Then I waited, and I waited, and I waited.
Words didn’t come.
The silence choked me. It was as if hands were on my neck, gripping me.
How could I have misread him so badly? He’d said he was falling for me. Where else do you fall but in love?
Then he spoke, and his words were sharp glass. “I have to go.”
Breaking the clasp in a single, fierce pull, I ripped off the necklace, then tossed it into the trash, stuffing it at the bottom of the can.
That was the last time I spoke to him.
Even now, five years later, those words rang through me. I could hear them, the pause before he spoke, the shape of each and every syllable. I have to go.
That’s exactly what he did. He left.
Chapter Nine
The factory was loud and busy. Machines whirred, conveyor belts hummed, parts rattled and people chatted. Bryan gave me the guided tour of the whole operation, stopping along the way to talk with his employees, from the managers who ran the facilities to some of the men and women at the end of the line who worked like master jewelers with loupes, carefully and painstakingly putting the finishing touches on pair after pair of fine platinum and pewter and silver cufflinks for the line called Sleek. Made Here also created cufflinks from recycled materials including old watches and bike chains that had a deliberately worn and purposefully tarnished look for the Scuff line. The factory had once made lugnuts for hubcaps. With his expertise in engineering and his vision for solving problems in unconventional ways, Bryan had retrofitted the former auto parts factory for Made Here’s goods, and the result was a mixture of automation and craftsmanship.
“You know what I really want most for the recycled line?”
“What would that be?”
“The lover’s bridge in Paris.”
“Just take the whole bridge and chop it up?”
He laughed. “No. The padlocks,” he said, referring to the locks that hung on of one of the bridges arcing over the Seine. Lovers wrote their names on locks, hooked them to the links and tossed the keys in the river as a promise. It was a popular spot for locals and tourists and the net effect was every year the old locks had to be cut and tossed away to make room for new proclamations of the heart. “I’ve been trying to work with the city of Paris for years. To find a way to buy the used locks from them — the ones they have to cut off every year. But, French bureaucracy is, well, French bureaucracy.”
My eyes lit up, and for one of the first times with him in this go-round, I spoke from the heart. “That would be amazing, though. What a perfect gift. A pair of cufflinks made from padlocks on the lover’s bridge.”
“Right? Wouldn’t it be? And it’s not as if the city cuts the locks because the couples broke up. They only throw them out because they need room for more. So what if I could take those off their hands and turn them into something?”
“Do you think it’ll happen?”
“I’ve made some headway. But it’s a project I can’t delegate. I’m the only one at the company who’s fluent enough to converse with French civil workers.”
“Well, if you need any help, you know where to find me. But I should let you know, I charge extra for my translation services.”
That earned a brief smile. “Let me show you more.” He pointed to the machines that moved the parts along in a precision-timed fashion. “That’s how we can turn out product quickly and on time by keeping the process moving,” he said, then we stopped at a section of the factory floor where workers took their time handling the materials to turn them into the beginnings of new shapes and sizes.
One of the guys who was assembling parts from used bike chains gave Bryan a quick nod.
“Hey Joe,” Bryan said.
“Hey Boss Man,” Joe said.
“How’s the wife? Does Megan have her teaching degree yet?”
Joe nodded. “Just a few more months and she’ll be able to start working in the school district.”
“That’s fantastic. Keep me posted.”
As we walked away from Joe, I made a mental note that Bryan knew his employees’ wives’ names, and what they did for a living. If he were a jerk, it would be so much easier to dislike him, as I wanted to. But instead, it was getting harder to pretend he was nothing to me.
We popped into a quieter area with glass walls where a dozen people in white lab coats were doing the finishing work on the cufflinks, tie clips and money holders. “Looking good, guys. I’m psyched about the progress you’ve made this month. Make sure Delaney knows how you take your coffee or latte or whatnot. We’ll do a pick-me-up all around today from Stella’s,” he said, and I assumed Stella’s must be the local coffee shop.
