Brooklynaire

by Sarina Bowen

  I dim the cabin lights and close my eyes. Now that I’m on my way back to New York, it’s even harder to pack away my thoughts of Becca. Our night together plays like a film in my mind. That tiny scrap of silk and lace she’s wearing when I wake her up. Our strange argument, and the kiss I give her so that she’ll stop asking questions.

  Her lips parting under mine, and my first taste of her. She straddles me and moans…

  Goddamn it was good. No—great. For both of us. Her eagerness meant everything to me. But now Becca isn’t exactly burning up the airwaves to tell me she can’t wait to do it again.

  Not a great sign.

  You’d think I’d learn. After my ill-advised night with Alex, I should know better.

  The two nights had nothing in common, though. Rebecca lit me on fire when she moved against me. The sounds she made I won’t ever forget.

  It wasn’t just me, damn it. She loved every minute of it.

  So where is she?

  I toss and turn until my jet touches down at LaGuardia in the wee hours. I say goodnight to Stew and climb into the car with Ramesh. It’s a rare traffic-free moment on the city’s clock, and he gets me home to Pierrepont Place in no time.

  “That might be a land-speed record,” he says, pulling through to the mansion’s locked garage.

  “Thanks, man. Sorry for the shitty hour.”

  He yawns. “I’ll live. Night, boss.”

  I feel his eyes on me as I activate the security system to let myself in the back door. He won’t lock the car and go upstairs to his apartment over the garage until I’m safely inside.

  This time when I walk into the kitchen, I only hear silence. I walk through to the parlor and listen.

  Nothing. And the locks engage around me with a deep click.

  I carry my suitcase upstairs and then wander through my own quiet house. “Welcome home, Nate,” Bingley says. “You’re the only one on the premises.”

  His pronouncement is a security feature. But it depresses me anyway. I don’t return the greeting because Bingley can’t get offended. “Engage all security systems,” I say instead.

  “Systems engaged.”

  I drop my bags in my room. And then even though I know what I’ll find in there, I walk into the green bedroom. Sure enough, the bed is freshly made up, and all of Rebecca’s things have been removed from the bathroom.

  That’s when I know with perfect certainty that I have absolutely fucked everything up. Rebecca is a trusted friend and an important employee. Now she’s not taking my calls.

  * * *

  Monday I spend in Manhattan, suffering through meetings. My attention span is at an all-time low.

  At home I find that Mrs. Gray has left me a homemade ham and cheese calzone for dinner. And a note.

  Nathan—your mother called. She would like to hear from you regarding plans for their quick visit this week. P.S. There is a salad in the vegetable drawer for you. Please eat it because your mother wants to make sure you get enough fiber. —Mrs. G.

  I haven’t spoken to Mom in a week, so after I locate my salad and pop open another Diet Coke, I ask Bingley to call her.

  “Nate?” Mom’s voice comes through the sound system. “Last night’s game was very exciting.”

  “I know, right?” My parents love hockey. But they’d have to, because they met and got married in Minnesota. “You’re still coming to games three and four?”

  “We would love to. Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

  “No trouble to me. I’m not piloting the Gulfstream.” When they pop out for games, I send the jet to Iowa to get them.

  “That is a relief, honey. Your father still gets a tense look on his face when he thinks about our old garage door.”

  I make a grumpy noise. I was only sixteen when I backed my father’s Oldsmobile into our garage door, causing over a thousand dollars worth of damage. At the time it was a lot of money. But the real problem was the car itself. This happened shortly after the announcement that Oldsmobiles wouldn’t be manufactured anymore. “It was my last Olds,” he used to sigh.

  When journalists write about me they say I had a “normal, well-adjusted Midwestern upbringing.” I suppose they’re right.

  “Are you going to stay the week?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “We can’t, sweetheart. Your father’s staff meeting on Thursday is non-negotiable.”

