by Liz Crowe
“All right, then, Ben. Would you like to introduce your guest?” The weird squeakiness was back. She cleared her throat again and smiled in Noah’s general direction once more.
“I’ll let him introduce himself,” Ben said with a dismissive wave.
Noah rose to his feet. Gayle kept her gaze fixed on the tablet in front of her even though the temptation to stare at him—to take him in from the top of his dark blond hair down his model-perfect body—was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to resist. “Hi, everyone. I’m Noah and I’ll be working with you on behalf of Fitzgerald Brewing. I’m hoping to set a few ride-along days with some of you today.”
Gayle watched the five women who were suitably dazzled by him begin to flip their hair and attempt other eye-catching, mating-dance rituals. Her face reddened and her throat closed up so tight she couldn’t breathe for a few seconds.
He said a few more things, but she couldn’t hear him for the loud ringing in her ears. Finally, the woman sitting next to her, who’d been making goo-goo eyes at the handsome young man as he moved easily around the room, nudged her leg. When Gayle frowned, the woman nodded in the direction of the table which held a full complement of silent people, all of them staring at her, waiting for her to dismiss them. Noah was also sitting, also looking at her, one eyebrow raised in a way that shot her right back the Godawful moment in the yoga studio.
“Right, okay, so. Let’s get to it, shall we?” She stood fast and practically ran out of the room and down the hall to the relative safety of her office. Once she got there, after what felt like about an hour’s worth of walking, she shut the glass door and leaned back against it, eyes closed, sweat drenching the back of her blouse.
What had just happened? Why did this man keep reappearing in her life? She touched her neck, but the ring still wasn’t there. Her fingertips felt ice-cold against the heat of her skin. A phone rang. But it wasn’t the one on her desk, or the one in her pocket. It was another one. One from nearly three years ago. The voice on the other end came from a stranger. A stranger telling her the news while she drove home from the office, her mind already on the things she needed to pack. Already looking forward to being reunited with her family, even if it meant an unwanted trip to Disney World.
A sharp rap on the glass behind her made her yelp and jump away from it as if it had burned her. “Um, give me a minute,” she called out in the same tight voice she’d been using in the meeting. She stumbled over her own feet, approaching her desk. After putting her tablet and portfolio down, she sucked in a long breath, sipped her cold coffee, then turned to face the door. “Come in.” She had one hand on the glass top, the other one gripping her phone.
The door opened slowly, revealing the man she knew would be there, making yet another reappearance in her life. “Hi,” he said, standing half in, half out of her office, his hands tucked into the pockets of his khakis. She glared at him. Her legs shook so hard she eased around behind the desk and sat before she fell down.
“Hello,” she said, keeping it noncommittal, willing him to leave. “This is certainly a surprise.”
“Yes, well…it’s a small world.”
“So it would seem.” She tapped her fingertips on the desk top but didn’t say anything else. He matched her silence without making it awkward. His face was a mask of patience—extraordinarily handsome patience. She blew out a breath. “Can I do something for you? I really have a lot to do today.”
His slow, easy smile emerged, widening, making her scalp tingle and her ears burn hot. “Did you like the flowers?”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yes. They are nice.” More silence. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He tilted his head. She tried not to react. “And…?”
“And what?” She bit off the ends of the two words, hoping to convey her unhappiness with his continued presence. She stared at him, a bizarre sensation filling all her senses. She could smell, feel, practically taste Ethan right then. She closed her eyes, hating her life so much it made her teeth hurt.
“Gayle?” He was next to her now. She could tell. Warmth rolled off his skin and caressed hers in a way different from what she’d felt with Ethan. “Are you all right?” His hand was on her shoulder. His fingers touched her jaw, her chin, her lips. The heat of him made her feel safe, and loved, and no longer wretchedly alone. She jerked away from him with such violence her chair rolled backward and hit the wall with her still in it. He stood, arms crossed, not talking, not demanding anything of her.