There were some hoots and cheers as we left and headed to Bryan’s office on the second floor. His assistant, Delaney, cradled a phone receiver as she scribbled down elaborate notes. She was cute and perky, and had a librarian sexiness to her with black glasses and blond hair fastened in a bun.
Bryan held the door for me, and I followed him. His office was functional, but it didn’t scream overly masculine. I couldn’t stand those too mannish offices decked out in chrome and black that seemed to shout I am powerful. Bryan’s workspace was simple, with a large wooden desk, a gray couch, a navy blue chair, and a few framed awards on the wall. I checked them out; they were given by the Eco-Alliance. From the train, to the car, to his entire recycled line, he practiced what he preached, and I was impressed.
Another brick in my wall came down.
We chatted for the next hour about the manufacturing process, his distribution strategy and the supply chain challenges he’d been facing lately. Delaney knocked on the door, and then asked if it was time for the Stella’s run.
“The usual for me,” Bryan said. “Kat? You want something?”
“Just an iced tea would be great.”
Bryan tilted his head as if he were trying to figure me out. I was throwing him curveballs. He’d expected one thing from me, but I gave him another.
“And whatever you want of course, Delaney. And if you could see what the finishing crew wants as well,” he said, referring to the employees he’d promised the coffee to.
As she left, Bryan asked me more questions about My Favorite Mistakes and how I envisioned growing the business. The truth was I didn’t entirely know, and I admitted that. Soon, Delaney returned with the Stella’s run, carrying a cardboard drink holder with an iced tea and a coffee.
As she handed Bryan the coffee, I pictured her tripping and spilling it on his shirt and then fumbling through cleaning it up like on a bad sitcom. But she was graceful and poised. “I have the papers from the board on the Wilco termination,” she told him. “I’m just reviewing their comments and emailing them to you for your two p.m. call.”
“Great. Thank you. I look forward to reading them.” Delaney left, and closed the door behind her. “She’s very involved. Eager to learn. So she has a lot of responsibility,” he said to me, as if he felt the need to explain why Delaney was reviewing termination papers.
“So she’s clearly a lot more than just a minion,” I teased.
He laughed. “Definitely. But let me tell you this. Minions are overrated. Once you have them, they come in your office and want things.”
“Minion management. Never thought about that before.”
“Oh, it’s not like the old days when you could beat them with a cane.”
“I bet HR comes down pretty hard on you for that,” I said and that cracked him up. He sat down in his chair, still laughing and not paying close attention. Then, he spilled his coffee on himself.
Now it was my turn. “I’m so sorry for laughing,” I said in between big chuckles. “That was just so unexpected. It’s usually the other person who spills the coffee. You don’t usually spill it on yourself.”
His eyes widened. “Evidently, I’m the world’s biggest dork.”
“It didn’t burn you, did it?”
He shook his head as he stood
up, placing the half-empty cup on the low table. The front of his white shirt was covered in a coffee-colored blotch. “No, it wasn’t that hot. I can’t stand the way some places make their drinks scalding, so Delaney always makes sure it’s a civilized temperature.”
He walked to a small closet in the corner of the office and took out a new shirt. “I guess I better change.”
“I’ll leave,” I offered, and started to rise.
“I don’t mind. Unless it makes you uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable was not the word I’d use. More like turned on. When I looked over at Bryan, he was already unbuttoning his shirt, and I was quite simply rooted to my seat. If Channing Tatum were in the office taking off his shirt, I’d find it physically impossible to do anything else but stare at the spectacle of him undressing too. Bryan reached his cufflinks, and I watched as he deftly removed them, then laid them on top of a nearby bookshelf. He took off the shirt, and rested it on the back of a chair. He wore a white tee-shirt underneath.
“Your tee-shirt is stained too.”
He glanced at the front of his shirt. “Let’s call this a major win for you for making me laugh so hard.”
I mimed making a check mark on a scorecard, feeling pretty good about the way power was flowing these days. I was the one steering the ship. Then, I sucked in a breath as he removed his tee-shirt. All my anger slinked away, all my hurt crept out quietly. I was left only with the one thing that had never been far away for the last five years – desire for him.
