He hadn't breathed a word about more.

She was about to put her heart on the line, but she'd learned that she had a bad habit of reading men completely wrong. As she resumed her pace, walking through a sea of New Yorkers, she had no faith in her own instincts anymore.

The trouble was the one person she wanted to turn to for comfort was her best friend. The same person she had fallen for.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

New York, evening . . .

As Nate neared the art gallery in SoHo, he tried his best to keep his mind blank and his emotions in check. The steel bars around his heart were solid, and there was nothing Joanna could do to hurt him. She'd inflicted all the pain she could already, and the past was the past. As Casey had told him in London, he needed to stop letting that hurt define him. The simple act of handing this wedding gift over was a step in that direction.

As a throng of hipsters in slouchy shirts and tight pants clicked past him on Grand Street, the gallery came into view. A party appeared to be underway as the crowds spilled from the brightly lit art fete to the sidewalk.

With the box tucked under his arm, and the warm June air rushing by, he walked through the open doorway. He scanned the crew quickly in the overstuffed gallery-packs upon packs of skinny women in black with long, dangly earrings, and men with goatees and sideburns, nibbled on cheese and crackers and drank wine and champagne, probably discussing the fleet of paintings on the white walls-images of surreal still-lifes. Not his favorite style. He liked Casey's taste in art so much better. Hers came from her heart. A heart he wanted to protect, to care for, and to cherish.

The momentary thought of her brought a flicker of a smile to his face, and he hoped that image would feed him as he sought out the too familiar figure of his ex-wife. She hadn't mentioned a party was on the agenda tonight, but who cared? It was probably a send-off before her Chicago exhibition. No big deal. Nothing he couldn't handle.

He felt a clap on his back out of nowhere. He startled, but turned quickly, and ice crystallized in his veins at the sight of Claude-the tall, lanky, bearded and mustached much older man she'd been fucking while she had his last name. Memories snapped cruelly in front of him, slamming him back in time to the day he'd discovered their affair. Her hands had been dirty with clay from the sculpture she'd been crafting in the small studio they'd fashioned for her in one corner of the apartment. He'd parked himself on the living room couch, clicked on the touchpad on her laptop to look up movie times, and was greeted with an email exchange from a few hours before, when he'd been at work on a Saturday. The note started with Claude reminiscing about their last time together: So glad you could stay late with me. But my bed is lonely without you spending the entire night in it, wrapped in my arms where you belong. When can you manage another night that lasts into the morning? She replied: Soon. He heads out of town again on Tuesday. Can't wait to see you all day and night then. I will be counting down. I promise.

Nate had blinked, rubbed his eyes, and read it again, shock vibrating in his system. He walked into the studio, grasped the doorframe, and said in a dead voice, "So you're looking forward to me leaving town?"

Her jaw dropped, and her cheeks flamed red. But that marked the end of any shame on her part. That night she moved out, and shortly after she married the guy.

Claude held out his hand, brandishing a huge smile. "Nate. Haven't seen you in ages. You look good," the man said, and Nate was sure his auditory processing had malfunctioned because the man couldn't possibly be making casual chitchat with him.

He shrugged off the hand on his back, ignoring the one Claude had extended.

"Where's Joanna?" he managed to ask as the ice inside him turned to fire. Red flames licked his veins. His fists clenched. It was an affront to the universe that he had to be in the same fifty-foot radius as this asshole. The very same asshole that he'd had dinner with many, many times during his marriage. Let's have dinner with my professor and some of the others in the department, Joanna would say.

"She had to step out to talk to one of the organizers of her exhibit in Chicago. Isn't it amazing that she's going to have all her work shown at the museum?"

Nate grumbled something unintelligible.

"I'm so proud of her. What an honor," Claude continued, and Nate was ready to deliver his clenched fist into Claude's gut. The man brought his glass of champagne to his mouth and took a sip. A fucking sip. Drink like a man; knock it back.

"Yeah. Great honor," Nate muttered and thrust the box at him, suppressing his desire to drop it on Claude's foot. Or his face. Or down a sidewalk grate, for that matter. "Here."

Claude's eyes widened and a thin smile spread on his thin lips as he opened the box. "Ah, at last! It's come home. She's going to be so happy to see this back," he said as he dipped a hand inside the cardboard and stroked the art lovingly. Nate's stomach roiled. His gut twisted, and he curbed every impulse to slug this scum. His mind tried desperately to grip onto pictures of happier times, of being far on the other side of this deceit. He fought hard to cling to images of the good things in life-his nieces, Kat's new dog, his work, and Casey. Most of all, Casey. Her heart, her laughter, her strength. But the images felt slippery, and slid through his fingers as Claude spoke once more, "Thank you for all you've done for Joanna. You are truly a prince among men."

