Again: A Second Chance Romance

by Nikki Chase

  “But how?” I ask. “I’ve sent out my manuscript to a bunch of publishers. I tweak it every time I get the tiniest hint of feedback from those people. And you know most of them have only sent me form emails from some rejection template. I don’t know what else to try.”

  Jane doesn’t say anything, but I can tell from the look on her face that she’s thinking of something.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Whatever you’re thinking about.”

  Jane hesitates, but she knows I’m not letting this go now. She takes a deep breath. “Okay. Don’t freak out. It’s just an idea… Okay?”

  “What is it? Just tell me,” I say, getting impatient.

  “Okay. So… Heath Anders told you he’ll help you, right?”

  “Where is this going?” I narrow my eyes at my best friend. “You’re saying I should just give up, right? Even my boss, the stock investor, thinks my sex scenes are shit. He came up with better ideas than I did, Jane, can you believe it?”

  “I can,” she says without missing a beat. “Because if the financial papers are to be believed, Heath Anders is a miracle worker.”

  I groan.

  Jane and I met in college, but while I was a bohemian arts student, she was a sensible finance major. Considering many of her friends are fanboys and fangirls of Heath Anders, she’s not an anomaly.

  I like Jane’s friends. Finance majors are cool. They helped me get this personal assistant job.

  But Jane’s crazy if she thinks I’m going to take erotic writing lessons from my boss.

  “You know what I think you should do?” Jane asks, swishing her glass of wine around in her excitement. If she’s not careful, she’s going to spill it on our fabric couch.

  “Yes.” I’m dying to hear this.

  “You should totally let Heath Anders do all the things he told you he’d do, and write about those. That would be so hot.”

  Oh, wait, she’s not telling me to learn to write from my boss. She’s freaking telling me to sleep with my boss. She’s crazier than I thought. She’s completely lost her mind.

  “You know what I think you should not do?” I ask. “Give advice when you’re drunk.”

  “No, no, I’m serious,” Jane says, tucking her golden-brown hair behind her ears. “He was totally flirting with you. He said he’d do this and that to his assistant, right?”

  I recall the conversation in Heath’s office. “Yeah…”

  “He’s totally into you,” Jane decides. “You should sleep with him. Maybe you can, I don’t know, get close to him and learn a lesson or two about business. And maybe get him to introduce you to some publishers. With the kind of network he has, I’m sure he knows a person or two who can help you out.”

  “Jane, I’m not going to sleep with my boss.” I scrunch up my nose. “How sleazy is that? Just yesterday you were complaining about your colleague who, in your own words, ‘slept her way to the top.’”

  “That’s different. Her boss is old and gross. Your boss—” Jane takes a moment to pause and sigh “—your boss is Heath Anders. I mean, just the things that he said to you in his office… God, they were hot.”

  I pause. “You think so? You’d read something like that?”

  “Definitely,” she answers enthusiastically. “I think you should write down his ideas, and I think you should include what happened today in your novel.”

  “No way,” I react instinctively. “He might read it.”

  “So what? He’s already read the rest.” Jane levels her gaze at me and gives me a serious stare. “Most importantly, I think you should sleep with him.”

  “God, I shouldn’t have given you the wine. Give me back my sane friend,” I protest. “We want sane Jane. We want sane Jane. We want—”

  “Kat. This is seriously the sanest idea I’ve ever had.” Jane puts her wine glass down on the coffee table. Her hands can’t stay still. They gesture wildly as she speaks. “Listen to me. It makes sense. You’ll get to sleep with Heath fucking Anders—that’s going to impress a lot of people at a lot of parties for the rest of your life. And you’ll write better. Hell, your description of today's conversation in his office? That was way hotter than all the sex scenes you’ve ever written, combined.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Dead serious.” Mimicking the voiceovers in bank ads, Jane says, “Sleep with Heath Anders. It's the kind of investment that will keep on paying dividends for the rest of your life.”

  I’m used to Jane’s tendency to insert financial jargon into our conversations. But even after years of friendship, I still can’t parse her words sometimes. All I know is, she’s saying that sleeping with Heath is a good thing.

  I eye her suspiciously. “If this is a prank, you’ve got me. If you want to tell me you were just kidding and laugh at me, this is the time.”

  Jane continues to stare at me with a serious expression. “You. Should. Sleep. With. Heath. Fucking. Anders,” she repeats slowly.

  “But how is that different from the people who sleep their way through their career?” I ask. “It just feels so demeaning.”

  “No, it’s totally different,” Jane says. “You see, you won’t be sleeping with him to get a promotion or something like that. You’ll be doing it to do the research you need for your work. You're just an artist who's willing to suffer for your art—although, considering we're talking about Heath Anders, I’m not sure ‘suffer’ is the right word to use here.”

  I stare blankly at the wall as Jane’s words sink in.

  Maybe the alcohol is getting to me, but she’s starting to make sense.

  To be perfectly honest…

  I’ve never told anyone—not even Jane—but Heath makes my body thrum with a foreign thrill. I’d never felt anything like that before him.