I stared and I didn’t try to play it cool. He was hot, and I wanted to enjoy the view. His chest was broad and firm, his arms strong, and his stomach as flat as the earth was rumored to be before Columbus discovered the truth. There was the slightest trace of hair running from his belly button to the waistband of his jeans, disappearing beneath his clothes suggestively. He reached for a fresh tee-shirt in the closet, and a crisp, clean button-down too.
Fuck it.
Fuck the act. Fuck the cool girl routine.
So much for my plan to be tough, to be civil, to be immune to his charms. I threw that playbook out the window and started writing a new one – one that was filled with payoff. This was the real starting over, because he’d called me pretty, he’d remembered my coffee drink, he’d told me he was glad to see me. This wasn’t one-sided and I was going to take what I wanted most right now. To be touched. To be kissed.
I removed my bulletproof vest, and spoke my mind. “Come here.”
He walked to the back of the couch and leaned down, his face inches from me.
“Hi,” he said softly.
“Hi.”
“Can I?” he asked, and then reached a hand into my hair, letting my dark brown strands fall through his fingers. I leaned into his hand, like a cat, as my answer. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had started purring.
“Kat,” he said in a hungry voice.
I looked into his eyes, those crisp green eyes that drew me in. “I need you to kiss me now,” I said, as if it were a command.
“Consider it done.”
I closed my eyes as his lips brushed mine with a softness, tenderness and eagerness all wrapped up in one. I felt as if the whole office, the factory, the city was gone. There was nothing else but this kiss and I melted into him, as I had with all our kisses five years ago. But then, there was something new, something less innocent, as the kiss shifted into another gear. The way his lips suddenly crushed mine was feverish. It was frenzied, and it was electric, and full of need. I needed to feel him. I needed to touch him. I explored his arms, traversing the shape and size of his forearms and the strength in them, and then outlining the sharp contours of his flexed biceps, until I returned to his chest, then down to his belly, so trim and tight that I longed to touch and trace and hold onto his perfectly cut waist all through the day and the night.
He stopped, moving to the door, locking it this time, then returning to the couch with me.
“We can’t go all the way. Not even close,” I said, holding up my hand as a stop sign to sex.
“I’m good with that. But we don’t have much time for anything.”
“Do you want to stop then?”
He shook his head, and nodded to the bulge in his jeans. “Hell no.”
He wanted me as much as I wanted him. But did he like me too? Or was I just the girl who was hot for him and so, why not? A part of me knew better. A part of me knew I should pull back the reins. But there was a bigger part of me in that moment that didn’t care. Because my body had no questions and no qualms. Inside all I felt was the weight of five pent-up years of missing him. My mind was a jumble, a mixed-up mess of hurt and want, but I didn’t know how to sort out the crazy rush of thoughts, and frankly, I didn’t want to. I was burning for him, so I let my body lead me on.
I touched his soft, thick hair that I’d missed running my hands through, then traced the back of his neck in a way that made him groan. Bryan’s hands drifted lower, down to my waist, and I didn’t stop him. I wanted his hands everywhere. All over me. He shifted me over, pulling me on top of him so I could feel how hard he was through his jeans. I straddled him on the couch, my knees on either side of his hips, our clothes still all the way on, my flowy skirt spread across his thighs.
I began to move my hips barely, subtly, with my bikini underwear and his jeans forming a layered barricade between our bodies. I closed my eyes again, kissing him, grinding against him, feeling like I was in high school again, where having clothes on doesn’t stop you from getting off. His hands slipped underneath my top and made their way to my breasts, and the way he touched me with such tenderness and such desire made me gasp.
My lips fell away from him and I buried my face in the crook of his neck. The temperature in me soared as I pulled his taut chest to me, thrilling at the feel of his body rubbing against mine. His hands dipped under my skirt, touching the back of my thighs in a way that made me race even more. He hadn’t even gotten into my panties and I was already so close.
