Caught Up In Us

by Lauren Blakely

  Jill cackled.

  “What?”

  “Kat. Seriously. You always fall for the hot ones.”

  “Who doesn’t fall for the hot ones?”

  “True.” We jogged past a pair of twentysomething guys running shirt-free. “Nice abs,” Jill called out, and the guys gave her a thumbs up. Jill was such an actress — she never had a problem speaking her mind or standing out in a crowd.

  “Besides, how do you know he’s hot?”

  “I looked up his picture. I looked him up too because I know you’re all Miss Resistance when it comes to Internet stalking, but I’m not. You know he’s single, right?”

  “He’s twenty-eight. I’m not surprised he’s not married yet.”

  “No, I mean he’s really single. Broke up with some publicist type he was dating on and off for a few years.”

  “It if was on and off, it’ll probably be on again. Plus, allow me to remind you that – “ I slowed down and made a megaphone with my hands “– He. Doesn’t. Like. Me. Hello? Don’t you remember why I started My Favorite Mistakes?”

  “Of course. But people change. And he’s clearly realized the error of his ways.”

  “Look, I can’t mess up this mentorship. I know this makes me a freak, but I actually like my parents and want to help them. So I’m all-work-and-no-play-Kat for the fall.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” she said playfully. “And don’t worry. I like your parents too.”

  “Good. That’s why I can’t even go there,” I said, in between heavy breaths from running.

  “No. That’s why you have to be smart about it. Strategic. So whatever happens will have to be a secret. Between you, him, and me. And when you kiss him again, just make sure no one sees you,” Jill said, then gave me a big wink.

  I shook my head, but I was smiling at her persistence, even though I knew I couldn’t take chances, whether anyone was looking or not. I had too much at stake, most of all my own bruised heart.

  Chapter Six

  I knocked on Professor Oliver’s door, but it was wide open. He was that kind of a teacher. The door was never closed.

  “Come in, Ms. Harper,” he said, and gestured to the chair near his desk. “I’m delighted about the assignments this semester, and I hope you are too.”

  “That’s why I’m here, actually. While I have the utmost admiration for Mr. Leighton and all that he’s achieved as a chief executive at his company, I’d very much prefer a mentor in the retail sector,” I said.

  Professor Oliver cocked his head to the side. “But Mr. Leighton is a perfect match for you.” I winced at the words perfect match. Sure, I knew Professor Oliver didn’t intend anything by them, because he wasn’t talking match in the romantic sense. In fact, entanglements were expressly forbidden. He’d posted an image of a stop sign on his class Web site and the sign read: “No Mentor-Protege hanky-panky. Or else an F.” That was how he wrote, with words like hanky-panky. But it was the or else an F directive that scared me.

  I pressed forward. “I had really hoped Lacey Haybourne, who founded the skateboard line, would be the best pair-up for me. We’re both, essentially, in the fashion industry,” I said, adding more details on why the change made sense.

  Professor Oliver nodded thoughtfully as if he were considering my request, and I felt like I could exhale for the first time since Bryan had walked into the classroom yesterday. That I wasn’t going to spend the next three months encased in some sort of dormant anger. Professor Oliver picked up a fountain pen that reminded me of one I’d seen at the upscale Elizabeth’s department store recently. He twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Let me shed some light on why I made the match. For My Favorite Mistakes to grow and become a powerful jewelry brand, you’ll need to learn about scale. About production. About manufacturing. That’s the field Mr. Leighton is in. And what I think your business needs most is this sort of —” Professor Oliver paused as if to consider the words, “— horizontal learning.”

  Horizontal learning.

  Damn.

  I knew he meant our businesses had shared attributes, though Bryan’s was, of course, multinational. Still, I issued a warning to my brain. Don’t go there. Don’t imagine anything else horizontal with Bryan Leighton. Don’t picture him laying you down on a hotel bed and taking off all your clothes. Don’t even think about his lips on you.

