”
“A real date, huh?” Andrea followed, “Meaning what?”
Emily’s gave her a look severe enough to make Andrea’s laugh so unexpectedly it echoed in the street, until the blonde pulled her inside and shut the door.