He shook his head, turning to walk backward in front of her, somehow managing to avoid running into anyone as he gave her a scathing look. “Eggnog lattes are where it’s at. Everyone knows that.”

Emma made a gagging motion. “Why would anyone ruin a perfectly good espresso beverage with eggnog?”

“Take it easy, Scrooge. But, anyway, your crappy taste in holiday coffee beverages wasn’t what I was going to complain about….”

Emma rolled her eyes, reaching out a hand to tug at his sleeve to prevent him from mowing over a teen with at least a dozen piercings coming from the opposite direction.

“Fine, get whatever you need to say out of your system,” she said, hiding her smile by taking a sip of her coffee. Extra caffeinated, courtesy of last night’s lack of sleep.

He halted in the middle of the sidewalk, holding up a palm so she had to stop, too.

All traces of teasing dropped from his face, and Emma felt her smile slip. “You sure you want to hear this?” he asked.

She nodded, even though she wasn’t at all sure.

Cassidy leaned in slightly. “That museum exhibit you raved about all during breakfast and then dragged me to?” he paused dramatically. “That was probably the worst thing I’ve ever had the misfortune of looking at. And that’s including the time Joe Falet and Chris Dorian both went for a header sophomore year and Joe’s head split wide open. I think I saw brain.”

Inside, Emma melted in relief. Outwardly, she never lost her droll expression as she jabbed a finger at his chest. “That exhibit is on loan from Vienna, and includes some of the most highly acclaimed art of the century.”

“This century? Because this century’s pretty young, and I have to think that there’s plenty of time for a golden retriever and some finger paint to set a new standard in the next fifty years.”

Emma rolled her eyes and continued walking. “You never could appreciate art.”

But he’d agreed to go with her. No, he’d suggested it, after she’d gotten a bit too enthusiastic at brunch about the newly opened MoMA exhibit.

“I like art,” he protested. “I’ve evolved. I can identify an impressionist painting, and I’ve got proper respect for Michelangelo’s David, but modern art? No. I stand by my toddlers and dogs can do better theory.”

“Agree to disagree?” Emma said, taking another sip of her gingerbread latte.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “If you’re okay being wrong.”

He shifted again, back into that walking-backward position, and she smiled, because he looked so charmingly boyish in his gray hoodie and jeans.

Her footsteps faltered then as she realized what she was seeing. She was seeing old Cassidy. She stopped altogether, earning an irritated glare from the man behind her, but she barely noticed.

Cassidy stopped with her, giving her a puzzled look. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she made herself say. “Yeah, just…tired.”

“Drink up,” he said, reaching out a hand and tapping the top of her lid. “Unless, of course, you’d rather have a taste of the eggnog.”

Emma pushed at his shoulder as they resumed walking.

“Where to now, Sinclair?” he asked.

It was such a simple question. One he might have asked a million times if they were together…if they were married.

She took another sip of coffee, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him what the hell they were doing, roaming around the city together like two people who hadn’t agreed just a week ago to stay the hell away from each other.

He was glancing down at her profile, his expression knowing. “Don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what?” she asked.

He smiled ruefully. “Don’t take us there. Not yet. Let us just have one day as friends. For Julie and Mitchell’s sake.”

“Julie and Mitchell aren’t even here,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “And I’m pretty dang sure they are so not thinking of us right now.”

He was silent for several minutes. “I’m happy for them.”

She glanced at him. “You sound surprised by that.”

He cupped his paper cup with both hands and looked down as they walked. “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that I’m happy for them…but also jealous. Fiercely so.”

“Ah,” she said, in understanding.

“Aren’t you?” he asked.

Emma hesitated a little. “Julie’s one of my best friends. Mitchell, too.”

They’d come to the western edge of Central Park, and by silent agreement, they sat on one of the available park benches.

“But, yeah,” Emma said, once they’d settled on the bench. “I get jealous sometimes, too. Not in a begrudging their happiness kind of way, just—”

“You just wish there was enough to go around,” he said quietly.

Emma lifted her shoulders. “I guess. But sometimes I’m not sure. It’s like we talked about when I first started my article on my exes. Way back when, I did want to get married. I wanted the husband and the babies and the happily ever after. But now—”

“You still want that, Emma,” he said, leaning forward and then turning his head to look at her. “I know you do.”

Emma glanced up at the overcast sky. “Maybe. Do you?”

He turned his head away, staring down at his coffee cup as he fiddled with the paper sleeve. “Depends.”