  “I understand sir. I just think —”

  “Ms. Harper,” Professor Oliver said gently, but firmly closing a door on my final effort. “Bryan Leighton will be your mentor, and it will be great for you. Thank you for your understanding.”

  I was clearly dismissed. I turned to leave, deflated that my negotiation skills were sorely lacking, and frustrated that I’d have to spend three months with someone I’d spent five years trying to forget.

  “Oh, one more thing.”

  I looked back, and he handed me a business card with a phone number. “My wife wants to give one of your necklaces to a friend. They’re going to be huge, your jewelry. Can you give her a call?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  On the way out, I called Professor Oliver’s wife, who promptly informed me that she didn’t just want my necklace for a friend. She had much bigger plans, and wanted to discuss them over lunch so we agreed to meet later in the week. After I hung up, I Googled her to see if I could prepare in advance, but when I entered her full name into the browser on my phone — Claire Oliver — I found nothing to connect her to the retail jewelry business.

  I’d have to wing it.

  Then, I bit the bullet and emailed Bryan to let him know that Friday would work to visit his factory. I stuffed my phone, which I kept in a sparkly Hello Kitty case, underneath my eReader, my wallet, and some tissues at the bottom of my purse, hoping out of sight, out of mind would rule the rest of my day.

  Not that I was waiting for his reply. Not that I wanted to see him again. Not at all.

  *****

  I’d picked out the perfect outfit to meet Professor Oliver’s wife.

  I zipped up my A-line skirt, slid into a pair of black pumps and adjusted my purple scoop neck top one more time. I’d snagged the shirt from a shop in Brooklyn that always had amazing deals on clothes so I could look sharp at the occasional business meeting without blowing my budget. My dark hair was blown straight, and I had just the right amount of makeup on. Lipstick and some mascara. I grabbed my electric blue purse, a cute retro number, because it was large enough to hold more necklace samples in different styles, lengths and colors, as well as an assortment of charms.

  I left the apartment and caught the subway to my meeting on the Upper East Side. I hadn’t looked at my phone for an entire hour, so I allowed myself a quick peek on the train. I’d been on a once-an-hour diet since I sent Bryan the note yesterday so I figured I deserved many pats on the back. That was good restraint, right?

  When his name appeared in my email now, I squeaked out an excited oh.

  I wanted to smack myself. What was wrong with me? I didn’t even like him.

  Control. I had to stay in control, so I didn’t open the email right away. Instead, I triple-quadruple checked the charms in the inside pocket of my purse, I appraised my lipstick in the train window, and I peered at the time on my watch. Then, as if I’d proven myself to the judge and jury of me, I took a breath, and calmly tapped on the note.

  Kat — I trust we’re still on for tomorrow? I’ll send my car to pick you up at 9 a.m. if that works for you. Are you one of those rare breeds who can manage the morning without caffeinated assistance? (By the way, if I was an emoticon guy I’d insert one here, but I’m not a practitioner of smiley face symbols and/or Internet abbreviations.) If not, please let me know your caffeine preferences these days and whether you like coffee, tea or one of those fluffy drinks with lots of milk and made-up sounding names.

  My best,

  Bryan

  I re-read the note several times, always stopping at the same spot — these days. Had he trul
y forgotten my tastes? He knew well and good that I worshipped at the altar of fluffy drinks with frothy flavors. Maybe he was simply playing along with the whole “we just met routine” he’d tried on the other day in Washington Square Park. Or maybe he’d forgotten the details of me since I’d never really mattered to him. Fine, it was just a coffee preference we were taking about. Still, if he couldn’t remember, then I didn’t want him to know I marked time on my calendar by counting down the days until Starbucks added salted caramel hot chocolate to its menu for those delirious few weeks near the holidays. I didn’t want to confess I’d try any drink with an -ino ending.

  I hit reply.