“It’s not going to take me long,” I told him.
“Nothing would make me happier than to make you come,” he said, and then managed to slide a hand between my legs. The slightest touch was all I needed. I moved my hips as his fingers hit just the right spot. I pressed myself against his hand, moving up and down, as I moaned in the lowest voice possible in his ear. “Bryan, it feels so good.”
“Kat, you have no idea…”
He layered kisses on my neck as I kept up the rhythm I needed. He gripped my waist firmly, keeping my body close, making sure I would make it all the way. Then I bit my lip as the intensity tore through me. There was no just about, no almost, no close but no cigar. I pressed my mouth to his shoulder to muffle my sounds, then collapsed onto his chest. We remained quiet for a moment, only the sounds of machines far away flickering in the background.
“That was so unbelievably sexy,” he said.
“Really?”
“If I kept a diary, which I don’t I assure you, this would go down as one of the hottest moments ever.”
“I can still feel it. Like in my whole body. I can feel it all over. How good it was with you.” I was vulnerable and I didn’t care. I was in the afterglow and the flush made me say things to him that I would have kept secret if I hadn’t just come in his office. I trailed my hand across his chest and looked in his eyes. “Let me touch you.”
Before he could answer, Delaney’s voice boomed through the buzzer. “Hi, Bryan. Just a reminder you have your board call in ten minutes to go over the final Wilco papers. The notes are in your email.”
Bryan cursed under his breath. “Thanks, Delaney,” he said in a perfectly professional voice. He could easily switch gears. When she hung up, he looked at me, and the longing had been stripped from his eyes. He was a man ready to conduct business. “I have to do this.”
I heard the echo of I have to go and I felt myself hardening. I put my shell back on as I adjusted my skirt and smoothed away the just-been-screwed look in m
y hair, thinking the saying was appropos for many reasons. I was nothing more than a quickie in the office to him. That was it. That was all. I took some small solace in the fact that we hadn’t gone that far. Fine, he’d seen me as turned on as I’d ever been my whole life over, but at least we’d done nothing more than kids in high school do. That’s all we’d ever be. Teenagers bumbling through adulthood, not knowing what to do or say. But what he didn’t say spoke volumes. He didn’t say he liked me. He didn’t say he was sorry for breaking my heart. He didn’t ask me to have dinner. He simply said, “I need to focus on this call.”
“Of course.” I downshifted to my crisp and business-like tone. I could toe to toe with him in this department. He pulled on his tee-shirt, then his dress shirt.
“But let’s take the train back to New York. The four o’clock, okay?”
“Sure.” I gathered my bag and my books. “I’ll just be —” I said and waved in the general direction outside his office.
He settled into his desk chair, but his eyes were already on the computer screen and the email with the Wilco notes. He sighed heavily and dropped his forehead into his hand. “Fuck,” he said in a low voice, and I suspected he wasn’t going to have a very good phone call with the board.
Served him right with the way he was blowing me off. At least I’d had an orgasm, and he hadn’t. Small victory, but I’d take it.
I grabbed my iced tea, left his office, and said goodbye to Delaney. Then I called a cab as soon as I left the factory. There was a two-thirty train back to New York that had my name written all over it.
Chapter Ten
The music drowned out my day and my night. Jill and her castmates had grabbed guitars and jumped on stage at the bar post-show to jam out an impromptu version of Les Mis’ popular song One Day More. The show itself was amazing; the producers wanted to mix things up so they fast-forwarded the story to modern-day France and added guitars and drums to the orchestra of the off-Broadway production.
Now, we were at a nearby club in Soho, celebrating opening night of the month-long run. Imagine One Day More performed as a power ballad. Because, yes, Jill could handle a guitar too. She jammed hard on her Stratocaster and the amps howled out chords. The guy who played Marius, a young actor named Reeve, whipped the audience into a frenzy as he led the song. When he reached the chorus, he thrust the mic towards the crowd and they responded with the words they’d either known for years or learned when the Hugh Jackman movie became a hit.
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