“I’m fine. Please go.” She swallowed hard, tears burning their way down her cheeks. “Please?” This last came out a raw, painful whisper. She kept a death grip on the chair arms and her gaze trained down on the floor. “I don’t know what you want from me but…”
He crouched down in front of her, his palms covering her hands. “I don’t want anything from you,” he said, his voice soft. She clenched her jaw, determined not to look at him. But he wouldn’t move. “Relax, Gayle. It’s all right. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t fucking tell me you’re fucking sorry,” she spat out, finally meeting his eyes. Strands of her hair had escaped her tie-back and hung over her eyes. She must look like a straight-up crazy person. She tried to lean away from him, to pull her hands out from under his, but he wouldn’t let her. Instead of being threatening, however, the gesture was the opposite—it was oddly comforting.
“Okay, I won’t. I’m not sorry. Fuck sorry.” He smiled. His face was so close. His lips so…very tempting.
“Yes. Fuck sorry,” she whispered. “I think you can let go of me now.” She allowed herself to smile at him and it felt so good, she kept doing it until an inappropriate giggle burst out of her, followed by a loud chuckle and a bark of laughter. Noah leaned back on his heels, hands on his thighs while she had her hysterical fit, both hands clapped over her mouth, tears rolling down her face. “Jesus,” she said, waving her hands in front of her eyes. “Wow.” She swiped at her cheeks and leaned back. Noah hadn’t moved an inch. He sat, watching her. “So, you can go now. For real.”
He rose, graceful as a dancer, and tucked his hands back in his pockets. “About that coffee?”
Gayle sighed and stared at the ceiling. “You are persistent.”
“Yes, it’s one of my many stellar qualities.” He waited in silence while she pondered this strange life turn she’d taken. “So, when are we having coffee?”
“I never said I wanted to have coffee with you.” Dear Lord, am I flirting? I am, indeed. She leveled her gaze at him. “Did I?”
He shrugged and leaned on her desk. “Water? Beer? Wine? Tea?” His grin widened. “I’m flexible as well as persistent.”
“Are you even old enough to drink?”
“I’m twenty-nine. I’ll be thirty in a few weeks.” He ran a hand across his lips and around the back of his neck. “I’m blessed and cursed with a face that’s always looked about ten years younger than I actually am.”
She scoffed and crossed her arms but was relieved to know he wasn’t as young as she’d guessed. “I’m not drinking anything with you.” She rose, keeping her hands on the desk top to steady herself. “I don’t know what this is, but I don’t think I’m…ready to date, if you know what I mean.”
“I do know. And I wouldn’t exactly call it a date. More like a chat.”
Her skin tingled. God help her, he was gorgeous. But she couldn’t do this. She wouldn’t do this. “No, thanks,” she said, refastening her tie-back. “Not interested.” She smiled at him, her equilibrium regained.
He leaned toward her, startling her so much she couldn’t move before his lips touched hers, ever so briefly. She flinched and put a hand on his chest, then dropped it back to the desk. “You have a lot of fucking nerve,” she said, her voice strong. “Please go.”
He grinned, pushed himself away from the desk and stood for a few seconds, his legs wide apart, his shoulders set, hands on his hips as if facing some kind of obstacle to be breached. “I’ll g
o,” he declared. “But I’ll be back.”
Gayle pointed to the closed door. Noah walked backward, never taking his eyes off her. She took a minute to take in his near-perfect body, cover-model face and thick head of dark blond hair, making sure he understood she was ogling him right back. They played the stare-down game for a few more seconds until he made it to the door, opened it, winked at her then ducked out, giving a loud farewell to Susan.
She waited for a few minutes, fingertips pressed against the desk top, jaw tight, teeth grinding. For the first time in a long one her thoughts didn’t go directly to Ethan, and her first emotion wasn’t fury at him for leaving her, for taking their little boy on that fucking plane.