  “Ah.” My father is the principal of a suburban middle school, and he takes his job very seriously. “You can fly home after the game if he doesn’t want to take a personal day. I’ll set it up that way.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be a little sleepy on Wednesday, but it’ll be worth it to watch your guys mow down Tampa at home.”

  I smile down at my salad because my mom is awesome. She’s a school teacher, too—and the head of special education for the entire school district.

  A few minutes later we hang up, though, and the silence around me closes in again. I’m left finishing my dinner with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company. The only sounds come from outside. It’s Monday night but Brooklyn is out in force—couples strolling the promenade, happy families dining out. I can’t see them from my quiet kitchen, but I can hear the patter of Brooklyn enjoying the springtime.

  After a long day in the office I’m in a fidgety mood. I could go for a run or drop into a yoga class. I could answer some of the fifty emails from my engineering team that are piling up in my inbox.

  Right. Like I could concentrate on anything right now. My powers of concentration are on hiatus.

  Instead, I put my plate in the dishwasher, taking care not to leave any crumbs on the counter, or Mrs. Gray will scold me.

  Then I grab my keys and my phone and head out to look for Rebecca. I don’t know what she wants from me. Maybe nothing. But I need to find out. Stew wouldn’t approve. But we’ve known each other way too long for me to just let this go. Just one quick conversation is all I need before I give her up entirely.

  * * *

  Becca is not at home, although I have a brief but enlightening conversation with her sister in the doorway to their apartment.

  Missy wears the coy expression of someone who knows exactly what happened between us. She babbles at me, grinning, while I try to keep my panic at bay.

  Their little apartment is surprisingly clean and smells like lemons. And then there’s that cute, drooly baby on Missy’s hip. Rebecca’s sister is a talker, and I kind of zone out for a second, watching the baby suck on his pacifier. I wonder what our baby would look like if Rebecca and I had one.

  Then I want to slap myself. Also, what the fuck, brain?

  “I’d better get going,” I say to Missy before she can launch into another story about her sister. “Tell Rebecca I stopped by.”

  “I’ll do that,” she says with a saucy wink. “Thanks for breaking her dry spell.”

  There is no polite reply to that, so I just make myself scarce.

  Running out of ideas, I head to my Brooklyn office. Since it’s past eight, I’m surprised to see a light burning in the corporate offices. My sneakers are quiet on the shiny wooden floors, so I can’t be heard as I approach. And then I find what I’m looking for. Rebecca is in my private office, standing at the bookcase, a feather duster in her hand. She’s rearranging my collection of autographed, game-winning pucks and humming to herself.

  I don’t recognize the song, but I have to stop for a second just to admire her. Her face is calm but focused on her work. I know every one of her facial expressions: the face she makes when a caller has been rude to her. And the look of joy she gets when she laughs—chin up, eyes bright.

  But now I also know how she looks when she’s turned on and wants my hands on her body. And I may never be the same. Tonight she’s wearing tight jeans that show off her delectable butt, and unfortunately now I know exactly how good it feels in my hands…

  Rebecca whirls around, emitting a squeal of surprise. I’ve startled her. Badly. She drops the feather duster,
and when she bends down to pick it up, I see her sway just slightly.

  A split second later I’m there, a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. I can’t help myself.

  She stands slowly, eyes wide. We’re too close together. I can smell her perfume, and it makes me want to lean in and kiss her neck.

  “Hi,” I say instead. She has that deer-in-the-headlights look.

  Wonderful.

  “What are you doing here on a Monday night?” she asks, frowning.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing, since you aren’t cleared to come back to work yet.”

  She gives me a grumpy face. “I can’t do screen work, but I can stress-clean. I’m not breaking any rules.”

  “Stress-clean? Just a wild guess here. But am I the cause of your stress?”

  She gives me a guilty little shrug.

  Fuck. This isn’t how I wanted things to go between us. (Said the idiot who slept with his friend and coworker.) I take a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to question your judgment. Can we talk for a second?”

  “Do we have to?” she asks quietly.