  Bryan — The time is fine. I’ll take my coffee with a splash of cream, please.

  Best,

  Kat

  I re-read my note. It didn’t sound like me one bit. Normally, I’d try to say something clever in reply, like I am not familiar with the concept of being perky, peppy or even awake sans those magical energy imps found in coffee or tea. But he hadn’t earned the right to banter again. Besides, if I didn’t let him in, he couldn’t hurt me. The train pulled into my stop and I exited, walking quickly up the steps and into the sunshine of a late Manhattan morning. As I waited for the light at the crosswalk, I glanced at the screen to see Bryan had already written back.

  Kat — Funny, I seem to recall you were rather fond of caramel-itos and mocha-treat-os. Wondering what else I’ll learn about how your tastes have changed in the last five years. Oh wait, we’re starting over, so this is all new information to me. Black coffee with a touch of cream it is then.

  No emoticon inserted here intentionally even though I would wink if you were here in person.

  My best,

  Bryan

  I fumed and I soared at once. How could be possibly act like we were starting anything over? Had he forgotten the way he’d dumped me? And yet, I felt the tiniest zing race through me when I read his words. Because he did remember details of me. But it was time for my meeting, so as I walked into a small restaurant with crisp white tablecloths, stainless steel vases holding lilies, and waiters wearing perfectly knotted ties, I extradited Bryan and his coffee winks from my brain.

  *****

  Mrs. Claire Oliver ordered a Cobb salad with the dressing on the side. I followed her low-cal lead, opting for a Caesar with light dressing. She drank iced tea and I did the same. She was a pretty woman, with dark blond hair, cut in a straight and sharp bob, haunting brown eyes, and creamy white skin. She wore a sea-green blouse, designer jeans that probably cost more than my rent, and a pair of suede cutout Giuseppe Zanotti heels that were the height of haute couture. She was impeccably put together, like a Hollywood star appearing on a talk show, and she was younger than I expected. Professor Oliver had to be in his fifties, but I was betting his wife was no more than thirty-five.

  “Mr. Oliver tells me you’re one of his best students,” Claire said as the waiter walked away.

  “He’s very kind to say that.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t say it unless it were true. He thinks you’re going to be a superstar in your field. I wouldn’t be surprised either, because I think your designs are top-notch,” she said, and she wasn’t the warmest woman, but there was something admiring in her tone.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “You can call me Claire.”

  “Claire.” It felt funny to call her by her first name. She was my professor’s wife, she was older and she was so perfectly high-fashion that I felt as if I should be deferential.

  “Kat, the reason I wanted to have lunch with you is I have a proposition for you. Your designs have such great promise, and I absolutely see a tremendous market for them. But what you’re lacking is distribution. So I’d like to show them around to a few buyers I know, get a pulse on the market, and see if we can’t get you into more stores.”

  There wasn’t a chance I’d say no to her or to anyone making such an offer. Still, I wanted to know who she was working for, or if she was a middleman for herself. “That would be amazing. May I ask which stores or which buyers?”

  She waved a hand as if to say let’s not go there. “Don’t worry about that. My connections are good.”

  I wanted to know more, but if she was taking a chance on me, I’d have to take a chance on her. We discussed more of the specifics, the cut she’d receive of sales, her plans for showing my line around, and her vision for how women around the country would be giving and getting these necklaces as gifts come holiday time. I mentally crossed my fingers because maybe, just maybe, this could help me help my parents.

  “Now, you said I could see more of your designs.”

  I opened my purse and took out my latest necklaces that showcased an array of charms.

  She nodded and touched each one. “Some of your designs have a modern and sleek look. But others have a sort of European sensibility. Where do your inspirations come from?”

  “Definitely from Paris. I lived there for a year.”

  “Ah, the most wonderful city in the world,” she said to me in French.