  The tingles between my legs. The wetness leaking onto my panties. The spark of desire when his fingers brush against my skin…

  Despite my knee-jerk objections to Jane’s idea, and despite my attempts to keep things professional at the workplace… I do find my boss attractive. He’s not just a random person I base my character on. I write about him because he inspires me.

  But if this goes wrong and I lose my job, what am I going to do?

  Even though this is not my dream job, it pays well enough to cover all my expenses. Late nights are rare, so I have enough time to write, even with my Vera-related obligations. And it’s not physically taxing, so I don’t crash as soon as I get home after work.

  But if I were to lose this job, I could end up with a more demanding one. Or a lower-paying one, which could force me to get a second job, which would eat up my writing time.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  This plan is way too crazy… right?

  I can’t just sleep with my boss, not even in the name of research, or even a book deal… can I?

  …

  But damn… a book deal would literally change my life.

  “Jane, do you really think what Heath said about helping me with my book… You think he really meant he’d sleep with me?”

  I hear no reply.

  I twist to look at Jane, expecting to see her grinning at me, mocking my gullibility.

  But she’s not even listening. She’s passed out. Her hair covers her face as she slowly slides down the back of the couch.

  Of course that was just drunk talk. It didn’t mean anything. Jane didn’t mean any of it.

  I’m not actually going to sleep with Heath Anders.

  To my surprise, disappointment pangs in my chest.

  Obviously, I’m way too drunk to think clearly.

  Ugh. I’ll sleep on it and think again in the morning. This will be my challenge for tomorrow. I’ve never failed to complete my challenges, so I’m sure I’ll reach a decision by the end of the day.

  Heath

  I never cancel meetings with my biggest clients. Never. My clients know they can reach me or one of my top me
n whenever they need me. That's why I only take on a limited number of clients. My company specializes in high-net-worth individuals who appreciate the personalized customer service we provide.

  But when I find out Dad has collapsed and is already in an ambulance, there’s no other option. Mr. Mikhailov can always fly here again if he really needs to see me. I have to rush to the hospital.

  When I enter the hospital room, Mom’s crying and Dad’s lying unconscious on the bed. A machine is beeping and a clear IV tube is jabbed into his forearm. While the doctors run their tests, Mom keeps a tight clasp around Dad’s hand, as if she’s trying to guide him back with her touch.

  The doctors come back not long after Dad wakes up. They tell us something we already know: the surgery Dad had a few months ago wasn’t successful.

  But they tell us something else—something we don’t already know: he only has one year to live.

  I leave the room to ask the doctors about drug trials. There’s only a minuscule chance of them working and they cost a fortune, so I’m worried my parents are going to balk at the price if they hear the conversation.

  But I have a fortune. And there’s only so much I can spend.

  After buying a big penthouse in Manhattan, a few investment properties, and a private jet, I can’t really think of any more expensive toys I want. So why not spend my money on my family?

  After a long talk with the doctors about his options, I slip back into Dad’s hospital room.

  “How is he?” I take a seat beside my mom and put my arm around her shoulders, which are still shaking.

  Mom tears her gaze away from Dad, who’s fallen asleep. “He’s okay. Just tired. He’s resting now,” she says, her cheeks wet with tears.

  “Mom, this doesn’t have to be a…” I almost say “death sentence,” but I stop myself before the words come out of my mouth. My direct communication style, which works well in business meetings, doesn’t quite fit this setting. “This doesn’t have to be the end of the road,” I say finally. “Dad has other options.”

  “You mean drug trials?” Mom asks softly with wariness in her tired eyes. “I know they’re a last resort, Heath.”

  “It’s another chance to fight.”

  “I’m tired of fighting. Your dad is tired of fighting,” Mom says.

  “We’ll talk to Dad about it and see what he decides.” I know I’ll have a better chance of getting Dad to agree to my plan.

  She knows it’s unlikely that Dad would heal, so Mom wants to ease his suffering and let him enjoy his last days. It hasn’t been easy on either one of them, this fight against Dad’s progressing illness.

  But I know Dad would fight, knowing how much losing him would hurt Mom. They share a beautiful partnership filled with love and empathy.

  I envy them. I once thought I’d grow up to find what they have, but it turns out that kind of love just doesn’t exist in this time, this age, and especially this place.

  New York City makes you fall in love with its promise of something even better, just beyond your reach.

  Having climbed up to the top, I realize it’s an empty promise, but I can’t stop. It doesn’t make any sense. What use is getting more, when I already have more than enough?

  Yet, it’s like a compulsion at this point. The yardstick is no longer just my needs and wants—I have way more money than I’ll ever spend in my lifetime—but how well my peers are doing.

  It’s a competition. It’s a dick-measuring contest. And it’s fucking addictive. There’s nothing like the feeling of winning.

  That’s great for my success. But at the same time, my success also means that I’m surrounded by women who think like me, who live for the satisfaction of gaining victory over their competitors. Except instead of money, they’re after men with money.

  A relationship with a woman like that can get expensive, and I’m speaking from experience.