At the thought of her son, an excruciating pain ripped through her chest, settling in her gut, making her legs wobble. Her boy. She’d lost her boy. A scream bubbled up from her throat, but she tamped it down, dropping into her chair and putting her head down on the cool glass surface in front of her.
Her therapist had been after her for months to say his name, but she’d refused. It was as if accepting Ethan’s death by fiery, terrifying plane crash was more than enough. The reality she’d been living with, that she’d scattered two sets of ashes off the balcony of their home before she called the realtor to list it, had been the basic fact she’d been suppressing.
“Liam. Oh God. Liam,” she whispered, scrabbling around in her purse for something and muttering her son’s name over and over under her breath. After a few desperate seconds, she turned the damn thing upside down and sent the contents rolling across her desk. Finally, she found what she’d been looking for and held it in both hands, staring down at the last photo she’d been able to find of them all together. It had been floating around in the bag for months, purposefully ignored by her, but left there, just in case she needed it.
She stared down into his face, caught in a laughing moment—the kid had always been laughing, so it hadn’t been hard to do. She and Ethan had their arms around him and were looking at each other over his head. She remembered the moment now, like it had happened two seconds ago. She recalled exactly what Ethan had said.
“We’re lucky,” he’d said. “This kid will never not smile for a camera.”
She’d said, “Well, he comes by it naturally. You won’t ever not smile for a camera, or a pretty lady.”
He’d made a fake ‘who, me?’ face and she’d given him her best ‘spare me’ look. Liam had kept laughing. The photographer had kept snapping the pictures.
She touched his face—the boy she’d wanted so desperately she’d endured miscarriages, the hormone shots turning her into a weepy, sloppy mess, until Ethan had thrown the whole lot of them out the window of their bedroom with a loud shout and a curse. “Fuck this shit, Gayle. I don’t care if we have a baby. I don’t. I swear I don’t.” He’d dropped to his knees in front of her as she’d sobbed her way through another evening, wrapped his arms around her legs and pressed his face into her lap. “I can’t stand this anymore. I can’t bear to see you this unhappy. Let’s enjoy our lives and stop worrying about babies.”
She’d conceived Liam that night and he’d been born three weeks early, yet perfectly healthy. She’d never been happier in her life. Ethan had been beyond ecstatic, staying home with her and curling up beside her while she nursed or napped. It had been yet another extension of the extreme fairy tale she’d managed to conjure for herself somehow. Gayle put the picture down on the desk and stared at it, willing herself to accept the totality of her loss.
Interestingly, the tears seemed to have dried up, even as she released the memories of him, of her baby, her little boy, into her brain and let them spill over, subsuming her memories of her life with Ethan. “Susan,” she called out. “What else do I have scheduled today?”
“Not much, really.” The woman stood in the doorway, a tablet in her hands. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not. I need to go home.”
Susan nodded and poked at her tablet’s screen. “I’ll take care of it. You go on. Get some rest.”
“Yes. Rest.” Gayle picked up the photo and gazed around at the mess she’d made from her purse. “Rest.”
Susan poked her head back in the office after a few minutes, startling Gayle out of her semi-trance. “I’ve canceled and rescheduled everything. Do you need some help?” Susan stood by the desk and stared down at the detritus of pens, lipsticks, tampons, paper clips, credit card receipts, old mints.
“No. I’m fine. Thanks.” She started scooping everything back into her bag, leaving the photo on the middle of the glass. She’d spoken more sharply than she’d meant to. “I’m sorry, Susan. I don’t mean to…”
But the sympathetic look she’d gotten used to was back. She blew out a breath and got up, leaving the photo where it was and shouldering her purse. “Let Ben know I’ll be in tomorrow as usual, but I need some t-t-t-t-time.” She shocked herself with her inability to speak. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” the woman said. She looked down at the photo, then up at Gayle, her face a mask of sadness. “Oh, honey. I’m so—”
Gayle held up a hand. “I know. You’re sorry.” She grabbed the picture and jammed it back into her purse. “I’ll, um, see you tomorrow.” She ducked her head and fast-walked out into the hall, past a few clumps of people still hanging around after the meeting and straight to the elevator. When it took forever to arrive, she whirled and headed for the stairwell, ignoring all the stares of everyone around her whose lives were normal, who lived every day with their loved ones and never gave a single thought to what they’d do if it were all yanked away from them in an eye blink. Like she’d done, until the eye blink had happened and she’d been left a hollow shell, a sorry excuse for a woman—a childless widow who cried at the slightest provocation.
