I turned my attention back to the argument, and again my eyes widened. I stared at Emma, really looked at her, and I realized she wasn’t jealous, not in a love interest, girl longing for a guy kind of way. Rather, she was extremely frustrated—and definitely jealous—but for a different reason.

Martin drew himself straighter, his face stone and his eyes unyielding icicles. “You need to leave before I sever our partnership, because we’ve already had this discussion, you’re too fucking stubborn to listen, and now you’re really pissing me off.” He was furious and his voice was beginning to lift. I remembered facing his temper and I could see he was close to losing it now.

Emma coolly studied him for a long moment. “Fine. I’ll leave.” She reached into the satchel slung over her shoulder and pulled out a ring of two keys. “Here is your key.” She held it to him and he took it out of her hand.

Her eyes slid to mine and her gaze narrowed as she spat, “You are selfish. But worse, you are naïve and ignorant and stupidly obstinate—just like your mother.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but it didn’t matter because she’d already turned on her heel and marched out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

Martin and I stood perfectly still for several seconds. I was trying to wrap my mind around everything that had just happened and the odd verbal exchange I’d witnessed. I arranged my questions in order from most pressing to simple curiosities, and turned to Martin to gauge his mood.

His mouth was curved into a decisive frown and he was staring at the spot where Emma had just been standing.

I gathered a deep breath, preparing to pose the first of my questions, when he turned toward me. His eyes, how they moved over me, made my breath and words catch in my throat.

“You look different,” Martin said, his attention on my hips, moving to my thighs then back up to my stomach, breasts, neck, lips, then hair. If I wasn’t mistaken, he looked appreciative of the changes in my wardrobe. “What’s different about you?” This question was softly spoken and teasing.

I shrugged, pretending I didn’t know what he was talking about. “I don’t know. I’m using a different moisturizer for my face now.”

His gaze met mine and narrowed. “That’s not it.”

“I switched from Crest to Colgate.” I showed him my teeth.

“No.” He smirked.

“My hair is longer.”

“Maybe…”

I lifted an eyebrow at him and wondered if he were stalling, trying to distract me from the issues at hand—such as Emma’s mention of me being the reason Martin had given up…something big.

“Why don’t you tell me what your business partner meant when she said—”

Martin turned away, drawing his heavy coat from his shoulders. “Can we not talk about that tonight? Can we just…” I heard him sigh, “can we just hang out?”

“I don’t think so. I won’t be able to focus on anything else until you tell me what’s going on.”

My eyes moved over him as he walked to the entryway closet and hung up his coat. This left him in an exceptionally well-tailored, dark gray, three-piece suit. His tie was cobalt blue and matched his current eye color.

“Kaitlyn,” Martin paused, facing me, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his crisp business shirt, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.”

This admission made my insides flood with warmth and I marveled at how open he was with his thoughts, how fearless. I surmised our friendship would be similar to our previous courtship; I’d never have to wonder what he was thinking or feeling about me. He would be direct and honest.

In truth, I admired this about him. I wasn’t nearly as fearless. By comparison, and especially with him, I was a feelings and thoughts hoarder.

“I don’t want to talk about Emma or her constant nagging. I want to sit on the couch, drink a beer, eat pizza, and talk about shit that doesn’t matter—and laugh.”

He looked older than his twenty-one years; his suit was partially to blame. However, he also just looked tired—really, really tired. Upon further study I saw that his color was off, paler than before; his eyes were rimmed red, the dark circles beneath giving his face a drawn appearance. As well he was sporting a stubbly, late-afternoon beard.

I studied him, his obvious exhaustion, and felt like a compromise was in order. “Okay, fine. We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

He gave me a grateful, and tired, half smile. “Good.”

I held up a finger and pointed it at him. “But once you’ve recovered from your day, and you’ve had your beer and eaten your pizza, and we’ve talked about things that don’t matter, we will discuss the meaning of the ominous and mysterious conversation with your partner.”

He’d removed his suit jacket and vest, and was now unbuttoning his cuffs. “Fine.”

“Fine. I’ll get plates.”

“And beer.”

“And napkins.”

He nodded once and stumbled toward the hallway. On his way he stopped directly in front of me, paused for a moment, then scooped me up in his arms and gave me a tight hug.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

I hesitated as I my chest had grown tight, confusing emotion momentarily choking me. I wasn’t expecting us to be hugging friends. But then I returned his embrace because…Martin.

And also because his arms around me were like chocolate chip cookies for my soul. He felt strong, sturdy, warm, snuggly, good, right—delicious.

Yet my heart ached for him, he sounded so weary.

“Are you okay? Is something going on?” I soothed my hand up then down his back.

“No, not the way you mean. Nothing serious. I just…” I felt him exhale and relax a bit more into my arms. “I just missed you.”

Gah! Right in the feels.

***

“That’s it. I’m going to make a list of all the TV shows you need to watch.” I was sitting cross-legged on his couch, facing him and resting my head on the back of the overstuffed sofa. Martin was sprawled on the other side, holding his beer on his stomach and fighting to keep his eyes open.

“I own the Sherlock Holmes books.”

“The BBC show is awesome. Have you read the books yet?”

“No.”

“Maybe try reading them.”

“I will. Didn’t I read The Lord of the Rings?”

“Yes. But Sherlock has maybe the best sidekick in the history of forever.” I glanced behind him and found the clock on the wall. It was almost 10:30 p.m.

This conversation—about books, movies, pop culture, international current events, Internet memes, and music—was entering its third hour, although it felt like we’d just started talking, like no time had passed.

“I liked Sam, Frodo’s sidekick,” he said, stretching his legs. He was dressed in pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. I tried not to notice how delicious he looked. I tried and failed. His deliciousness paired with our easy conversation was somewhat intoxicating. I was feeling giddy.

“If you like sidekicks, then you have to watch Doctor Who.” I sipped my tea and studied the tea bag. “The Doctor has several companions, which is unusual but really works for the series.”

“I think you’re a sidekick person.”

“You think I’m a sidekick?” I glanced at him over the rim of my cup.

He peered at me. “No. I think you like sidekicks and side characters, maybe better than main characters.”

I thought about this for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I can see that. I feel like sidekicks aren’t as well developed as the main character in a story, but they’re essential in defining that main character. And the protagonist needs the sidekick more than the sidekick needs the protagonist. Sometimes the villain is just as important.”

He lifted his beer toward me and said before taking a sip, “But every sidekick and villain is the main character in his or her own story. Everyone is the main character in their own story. Even if the person is an asshole.”

This made me laugh. “Are you thinking of a person in particular?”

“No.” His eyes narrowed on me. I watched him take a deep breath, then amend, “Actually, yes.”

“Really? Who?”

“Do you remember Ben?”

I searched my memory and quickly registered the name. “Ben Salsmar, the drugging rapist,” I supplied. “Yes. Unfortunately, I do remember him. He’s responsible for the figurative potato sack of guilt I carry around.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I should have gone to the police when we got back from the Island. Instead I… didn’t.”

“Kaitlyn, there is nothing you could have done about Ben. You need to free the potatoes.”

“I overheard at the end of last year that he was arrested for sexually assaulting a minor, and I might have done something before he had a chance to—”

“Well, that’s not exactly true. He didn’t sexually assault her because he was stopped before he could do anything beyond drugging her and dropping his pants.”

I felt an immediate warm relief spread through my veins.