  “How much does it cost, Heath?” Mom asks.

  “Huh?” I almost ask her if she’s talking about the women, then I realize she can’t read my thoughts. I should probably get some sleep soon. Just to make sure, I ask, “The drug trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I rub Mom’s shoulder soothingly. “I can afford it.”

  Mom is quiet for a few seconds. “You know it probably won’t work, right?”

  “I know.”

  She lets out a big sigh. If her tear ducts weren’t already overworked, I’m sure she’d still be crying. Her eyes are still red and puffy, and her wrinkles have dug in deeper into her flesh.

  “Thirty-five years,” she says as she rubs the back of Dad’s hand. “Thirty-five years together. We said we were going to grow old together, and I guess we’ve done that.”

  “You’ll have a lot more years to spend together, Mom.”

  She gives me a look. She knows I’m just saying what she wants to hear.

  “I thought we were going to see the world together when he retired,” she says.

  “You never told me about that.”

  “We were going to travel to Europe,” Mom says with a wry smile. “Maybe buy an RV and travel to the south of France. There’s this winery your dad has always wanted to try.”

  I fight the urge to tell her that they’ll get to do that, too. Hell, I’ll gift them a private jet so they won’t have to live in a cramped RV.

  “We wanted to move to Florida after doing some traveling. We thought we’d get ourselves a nice little beach house. Somewhere in Daytona Beach would be perfect.”

  I can buy that for them, too. And they don’t even have to wait for Dad to retire.

  I mean, what the fuck? Dad makes about $90,000 a year as a CPA. It’s not a small salary compared to many people, of course. But I make that much in a slow week. They could’ve retired any time they wanted.

  Still, I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want Mom to think about what could’ve been, about how Dad could’ve spent what little time he had traveling, instead of counting beans.

  “We thought we’d visit you every few months, and more often once we have grandchildren.” Mom sighs with regret. “Your dad really wanted grandchildren. When you got married and Melanie said she wanted to have kids right away, he was so excited.”

  “Melanie said that?” I can’t believe that heartless woman would lie to my parents like that.

  She has never wanted a family with me. It was all a lie.

  She just wanted to stick around long enough to get the big pay-out. No wonder she insisted on a huge divorce settlement in the pre-nup. I was too blind to see it before the wedding, but I realized later that the pre-nup was her retirement plan.

  “Yes.” Mom nods with a small smile on her dry, cracked lips. “Your dad was already talking about taking the kid to Disneyland.”

  I had no idea.

  “You remember how strict your Grandpa Joe was?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, your dad used to be really close with his Granddad, who always spoiled him. He said he was going to be the world’s best granddad. His goal was to one day get one of those stupid ‘Best Grandpa Ever’ mugs.” Mom laughs softly at her husband’s silliness.

  In moments like this, I can’t console Mom with talk of RVs, beach houses, or even early retirements.

  But just the thought of having a grandchild makes her laugh.

  Maybe that’s something I can give her.

  Why not?

  I can give her everything else. Why not a grandchild?

  Yes, I’m done with women. Thanks to my parents, I have a high standard for a relationship that no woman has ever come close to meeting.

  I thought I’d settle with Melanie—everybody settles, right? I thought I could be happy. But I was wrong. So I threw away my dream of a family, along with my dream of a healthy, happy relationship.

  But maybe I don’t have to throw the literal baby out with the bathwater. Maybe I can have a baby, without suffering the complications of a relationship.


  Again, I have a fortune and nothing to spend it on. Why not use that money to build the family I’ve always wanted?

  Kat

  The day starts with an unpleasant-but-not-unexpected text message from Vera.

  “Milk gone. Shampoo, too. Don't forget to pay the electric bill.”

  I groan.

  I can rant about how Vera should get up off her ass and find herself a job, but I’m going to rise above all those petty emotions.

  I mean, having the money to help out family is a good thing, right? I should be proud of myself for having a well-paying job.

  And then I go to work to hear my boss say, “You’re fired.”

  My jaw drops. “Huh?” I clear my throat. This is not how I usually talk in the office, especially to my boss. “Did you just say I’m fired?”

  “Yes.” Heath smiles, flashing his rows of perfect white teeth without an ounce of sympathy. He seems almost happy about this. What kind of a monster is this man?

  “Is this because of my USB stick the other day?” I ask, avoiding any mention of my manuscript.

  “No.”

  “Did Mr. Mikhailov complain to you?” I ask. “I already explained to his assistant that you had an emergency and it wasn’t a scheduling mistake on my part, but—”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Heath says. “If anything, you’re the best personal assistant I’ve had and I don’t know if I’ll be able to replace you.”

  I frown. “So, then… Why…” I resist the impulse to scratch my head—that wouldn’t look very professional. But I’ve never been more puzzled in my life.

  “I’m not firing you because I don’t like your work. I’m firing you because I want to offer you a different position,” Heath says.

  As I let out a big exhale, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Still, my muscles remain tense. “What do you mean by ‘a different position’?”

  “Some other kind of work,” he answers cryptically.

  “Are you transferring me to another division?”