“Fuck sorry.”
She smiled at the memory of Noah’s words, and wondered how many times she’d say ‘no’ before she said ‘yes’ to his invitation for a ‘chat’.
Chapter Eleven
“You’re crazy, little brother. Certifiable. I don’t care how hot she is, if she’s got that much baggage, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment, if not full-on trauma.”
Noah rolled his eyes at his reflection in the mirror, waiting for his sister to finish her harangue. “Noah? Are you even listening to me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he lied, looking for a pair of suitable shorts and a T-shirt. “But I have to go now. Time for my first hot yoga class.”
Her sigh hit his ears like a tornado—so loud he held the phone away from his ear. “God, you really are serious.”
“Yes. I really am serious about my fitness.” He flexed one arm, admired his guns for a few seconds and wondered how in the world he’d keep from falling asleep in some silly stretching class. The two weeks between that oddly poignant moment in Gayle’s office and today had been busy, with him learning his new job, glad-handing, pouring or buying beers for bar owners and patrons, getting earfuls about quality from some and glowing reviews from others. He’d enjoyed it, but the low-lying memories of her vulnerability in front of him wouldn’t ever fully exit his consciousness.
He’d embarked on a bit of subterfuge. After memorizing the hot yoga studio’s schedule he’d discovered she wasn’t terribly reliable when it came to the time of day she’d participate. Luckily, his job allowed for a fair bit of ‘in between’ time—normally dead periods when he’d be between retailer calls. So, he spent those hours staking out the place, watching to see when she was there for a class and when she wasn’t.
And now, he was ready to make his move. Or rather, ready to give the yoga thing a shot, during a ten a.m. Saturday class he’d discovered, through his amateur sleuthing, that she nearly always attended.
“Noah,” his sister barked in his ear. “Don’t get caught up in this. She sounds like she might not be worth the emotional effort. How old is she anyway? What if she can’t have kids?”
“Sister dear, do you have any idea
how crazy you sound right now? I mean, in one breath you’re telling me to avoid her, the next you’re wondering about nieces and nephews.” He made a tsk-ing sound with his teeth. “I mean, really. Make up your mind already.”
“Way to deflect me, jerk. Nicely done.”
“Thank you. It’s but one of my many skills.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you anyway.”
“No thanks. Tell Rob and the spawn I said hi. I gotta go now. Time for yoga.” He hung up before she could berate him any further. He’d read he should bring a yoga mat, a towel to cover it and a water bottle. He’d bought the first and gathered the rest and, with only a mild shiver of anxiety about how she might react at the sight of him invading her space again, he got into his truck and headed for the studio.
He spotted her walking in the door as he parked so he waited a few minutes, hoping she’d have time to get away from the front desk while he paid and signed up or whatever he had to do. Once he’d registered and been given the basics—no talking, wait for first scheduled water break, stay in the room if possible—he left his shoes on one of the open shelves and headed into to the darkened room.
The smell hit him first. His impression was one of a car full of hockey gear, left in the desert for a week. Noticing that none of the people already in the room were gagging or otherwise acknowledging the reek, he stumbled to an empty spot, unrolled his mat and arranged the towel on top it. At a loss for how to manage to not puke, he sat, not even noting where Gayle was located.
With only five minutes before the official class start time, he observed most people were lying down with their feet to the back wall, arms to their sides, breathing quietly. The heat made its presence known once his olfactory nerves adjusted. He could hear motors running somewhere above him and realized with some alarm the light sheen of sweat already coating his arms.