  “There is nothing better,” I replied in the same language, and we talked more about our favorite places in Paris. I told her I adored the shopping in the Marais, and that my heart would always be in Montmartre with its curvy, cobblestoned streets, but that the best deals were to be found at the open-air markets. “The jewelry there, the charms and trinkets, and the things you never thought could be charms, like tiny little keys, are a total steal.”

  “You are a woman after my own heart. I love shopping at the open-air markets with the fruit and flower vendors and vintage jewelry sellers as much as I love the Champs-Élysées.”

  Then, she excused herself for the ladies room. As I waited for her return, I noticed a sharply dressed man enter the restaurant and walk towards a woman with wavy auburn hair. She lifted her face to him. He leaned down and kissed her, a long slow hold. I started writing their backstory. This red-haired beauty and this well-dressed man must be newly in love with just a handful of dizzying dates behind them, I surmised, as he kissed her one more time. Or maybe they were each other’s first love back when they were younger. Maybe they met when she was fresh out of high school and he was a newly minted business grad. Maybe they fell in mad love five years ago, and never fell out. Maybe they were still crazy about each other to this day, and kissed every time as if it were the first time.

  Ha. The whole scenario sounded implausible. Besides, those kind of kisses only happened in the movies.

  Chapter Seven

  Bryan’s sleek black car with tinted windows was parked outside my building at nine on the dot the next morning. Even more impressive than the punctuality was the consideration — the car wasn’t idling. The engine was off. Most drivers left the cars running while picking someone up, and, frankly, I couldn’t stand that. I’d have to compliment his driver.

  Then Bryan stepped out of the car, wearing dark jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a tie with cartoonish giraffes on them.

  “Oh.”

  “Did the giraffes surprise you?”

  “No. I just thought you were sending a car. I didn’t know you’d be in the car.”

  “Since I need to go to Philly too, I figured I could bum a ride with you. That okay?” he asked playfully.

  “Of course.”

  He held the door open, and I slid into the car. I smoothed out the soft folds on my green skirt as the driver turned on the engine and we pulled away.

  “Glad to see you weren’t idling,” I said in an effort to be civil.

  “If I were president, I’d sign a bill forbidding idling at the curb.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Especially for people checking their phones.”

  “Oh, well, idling and checking your phone would get you a jail term under my regime.”

  “You run a tight dictatorship.” I kept up the volley because I could do better than mere civility. I intended to be so cool, casual and goddamn witty that words would becom
e my shield to protect me from any stupid leftover feelings for him. Vestigial feelings, of course.

  “Know what else I’d ban if I were president?”

  “Cauliflower?”

  He laughed. Damn, I was on fire.

  “Actually, I was going to say those asparagus that have stalks the size of baseball bats. So you were kind of close. But I’d also abolish the word moist.”

  I curled my nose. “That word must be destroyed. Along with slacks.”

  He made a slashing motion with his hand. “Pants. Only pants!” Bryan gestured to the drink holder. There were three coffee drinks in it. “As promised.”

  “Someone joining us?”

  “No. I brought you the black coffee with a dollop of cream. And I also brought a caramel macchiato. In case you were just pretending you liked black coffee,” he said, then flashed a flirty smile.

  “Why would I pretend I liked black coffee?” I kept my tone serious, even though he’d seen through me, and against my better judgement, I found I liked it. But I wasn’t going to let him know that.

  “Who knows? But mostly, I just wanted to see if I could remember —” he started, then corrected himself. “I meant, guess. I wanted to see if I could guess what kind of coffee drink you really liked.”

  I looked from the coffee to the macchiato to Bryan. I let my hand hover over the first drink, then the second, as if it were a shell game. “Hmmm. Did he guess right? I wonder, wonder, wonder.”

  He raised his eyebrows expectantly. I reached for the coffee and took a drink. It tasted like bitter sludge. I wanted to spit it out. I wanted to wince. Instead, I took a long swallow and fixed on a fake smile. “Mmmm. There is nothing like a coffee to get the day going.”