Nate bit his tongue, sucking down the invectives he wanted to spew. Instead, he fixated on one simple fact, letting it echo in his brain, and fuel him with bravado. I am better off without her. I am better off without her. I am better off without her.

Nate shook his head and raised his chin, glad to be taller than this man. "No, Claude. I'm the one who must thank you," he began and Claude cocked his head and raised a curious eyebrow. "You did me a great service by taking Joanna off my hands. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you for fucking my wife and having her at your place all night long and into the morning. It was the best thing anyone ever did for me. Because you gave me my freedom from that woman. You, sir, are truly the prince."

The color drained from Claude's face. It was a priceless moment, and Nate flashed back on something Brent had said. Go out on a high note. Nate turned on his heels and walked out of the gallery and into the New York night. He wanted to pump his fist in victory. To savor the vindictive joy at having reeled off the right zinger at the right time.

Instead, the latent anger inside of him raged on, higher and faster. Gritting his teeth and breathing out hard through his nostrils, he desperately wished to feel nothing. Not a single thing. But every time he entered her orbit he was sucked under by his own anger and the residual shame. Those were nothing though compared to the utter self-loathing that welled up at having chosen the wrong fucking person to love. He was such a fool for having loved this woman. He was an idiot for marrying her. His radar had malfunctioned, and he hated that it was simply out of the question for him to ever trust again, to feel again, to love again.

There was a woman he desperately wanted to let into his heart, but he didn't know how. Joanna had made it impossible for him to love.

And he hated her for it.

When he reached the red light at the crosswalk, all that anger coiled in his chest, rising up inside him. Tightening, like a hard metal spring with no give. He wanted to eradicate the side effects of Joanna, but he'd had no luck doing that. He didn't know if he ever would.

He cocked his arm and slammed the streetlamp with his fist. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, reverberating into his bones. He cursed loudly.

"Are you okay?"

He swiveled around to see a young woman in running shorts and a T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail, a look of concern on her face as she bounced on her sneakered feet.

"Fine. Sorry," he muttered.

"Hope your night gets better," she said, and picked up the pace, running across the street, returning to her evening jog.

"Me too," he mumbled to himself as he shook out his hand, the pain still echoing in his knuckles.

He sounded empty when she'd called, his voice terribly hollow. The Joanna effect, she reasoned. Surely, it would dissipate soon. It had to. She waited outside his building, fidgeting with the silvery pendant she wore as she stood under the navy-blue awning. She ran her thumb over the smooth, stone surface. Worry flooded her nervous system-worry over him, over her, over them. Soon, she spotted him turning the corner onto his block. Her heart rose as the tiniest sliver of a smile formed on his face when he saw her, then it fell when he was close enough for her to see the scrapes on his hand.

"What happened?" she asked as she reached gently for his right hand. The knuckles on his index and middle fingers were cut open, the skin snarly and scratched up.

"My fist met a streetlamp. They did not agree," he said, chuffing out a humorless laugh.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she said, immediately segueing into Nurse Casey mode, as her brother had called it when they were kids. Though Jack was older, she was usually the one who'd tended to his scrapes and bruises from the baseball games he'd played in. Grasping Nate's other hand, she led him past the doorman, through the lobby, up the lift and to his apartment with its view of Central Park. She parked her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down on his couch.

"Stay here."

She headed for the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and rooted around for Band-Aids. She tried to shield her eyes from the big box of condoms. True, he'd used them with her. But he had the large stash because he didn't like being tied down. He operated free and easy. Played the field. He probably hadn't said a word about wanting more with her because he preferred what they had-hot sex, good friendship, and no commitment.

A weed took root in her belly, twisting insidiously around her organs. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She found peroxide in the vanity, grabbed a washcloth, wetted it, snagged some Band-Aids, and returned to him on the couch. He was sunk down in the plush gray cushion, his eyes closed.

"Give me your hand," she said softly, and he held out his bruised fingers. But he didn't open his eyes. As she cleaned up the cuts, him wincing a few times, she asked what had happened.

"I really don't want to talk about it," he muttered.

That statement lodged like a brick in her chest. How were they ever going to be together if he couldn't talk about the simplest things? She'd never been one to shy away from tough topics. Hell, she'd pushed her big, broody brother to open up. She could certainly do the same with Nate. "Hmm. Let me play a guessing game. I'm guessing it happened when you went to Joanna's gallery?"