  “Yeah,” I whisper. There’s a long beat where we’re just staring into each other’s eyes. And immediately I realize two things. 1. I regret nothing. In fact, I’d like to take her home with me right now, lock my bedroom door, and spend a lot of time remembering all the sexy noises she makes when she comes. 2. She’s not on the same page. Her expression is closed off. Unreadable.

  Fuck.

  “You’re not answering my calls, Bec,” I point out. “Talk to me.”

  She turns and sits down on the love seat in my office. Her body language is stiff, as if she’s about to hear a sermon in church.

  I sit down beside her, taking care to leave space between us.

  “How did you find me?” she asks, picking at a fingernail.

  “Since you’re not taking my calls…” I nudge her with my knee with my own. “First I went to your apartment.”

  “My sister ratted me out?”

  “Nope. But she was awfully chatty.”

  Rebecca groans.

  “Yeah. No boundaries on Missy. But that’s not what’s bothering you. Can you tell me what’s the matter? I can take it. Whatever it is.” Even if I don’t like it.

  “I just can’t believe…” She puts her hands on her knees and faces me. Her blue eyes are tentative. “I became that woman.”

  “What woman?”

  “The one who sleeps with her boss.”

  Ouch. I try a joke. “Really? You slept with Hugh Major?”

  “Nate! That’s not funny!” Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Don’t you dare pretend to be dense about this. Hugh is my boss, but only on paper. You hired me seven years ago. And you gave me this job with the team.”

  “Sure I did. Because you’re a professional.”

  Her voice drops. “I wasn’t on Tuesday night.”

  “God, don’t feel guilty. Because you shouldn’t. Not at all. Tuesday night was all my fault.” And as I say those words, I hear how they sound—like it was a crime, not one of the best nights of my life.

  She actually flinches. “I won’t let you take all the blame. I was there, too.”

  She sure was—unbuttoning my fly. Running her smooth hands all over my chest…

  Jesus. I’m going to get hard just thinking about it.

  “…But it was a mistake,” she continues. “It’s not something I can be casual about. Even if I don’t report to you directly on paper, we both know that you’re the one in charge.”

  I let out a frustrated sound. “I’d like to be in charge again, Bec. And I’m not referring to the hockey team.”

  “God, Nate.” She blows out a breath.

  “Yeah, like that. But louder.”

  She puts her hands in front of her eyes before speaking again. “And here I thought we could just sort of agree to forget it.”

  “Because that’s what you want?” Knife to the heart.

  Becca peeks out between two of her fingers. “I need to forget it. We both know that you’re one of the most hands-on owners in professional hockey. We work together all the time. I can’t be the girl who just casually sleeps with the boss.”

  But it’s just dawning on me that there’s nothing casual about the way I want her. How on earth did it come to this? “Look,” I argue. “I gotta call a foul on the idea that our spontaneous naked adventures were somehow job related. You didn’t climb into my lap because you wanted a raise.”

  Her cheeks stain a deeper red, and she looks away. “Be that as it may, I want my job to stay the same. I can’t be known as the owner’s plaything.”

  My noise of disgust isn’t subtle. “Do you really think that’s how I see you?”

  “No. Yes? I don’t know.” She hunches forward, her gaze on the floor. “I just want to rewind my life a few weeks when everything was going fine. You told me that I was supposed to focus on my recovery. And now you’re making it really hard to do that.”

  Fuck. I did. And I am. I want to keep arguing until she sees things my way. I’m very persuasive. But Rebecca doesn’t want me to persuade her. And Stew told me quite plainly why I’m not allowed to try.

  And she’s right about one thing—the timing is terrible.

  “Okay,” I agree suddenly. Because I know when I’ve been beaten.

  Rebecca blinks. “Okay…?”

  “We’ll forget it ever happened. We’ll never speak of it again.”

  “All right.” She opens her mouth and then closes it again.

  “Isn’t that what you asked me for?” She looks uncertain.

