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on friends and family. She was better off, tons better off, keeping her thoughts to herself and continuing to look for the real thing. For love.
    The sort that lasted lifetimes.

CHAPTER THREE
    F ILLED WITH RESENTMENT AND SELF-PITY, EMMA TRUDGED UP to the home gym at the main house. Its design reflected Parker’s efficient style and unassailable taste, both of which Emma bitterly detested at that moment.
    CNN muttered away on the flat screen while Parker, her phone’s earbud in place, racked up her miles on the elliptical. Emma scowled at the Bowflex as she stripped off her sweatshirt. She turned her back on it and the recumbent bike, on the rack of free weights, the shelf of DVDs with their perky or earnest instructors who might take her through a session of yoga or pilates, torture her with the exercise ball, or intimidate her with tai chi.
    She unrolled one of the mats, sat down with the intention of doing some warm-up stretches. And just lay down.
    “Morning.” Parker glanced at her as she continued to pump along. “Late night?”
    “How long have you been on that thing?”
    “You want it? I’m nearly done. I’m just hitting my cooldown.”
    “I hate this room. A torture chamber with shiny floors and pretty paint is still a torture chamber.”
    “You’ll feel better after you do a mile or two.”
    “Why?” From her prone position, Emma threw up her hands. “Who says? Who decided that people all of a sudden have to do miles every damn day, or that twisting themselves into unnatural shapes is good for them? I think it’s the people who sell this hideous equipment, and the ones who design all the cute little outfits like the one you’re wearing.”
    Emma narrowed her eyes at Parker’s slate-colored cropped pants and perky pink and gray top. “How many of those cute little outfits do you own?”
    “Thousands,” Parker said dryly.
    “See? And if they hadn’t convinced you to do miles and twist yourself into unnatural shapes—and look good doing it—you wouldn’t have spent all that money on those cute little outfits. You could’ve donated it to a worthy cause instead.”
    “But these yoga pants make my ass look great.”
    “They really do. But nobody’s seeing your ass but me, so what’s the point?”
    “Personal satisfaction.” Parker slowed, stopped. Hopping off, she plucked out one of the alcohol wipes to wipe down the machine. “What’s wrong, Em?”
    “I told you. I hate this room and all it stands for.”
    “So you’ve said before. But I know that tone. You’re irritable, and you almost never are.”
    “I’m as irritable as anybody.”
    “No.” Parker got her towel, mopped her face, then drank from her water bottle. “You’re nearly always cheerful, optimistic, and good-natured, even when you bitch.”
    “I am? God, that must be annoying.”
    “Hardly ever.” Moving to the Bowflex, Parker began to do some upper body exercise she made look smooth and easy. Emma knew it was neither. When she felt another pop of resentment, she sat up.
    “I am irritable. I’m filled with irritable this morning. Last night—”
    She broke off when Laurel came in, her hair bundled up, her trim body in a sports bra and bike shorts. “I’m switching off CNN,” she announced, “because I just don’t care.” She snagged the remote, switched from TV to hard, pounding rock.
    “Turn it down at least,” Parker ordered. “Emma’s about to tell us why she’s full of irritable this morning.”
    “Em’s never full of irritable.” Laurel got a mat, unrolled it onto the floor. “It’s annoying.”
    “See?” Since she was already on the floor, Emma decided she might as well stretch. “My best friends, and all these years you’ve let me go around annoying people.”
    “It probably only annoys us.” Laurel started a set of crunches. “We’re around you more than anyone else.”
    “That’s true. In that case, screw you. God, God , do the two of you really do this every