He tapped his finger to his nose in answer. At least they were getting somewhere with that small admission.

"And I take it that it didn't go well?"

"It went fine. I gave the sculpture to her husband," Nate bit out in a snarl, his eyes snapping open.

"Ugh. That must have sucked to see him," Casey said, squeezing his wrist gently. But even as she sympathized with him, the weed twisted tighter in her gut with the reminder-the reminder that came in the tortured look on his face, and the acid in his tone-that he was still so easily affected by the past. How could he move forward with her when he hadn't yet moved on?

"Sucked is putting it mildly. That guy made a chump out of me for a year. A whole fucking year. Hell, it's not like Joanna and I have kids. Or joint custody of a dog. There's no reason I should have to see her, let alone him. But there he was. In the fucking middle of it all, making small talk about how awesome-" he stopped to sketch air quotes, "-she is."

"And that pissed you off so much that you hit the streetlamp?" she asked as she pressed the Band-Aid softly over his knuckles.

He nodded, a heaviness to his voice. "Yep. That's the whole story. I should have taken you up on your offer to smash the sculpture. I swear, I should have."

She brought his hand to her lips and brushed a soft kiss to his skin. "It's better not to expend that type of negative energy on her. You did the right thing. It may not feel that way now, but it's part of the healing."

He scoffed. "You sound like a shrink now."

"Maybe Michelle is rubbing off on me."

"Maybe. I still think I should have dropped it from ten flights," he said with a sigh, then ran his fingers through her hair. His touch felt good; it probably always would. But the gesture didn't reach all the way inside her soul. The emptiness in him was evident even in how he touched her-it wasn't the way he'd touched her all their other nights together. It was hollow. He was not her Nate right now. He was the Nate defeated once again by his ex-wife. Her heart cried, leaking crimson tears inside her chest as the evidence mounted, so clearly pointing to one conclusion: he wasn't over that woman. He wasn't ready. She had no idea if he was ever going to be ready.

"Enough about my fine night. Tell me all about Mr. Abbott," Nate said, that bitter edge still present in his voice.

She chose to ignore it, focusing on answering as she would have one month ago, one year ago. He was her friend, and she craved his comfort as a friend now. "Turns out Grant never thought of me romantically. I went to the meeting ready to tell him I was happy to be business partners, but there was nothing happening between the two of us. But he served first, making it pretty damn clear that he had no attraction for me whatsoever," she said, holding out her hands wide.

"That's a damn good thing," Nate said with a smirk.

"Maybe it's technically a good thing, but it kind of made me feel shitty about myself."

"Did you want him to be interested in you?"

"No. But I felt completely stupid. Don't you get that? I went there to tell him that I had feelings for somebody else, but before I could even say that he told me he never even saw me romantically and that he was sorry for leading me on. My God, I was so sure he was interested in me, Nate. I asked you to teach me how to be seductive for him because I was damn certain he was attracted to me. And it turns out I was completely off the mark with that," she said, shaking her head in frustration. She'd felt like such an ass at Speakeasy with Grant.

"Do you wish you'd never asked me?" he asked in a measured voice.

"No," she said, her voice rising. "Of course I'm glad I asked you because everything that happened was amazing, but don't you see how his comments would make me feel?"

He shook his head, looking thoroughly perplexed. "No. Enlighten me."

"It just made me feel that Scott was right-I'm good at business and bad at relationships. And all I wanted afterwards was to see you and tell you and commiserate with you as a friend. But can we even do that anymore?"

"You tell me," he said softly. "Can we?"

A lump formed in her throat. "That's the question, isn't it? Can I be your lover and your friend? Because the one thing I wanted when it was over was to see you, and then have you tell me he's a douche, and that I deserve better, and that he and all the other guys in the world can go fuck off," she said, dropping her voice an octave or two to imitate him.

"He's an ass, and you deserve better, and all the other guys in the world can go fuck off," he said, flashing her a brief smile. Then the corner of his lips dropped, and he furrowed his brow. "Wait. Can we back it up a bit? Did you actually say you had feelings for someone else?"

She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. Just do it. "You, obviously, Nate. You," she said and his eyes seemed to light up for a moment. To sparkle. "But what is this? What are we doing? Are we friends? Are we lovers? Can we even be both?"

He ran his fingers through her hair. The gesture threatened to melt her heart once more for him, because now it felt like how he'd touched her that night in London. It felt like the start of something. She tamped down her desire to climb up on him, straddle him and smother him in kisses that led them back into another reckless night. She had to stop reading so much into the way he touched her. Words mattered more.