  “Yes,” she says with a nod. She takes a deep breath. “I love this job. And I love our friendship. And I don’t want to sacrifice any of it.”

  “You won’t,” I say quickly. “Nobody is taking your job, Bec. Never gonna happen.”

  “Good to know.” She clears her throat. “Except now I wonder whether those performance evaluations you wrote me were ever unbiased.” When she looks at me, I can tell she’s thinking about what I said right before I kissed her. Even if I never admitted it to myself before, I’ve got it bad. I don’t have the first clue what to do about it, either.

  This is why I kept my stupid libido in check for years. This was the precise conversation I’ve been avoiding. “Look. I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. Tell me how to fix it.”

  She rubs her forehead, and I know I’m responsible for her latest headache. Once again, I’ve done exactly the opposite of the smart thing. This girl makes me stupid.

  “We’ll move on. I’ll be back at work in a couple of weeks and things can just go back to the way they were before.”

  “Right,” I agree, because there’s nothing else I can say without being an asshole. Except I know it’s not technically possible. I can’t ever forget that night. I can’t unsee her body arching toward mine, and I can’t untaste her mouth under mine.

  “Thank you,” she says. There’s a long pause while we both stare at each other. I’ve just done exactly what she asked me for. But she doesn’t look relieved. She’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure something out, but can’t quite manage it.

  But then I see the exact moment she gives up. Her pretty eyes drop. She looks around the room, spots her jacket on the arm of my love seat. She stands, snaps it up with one hand, and then walks out.

  My gut clenches at the sight of her leaving. So that’s it? One perfect night, and a three-minute conversation. That’s all I’ll ever have.

  “Bec,” I say, stopping her progress.

  “Yeah?” And when she turns to meet my gaze, I realize I’m not the only one struggling. She looks conflicted as she struggles into the jacket.

  I lean on the doorframe. I’m keeping a safe distance because I don’t trust myself. “My door will always be open to you.”

  “Thank you,” she says quietly.

  “Anything you need. Ask Bingley if you don’t want to call me. Be well, and take care of yourself.”<
br />
  “You too,” she says. Then she gives me a watery little smile, turns around, and leaves.

  Thirty seconds later I hear the door to the lobby open and shut. She’s gone.

  15

  Rebecca

  May 3, New York

  “That’s it, girl! Now ease up on the death grip before I lose all feeling in this arm.”

  I force myself to ease my grip on Ramón’s wrist, but I leave my eyes screwed shut. I’m bouncing on that damned trampoline again. Little bounces. And my hold on Ramón is the only thing keeping me vertical.

  Still, it’s progress. I couldn’t do this two weeks ago.

  “Ten more,” he encourages. Then he counts down. “Ten, nine. Breathe, Becca. Eight…”

  When he gets to “one” I open my eyes and stop. “Wow. Okay.” The room takes a second or two to reorient itself. But I’m getting used to these little reboots of my system. They’re not as confusing as they used to be, and therefore not as scary. I take another breath and wait to feel steady.

  “Nicely done,” Ramón says. “How’d that feel?”

  “I’m not puking on your Nikes. So there’s your first clue.” I haven’t actually puked in therapy, but there were a couple of close calls.

  “Rebecca!” Dr. Armitage himself strides toward me across the training center in his lab coat. “How are we doing?”

  “The trampoline is now possible,” Ramón says. “Her recovery time still has some room to improve, but, heck. Give her a week. She’s shaping up fast.”

  And it’s true. I’m finally doing better. Every day I feel a little more steady. And the number of tipsy episodes I experience keeps diminishing. Even better—I don’t feel as feeble or hopeless as I did the first time I walked in here. “You guys are miracle workers.”

  “You’re doing all your own healing,” the doctor says. “We just showed you where to look for it.”

  “What’s next?” I ask Ramón.

  He checks his watch. “The dreaded spinning chair. And then we’ll have time for one Ping-Pong game.”