They’d stepped up to the cash bar at the exact same time, and done the whole you first, no you first thing.

Two glasses of Chardonnay later, Joel had suggested they grab a bite to eat at an Italian place around the corner.

Two months later, they were spending nearly every evening and most weekends together.

Two years later, Joel had taken Emma to a swanky steakhouse in Rockefeller Center, and proposed sometime between Emma’s filet mignon and the crème brûlée they’d agreed to split.

Two minutes after the proposal went down, the only thing splitting was Joel and Emma. She’d finished the crème brûlée alone.

No ring.

No Joel.

She didn’t blame him for being angry and hurt. She did sort of blame him for the way he shouted, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” which had brought the entire restaurant’s attention their way. Didn’t exactly love getting stuck with the enormous bill on a then-paltry salary, either.

But she got it. She understood. Her embarrassment had been nothing compared to his pain. And she was betting her credit card had recovered a lot faster than his pride.

But the worst part was that Emma truly hadn’t known that she didn’t want to marry Joel. She knew he thought she’d played with his heart…strung him along only to publicly humiliate him. But she truly hadn’t known until he’d been down on one knee that she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t marry him. Didn’t want to marry anyone.

True to his last words, Joel Lambert had never called her again.

But maybe his bitterness had dissipated in the three years since they’d parted ways, because he’d promptly and courteously responded to her request to meet.

Either he was over their heated parting, or he’d be showing up with an ax, hell-bent on revenge.

The phone buzzed, and she told the doorman to send Joel up.

She bit her fingernail. Maybe she should have invited someone over for moral support on this one. But Julie, Grace, and Riley didn’t know the full story about Joel, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to answer their inevitable questions about why she’d said no to a trust fund millionaire who had the facial features of a young Brad Pitt and would walk out of his way through the Flower District on his way home to get her fresh tulips.

She didn’t even know how to explain it to herself, other than it hadn’t felt right.

Emma took a deep breath and opened the door to a soft but assertive knock.

He looked…the same.

A little heavier. He’d always been a bigger guy—not overweight, just the body type that was naturally suited toward bear hugs and cuddling. He seemed every bit larger than life now, with broad shoulders and a wide smile.

Yes, a smile.

No sign of an ax.

“Hey, Ems.”

“Joel.”

He opened his arms and she went to him, squeezing him because he felt good. Like a warm blanket you pull out of the closet on the first night of fall that feels perfectly cozy.

His hug enveloped her, and he squeezed her tight. She squeezed back, laughing a little, before she leaned away and ushered him in.

He shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the hook as he looked around. “This is so not how I imagined your place. You used to hate clutter.”

“Still do,” she said. “I’m in between homes. This is my boss’s place, but she’s letting me stay in the guest room while she’s out of the country with a new boy toy.”

“Well, the view’s great, even if the rest of the place looks like a Versailles replica,” Joel said, strolling toward the window to take in the evening view.

“Right? Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Whiskey?”

Joel had never been a wine guy.

“Scotch? Neat. If you have it.”

“I do.” Well, Camille had it. But Camille had said to help herself. Hopefully the Scotch wasn’t ridiculously expensive. But, hey, even if it was…this could be counted as a work expense. Sort of.

“So, Ems, a story on ex-boyfriends?” he said, smiling his thanks as she handed him the glass. “That doesn’t seem like you.”

“Does it seem like anyone?” she asked, pouring a glass of iced tea for herself. “I’ll confess, it’s not exactly my idea of a good time, but it’s part of the job.”

“Right. Stiletto, huh? That’s what you said in your email? When we were together you were still at the fashion one—”

“Runway,” she said, picking up her notebook off the counter and moving to the living room.

“Right.”

“And you?” she said. “Still at the same firm?”

“Yup. Angling toward partner in the next couple years if I play my cards right.”

“Congrats,” she said, meaning it. Joel didn’t need to work. His family was richer than sin. But he’d loved his job as a corporate law attorney.

He sat across from her, dwarfing the chair in a way none of the other men had, and leaned forward, glass between his big hands, studying her intently. Curiously.

“You look exactly the same,” he said, sounding slightly awed.

She laughed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I assure you, we women like to hear it.”

“I’m serious!” he said. “Ever since I got your email I’ve been wondering how you’d changed. If you changed. But you’re still the exact same woman I remember.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I like the sound of that, seeing how we ended.”