I could still feel his moist lips pressed against the knuckles of my right hand, and it took all of my will power not to outwardly cringe at the lingering sensation. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt sudden pressure on my lower back, but my shoulders must have visibly sunk in relief when I realized it was Cynthia by my side, her one hand nudging me slightly into her and the other thrusting itself into Lord Whatever-His-Name's face.

While I had expected to be scrutinized and evaluated by those in attendance, the way the couple's eyes roamed over my body felt much more carnal than I had been anticipating.

I allowed myself to take a quarter step into Cynthia and forced myself to smile at whatever the Lord had said to make her laugh.

"The elusive Emma Henderson," the lady smirked, still eyeing me.

"I'd hardly call myself elusive," I managed to counter with a tight smile.

"Ah yes," she said, her lips pulling wider to show two perfectly straight rows of pearly white teeth. "A columnist."

"Book reviewer," Cynthia cheerfully corrected before turning to me and explaining in a conspiratorial tone that Lord and Lady Shelby were recurring and incredibly benevolent donors to the foundation.

I attempted to care—or at the very least give off the appearance of caring—and to not focus on the still lingering feeling of wetness across the backs of my fingers.

At some point, Lady Shelby spotted another marked person in the crowd to ambush. As the couple excused themselves, I expected Cynthia to step back and for her hand to drop—but she didn't and, instead, her hand moved up my spine to rest between my shoulder blades. Suddenly we were set upon by a new posse of people, and Cynthia led the introductions with ease.

In fact, she led nearly every conversation thereafter. I was impressed not only by her ability to remember so many names and faces, but also the personal details and shared acquaintances that went with each. By my reckoning, she steered each interaction in the exact direction she wanted it: away from me and the tabloids and always, inevitably, toward the foundation and the financial needs of its ever-growing portfolio of charitable projects.

She would allow one or two questions about my work or personal background—just enough, I realized, to give the impression of my being a reputable partner for the CEO of a multinational charity—and then smoothly transition us to more pragmatic talking points.

At some point, a tuxedoed waiter had come by with flutes of fizzing champagne. While I desperately wanted a drink, I was hesitant to reach out for one and risk looking too eager. Images from that night in the bar flashed in my mind, particularly the photos captured by the paparazzi of my top torn open and my lace bra exposed...

My mind cleared as I felt Cynthia press the stem of a flute into my hand. She was laughing over the rim of her own before taking a delicate sip. I smiled gratefully at her and did my best to mirror her movements.

By the fourth or fifth set of introductions—I had stopped counting after the third—Cynthia noticed I had emptied my glass. Taking one final swig and draining the last of hers, she excused us to the bar.

"Christ, Emma!" She exclaimed in a whisper as she squeezed my elbow, inadvertently pinching my soft skin between her claw-like nails. "You're a natural at this!"

"All I've done is smile and nod my head every once in a while..."

"Yes, and you're brilliant at it!" she cheered with another enthusiastic squeeze.

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment," I said through a tight smile.

She placed her flute near the edge of the counter and then reached for mine and did the same. "Of course it is!"

"I doubt Tom would say it is," I retorted as I watched the bartender refill our glasses before quickly turning and serving another waiting patron.

"Well, Tommy can shove off," Cynthia declared between gulps of the bubbling, golden liquid.

While I was an only child, I prided myself intelligent enough to know that between two feuding siblings was no place I wanted to be. I raised my glass and took a measured sip as my eyes scanned over the crowd in search of Tom.

"Have I complimented you on how well you look?"

"It's unemployment," I said dryly. "The lack of financial security and utter inability to anticipate my next paycheck is doing wonders for my skin."

Cynthia snorted.

I spotted the back of Tom's head. He was nodding along to something the older gentleman beside him was saying. He held a scotch in one hand and ruffled the back of his hair with the other. I couldn't help but grin as his short curls slowly worked themselves free from the mousse he had combed through them not more than an hour ago. My stomach did a somersault as I reveled in the memory of the first time I saw Tom and his unruly hair sticking out like a glorious neon sign amidst the dimly lit aisles of Flannigan's.

"Seriously though," Cynthia was saying to me. "You look amazing. You really dressed yourself?"

"My friend did," I murmured, still grinning like an idiot in Tom's direction.

"She a professional?"

"Sort of..." I finally managed to pull my gaze away from Tom and blushed when I found Cynthia waiting in expectant amusement. "She works in a high-end shop."

"You mentioned," she smirked. "And your hair and make up?"

"Trisha did that too, that's my friend's name. Trisha."

"You should pay her."

I laughed and took a deeper drink of my champagne. "Don't tell her that. She'll send me an invoice of services."

"No, I mean it."

I lifted my eyebrows and looked at her over the rim of my glass. Cynthia's eyes shown with sincerity.

"You should hire her," she repeated.

"Trisha?" I gulped, wide-eyed.

Cynthia merely waved her hand up and down, gesturing toward me. "She's clearly very talented."

I couldn't help but cringe at the thought of employing my roommate. "I don't know... wouldn't that be kind of weird to hire my friend?"

"Well you'll need to hire someone if you're planning on making more appearances," she shrugged.

Cynthia took another sip, presumably waiting for me to say something, but... I couldn't.

I wanted to say the words she expected to hear, the words I knew Tom had grown desperate to hear. I knew what they were:

Of course!

and

Where else would I possibly be?

London is my home, and my place is right here... with you.

I yearned to hear those words, too. To say them but most importantly to mean them. For them to be true.

But they weren't. Not yet anyway. And I couldn't allow myself to say them when they weren't true. I'd already lied to Tom about how and exactly why I was unemployed; I couldn't lie to him again about my prospects for future employment.

Still, despite all my moralizing, I still couldn't tell him the truth. The truth of the why and the how, or now even of the prospects. The truth was that they were dismal. I was out of opportunities and rent money, and—perhaps most damning of all—I was out of hope.

It killed me to prepare for each interview and to walk into those bloody offices and know what was going to be asked of me. I'd been feeling it for weeks now, but that afternoon, while shelving books in Peter's shop, I knew. I knew that morning had been my last interview. I knew I was done.

I could feel Cynthia's eyes narrow on me then, and I admittedly fidgeted under her probing gaze. "You are planning on attending more events, aren't you?"

I blinked. "Sure—when I can... and, of course, if Tom wants me there—"

"Of course he wants you. You're all he talks about these days."

I felt my cheeks heat as her eyes roved down to the tips of my toes and back to my reddening visage. "Emma, you do understand, don't you?"

"A-About his family obligations?"

Cynthia's chest bounced with laughter. "About how much he cares for you."

I could feel the wave of heat flush across my ears and spread down to my neck. Of course, my growing discomfort only seemed to amuse Cynthia and her curiosity.

"Has he told you he loves you yet?" She grinned cheekily.

I opened and closed my mouth several times before finally giving in to my rising sense of exasperation.

"Are you this blunt with everyone or only your brother's girlfriends?" I demanded.

"Girlfriend," she corrected, emphasizing the singularity. "And he does, love you I mean."

I did my best to mask my reaction to her words, but my dampening eyes fluttering back toward Tom gave me away.

"He's my little brother." Cynthia's tone was still warm and friendly, but it had developed a stiffness to it, as if trying to sand down an unseen edge. "You're not going to break his heart, are you?"

My mouth went dry. "I... I don't have the budget to hire a stylist," I finally managed after clearing my throat.

Cynthia stared at me for several moments and then shrugged. "Tommy does."