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  His eyes were on Emma, and she slowly became aware that everyone else’s were, too. She glanced around and tried to looked nonplussed, while her pulse beat unnaturally fast and heavy.

  Even when she didn’t look at him, she could feel Rafe’s eyes on her, pulling, capturing, holding, and she made the mistake of turning back to him.

  A mistake because now she couldn’t tear her gaze off him.

  Rafe took a breath and went on. “But the love of his life is also in that crazy, too-hectic, too-controlled lifestyle,” Rafe said. “She doesn’t realize how much of herself she gives, leaving nothing for anything else. Or anyone else. This breaks the man’s heart, because he wants her to see him, to be with him. To plant flowers in the yard and raise a grumpy old cat together.”

  “Maybe he should find someone else,” Emma said.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to.”

  “Maybe she can’t be who he wants,” she said.

  “Maybe she’s wrong.”

  All eyes in the room volleyed back and forth between the two of them.

  “Maybe the only woman he wants is her,” Rafe said. “You,” he clarified softly.

  Their observers gasped in concert.

  Emma’s heart went to her throat.

  “In my concept, this man has said a few things in frustration, things he didn’t really mean,” he said. “Her life isn’t boring or staid, it’s just different from his—and he’s incredibly sorry.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I should never have said those things, Emma.”

  At the use of her name, everyone again turned toward her. She felt her face heat up.

  “This is a concept, not real life.”

  “Right.” But he looked disappointed at having to keep up the pretense. “In my concept, these two see each other, they go out, they spend lots of time together, despite all their differences, despite all the things they’ve said to each other, or not said. In my concept,” he added softly, “they work hard. But a relationship, a good one, is worth the hard work.”

  Emma closed her eyes. She felt so confused. Still hurt. And afraid, terribly afraid, that he’d change his mind. That he couldn’t possibly really want her. She couldn’t handle that, couldn’t handle jumping in, giving him everything, only to find out he didn’t mean it. She didn’t have good luck with people being there for her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at him through a veil of tears she refused to let fall. “But we’re not interested.”

  She could feel the stare of every one of her peers, silent, sad, probably thinking she’d just made a huge mistake.

  But it was her mistake to make, damn it. “You can go.”

  “Emma—”

  “Please,” she whispered, covering her eyes.

  It wasn’t until she heard the conference door close behind him that she opened her eyes and took a breath.

  He had left. He really had left.

  Everyone stared at her.

  “Well.” She managed a smile. “Is there anyone else?”

  “You let him go.” The producer across from her, Liz, couldn’t seem to get over this. “You let that gorgeous hunk of a man walk right out that door.”

  “There are extenuating circumstances,” she said, hating every one of those extenuating circumstances.

  “Honey, he just laid his heart bare in front of a crowd of people, and all for you. I would say screw the circumstances and go after him.”

  Emma looked at her.

  She nodded. “Yep. Drag that man straight home and never let him get away.”

  Emma turned to stare at the closed conference door, knowing she’d never forget the look on Rafe’s face when she’d said she wasn’t interested. “I don’t think I can keep a man like that.”

  “Why not?”

  Yeah, why not?

  Didn’t she deserve to have some happiness and joy?

  She looked around at the expectant faces, some of whom nodded encouragingly. “I…” She closed her eyes. “I’m an idiot.” She leaped up. “I have to go after him.”

  “Good girl,” her producer said.

  She raced to the door, then looked back. “I should tell you, I want to cut back.”

  “Cut back…what?”

  Emma smiled, because suddenly this felt like the best idea she’d ever had. “I want to work forty hours a week, not a moment more. I want a life outside of the job. I’ll understand if this doesn’t work for you, but I love writing soap scripts, so be warned, I’ll go to another show if I have to.”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Liz. “Don’t you dare. You just go get that hot man.”

  Emma hauled open the door. The hallway was crowded with people hustling and bustling around doing their jobs. What she didn’t see was a Rafe Delacantro.

  She’d catch him in the parking lot. She started to run, grateful for the flat, beat-up sandals she wore. Racing down the hallways, dodging people left and right, tossing out an “I’m sorry” every time she jostled anyone, she skidded out the front glass doors and searched the parking lot.

  But he was gone.

  21

  “MEOW.”

  “I just fed you,” Rafe said to the cat winding its way around his ankles. He wasn’t really in the mood. He still couldn’t grasp the reality that it was over with Emma, he just couldn’t.

  Puddles bit his ankle.

  “All right, all right. Hold on.” He stood in his living room, a few nails in his mouth, his hammer in his hand, surveying the north wall critically. He’d hung a series of his photographs on the bare wall. “What do you think?”

  Puddles sat and began to wash her face.

  “Thanks.”

  Irena had asked about the bare walls, saying they definitely needed something. She’d suggested pictures of the celebrities he’d taken shots of over the years, or maybe some of the recognizable places he’d been to. Something to exhibit his work.

  He had figured he’d get to it eventually—eventually being later. But tonight, after the day from hell, he’d needed the chore to keep his mind off Emma’s rejection.

  So he’d taken Irena’s suggestion under consideration and decided she was right. He needed stuff on his walls. His stuff.

  Flipping through his photos had distracted him from thoughts of Emma for a while. He pulled out some of his favorites, remembering trips and people he hadn’t thought about in a long time. He’d stayed distracted, a good thing since he didn’t seem to enjoy his own company lately.

  Today especially.

  And man, what a today he’d had, going to Emma’s work with his heart in his hands. When he had learned she was unavailable because she was listening to story pitches, he’d gotten that rebrained idea of pitching her a story.

  Their story.

  She’d listened to him. He knew she had because she’d had trouble breathing. He knew if he’d gone closer, if he’d been able to touch her, she would have been shaking.

  He sure as hell had been.

  But she’d turned him away.

  He looked at the pictures on the wall. They weren’t of any famous celebs or anything currently in vogue such as abstract prints. Just his personal favorites, ones he figured he could look at for years to come and never get tired of seeing.

  The first two had been taken in Africa. There was one of a lion rolling in complete abandon in a patch of wild grass beneath a blazing summer sun, and another of three village women walking away from the camera, wearing their colorful clothes, with baskets piled high on their heads.

  The next few photographs had been taken in Scotland, in the Highlands, far from even a small town. One with the lush green landscape and the ruins of a castle vanishing into a glorious fog, another at midnight during a full moon, the glow highlighting three small huts.

  He figured a nice seascape would look good here, and he wondered where he’d take it. Maybe Santa Barbara, during a summer storm—

  A knock came at the front door. Puddles, looking unconce