"Yes. We can be both," he said, his voice trailing off. She watched him, waiting as he swallowed. He seemed to struggle with words. "But I don't want to hurt you," he added in the softest, most tender voice, as if he was terribly frightened by the possibility.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back the sting. A lump rose in her throat. He clearly didn't want her in the same way. Telling him she had feelings for him was as close as she could come to taking a chance with him, and once again her radar had failed her. They weren't on the same page. He didn't want more. He wasn't ready for all she wanted with him. If he felt the same, if he felt any thing for her he wouldn't say he was afraid of hurting her.

You're only afraid of hurting people when there's an uneven distribution of love.

"I understand," she said, trying to stay strong.

"I care about you too much to hurt you," he said, each word falling from his lips awkwardly, as if he were trying to explain. But he didn't have to. His explanation was evident in his eyes-they were so sad. The broken look in them reinforced that she needed to protect her heart. If she were to reveal more about all she felt it would only push him away. If she gave voice to the true depth of her feelings, she might risk losing him as a friend. She had to retreat before she fell any further.

"I don't want either of us to get hurt," he said, quickly backpedaling as he sighed heavily. "And I don't want to lose you as a friend. Our friendship means too much."

"It means everything," she said, her voice breaking now, and he reached for her, wrapped her in an embrace and held her as silent sobs fell down his shirt. His arms around her were so comforting, and she would miss terribly the feel of what would have come next-slow, sensual kisses that spread into hot, passionate ones, that turned into moans and sighs and deep desire that ran wild through the night. She longed for that physical connection so deeply, but she would miss even more having him in her life. And if they kept venturing down this rocky, dangerous road, she'd fall further for him, and that would make it impossible to be friends.

She steeled herself for what she knew she had to say. "We can't lose this," she began. She had to be the strong one. To make the cut so they could preserve what they'd had.

He agreed. He completely agreed. He was terrified of losing her from his life, but he wasn't ready to let her go. He didn't intend to let Joanna win. He had to tell Casey how he felt. That she was the one for him. That as much as the past had steered all his choices for the last four years, he wanted to move forward into the great unknown with her. He wanted to explore all that they could be. He'd been misfiring with words so far tonight; he had to right this ship. He shoved the past hurts, the past anger, and all that nagging fear under the carpet, took a deep breath, and prepared to tell her he was falling for her. "We can't lose this," he said, agreeing with her simply to start this most challenging of conversations. "But we also can't-"

She pressed her finger to his lips, shushing him. "I know what you're going to say. We can't risk losing our friendship. And that's why I think we should take a break from the sex. Focus on the friendship so we don't lose sight of what matters."

The air was ripped from his lungs. He parted his lips to speak, but no words came. The protests were lodged in his throat, and he tried to push them past his lips, but they wouldn't budge. Shock took root yet again. He hadn't expected her to say that. But the message had made landfall, and she clearly meant it, so he had to respect it. He nodded and said, "Yes, you're right."

She closed her eyes, a pained look on her features. But when she opened them again, she seemed to be forcing a smile to her face. "Friends," she said, holding out a hand to shake.

"Always."

As she rose, smoothing a hand over her skirt, it was like watching the scene unfold in slow motion. He was here, but he was somehow floating above it all, watching it happen to someone else as she slung her purse on her shoulder, gave him a hug, and walked to the door, waving goodbye.

The sound of the door shutting stabbed him in the heart. This was the real hurt. This was the big wound. He headed for his kitchen and rooted around for a bottle of whiskey. He found one and took a long swallow, letting it burn.

Then another that scorched a path down his throat.

The night hadn't gotten better at all. It had turned far worse.

Keep it together.

She repeated that mantra over and over as the elevator chugged to the ground level, then as she stepped out onto the marble floor of his lobby. With her chin up, she marched purposefully to the door, clenching her teeth so the doorman wouldn't see her cry. She didn't want to be that woman. The woman who leaves a man's apartment in tears.

That night in New Orleans when she'd asked Nate to be her temporary lover, she'd never expected it would come to this. That a few weeks later, she'd leave his home heartbroken.

"Do you need a taxi, ma'am?"

The first tear slid down her cheek. Because this random stranger knew what she needed more than her best friend did.

"Yes, please" she said, and he scurried to the curb, thrust his hand in the air, brought a silver whistle to his lips and ten seconds later, was holding open the yellow door for her. He handed her a tissue, and gave her a sympathetic smile.

As the cab shot her downtown, the neon lights of Manhattan blaring by, she let all those bottled-up tears fall. She'd have to get them out of her system now, since they had a wedding to go to in four days.