“I go to the movies.”
The elevator reached the first floor. As the door opened, he said my name in that smoky voice. “Kat.”
There was a pang of remorse in his tone. Instinctively, I took a step closer, all my self-preservation falling away.
“What is it?” I asked softly.
“Nothing.” He was ice again. He repeated the word as he walked out of his building, and started running the second he hit the sidewalk.
*****
The cinema around the corner was showing the newest Emma Stone movie, but I couldn’t stomach romance now. I bought a ticket for a Ryan Gosling action flick. I needed improbable car chases and ridiculously implausible getaways. I slinked down into a seat in the back, leaving the looming pile of homework, necklace orders and the supply chain issues untouched for the next two hours.
There were only a few other people in the theater for the mid-afternoon showing on a Thursday. Some solo movie goers had snagged seats near the front, and there were two pairs of friends in the middle rows. Maybe they were blowing off steam too.
As the hero hacked into a laptop, an idea flashed before me. I’d once made a custom necklace for a computer programmer-turned-bestselling author and had scoured the city for the charms she wanted — floppy disks and motherboards I cut down to size. The vendor I’d hooked up with had started expanding into other recycled materials, including old tires and worn-out bike chains.
I made a mental note to track down the name later, and then returned my focus to the screen.
When Ryan Gosling scaled an impossibly high ledge, I caught a flicker of movement at the back of the theater. I turned to look, and I froze when I saw Bryan. He was still in his workout clothes, and even in the dark I could see the slight sheen of sweat on his brow and his tee-shirt. He scanned the aisles, and when he spotted me, he didn’t look happy. His jaw was tense again as he walked across the aisle. His eyes were lined with anger, and his fists were clenched. He sat down, turned to me, and placed a hand on my cheek so I was looking at him.
“You’re making me crazy,” he whispered in a hard voice.
“I am? Why?”
“You act like nothing happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“How can you just be like this? Like it was nothing what happened?”
“How can you?”
“I called you that day. I emailed you that afternoon. You totally blew me off, and I’ve been looking for every chance to talk to you.”
“You haven’t been trying that hard.”
“Bullshit, Kat. I’ve tried to talk to you every time you’ve been by and you know it.”
One of the guys a few rows ahead turned around and gave us a dirty look as Ryan Gosling smashed open a door with his elbow.
Bryan lowered his voice further. “Do you have any idea what I’m going through at work?”
“No. Why would I?”
The guy looked back again. “Keep it down, okay?”
I tipped my forehead to the exit. Bryan took me by the elbow and guided us out. As the door to the theater swung shut, we were alone in the dark hallway.
“I’m doing everything to keep it quiet, and you can’t say a word. Promise me you won’t say a word.” His voice was laced with equal parts stress and fear.
“I promise.” I wanted to reach out and run a hand gently over his cheek. He seemed to need it, but I kept my hands to myself.
He took a deep breath. “Wilco is suing us for wrongful termination. That’s what went down the day I had to take that board call at the factory. We learned he was suing. It’s totally ridiculous because he was in the wrong. He crossed every line imaginable with the intern. But the board is pissed, and I’m pissed, and I can’t take a chance. The guy’s unhinged, Kat. He calls me at my home and hangs up. Does the same to Nicole too, and she’s also seen him skulking around near our offices. I thought I knew the guy. I thought I knew what to expect, but now everything has changed. And on top of that, my board is incredibly conservative and I have to do everything properly. I can’t have a trace of anything that isn’t 100 percent professional. Which makes it really incredibly difficult when all I want to do is finish what we started.”
Everything inside of me turned hot. “You do?”
“I have not been able to stop thinking about that afternoon. I have not been able to stop thinking about you.”
My heart leapt into my throat. “Really?”
He moved closer. He was so dizzyingly near to me it was as if every nerve ending in my body was exposed. The possibility that this wasn’t one-sided made me deliriously giddy. That it was more than just a romp on the couch in his office.
“I think about you all the time. I think about how beautiful you are and how smart you are and how funny you are, and how I want nothing more than to take you out to the movies, and hold your hand and laugh at the same time. Or not even at the same time. To laugh at different things. To learn more about what you think is funny. Like, I don’t even know if you think it’s funny when people fall down stairs. Do you like pratfalls?”
His eyes were sparkling and playful.
I grinned so wide my face would hurt, but I didn’t think I could feel anything except happiness right now. “I love pratfalls. I love non-sequitur humor, and I love dark humor, and I especially love stupid humor. I laugh when I see videos of guys being pushed down hill in shopping carts, and when they slip in their socks and fall down stairs. Well, as long as they don’t really get hurt.”
“Of course not. You’re not a jerk. You just appreciate good physical comedy.”
“That I do. And what about you? What do you laugh at? I mean, besides Bucky from Get Fuzzy.”
“Ah, she remembers.”
“Of course I remember.” I punched him in the arm, and even though I wanted him to touch me all over, it meant so much more to me that he wanted to talk. That he wanted to know me. How I’d changed. How I hadn’t changed.
“I remember everything too,” he said softly, and I felt a ribbon of heat rush through my body. “To answer your question. Cartoon cats are still a yes. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this, but I like those silly Internet pictures with dogs saying ridiculous things. I mean, not really saying ridiculous things. Just captions. Like this one husky dog, and there was a caption that said ‘Oh you ran a marathon. How heavy was the sled?’”
“I saw that one too. I loved it. So did my roommate because she’s run five marathons.”
“That’s impressive. And I like late-night talk shows. I like politics, so I especially enjoy political humor and the late-night guys are the best.”
“What about movies? What are your favorite movies?”
“Well just in case the guys committee is listening I’ll tell you The Fast and The Furious. Or The Hangover.” Then he lowered his voice and whispered. “But I’ll admit to you, only you, that it’s actually Casablanca.”
Pinch me now, I thought. Wake me up from this dream. Because right then, I closed my eyes and watched that perfect film unfurl in front of me, a romance that left you breathless no matter how many times you’d seen it. I could feel myself sinking into that heady state, like I was under a spell, transfixed, and I could touch the scenes, feel every sensation the characters felt zip through me. They’d always have Paris.
I felt wobbly, and I swayed toward him. He caught me, and wrapped his arms around me, tucking me close to him. He pressed his chin against my head. “Kat.”
I melted into him, savoring the feel of his chest, even under his sweaty tee-shirt, against me. Here with him, I didn’t have a care in the world. Even though being with him was the riskiest thing in the world. I closed my eyes and flashed back to my parents, to the store, to my plans. Then to Professor Oliver, and his wife, and my business. Everything else was so much more important than a mere feeling. I knew that. I really did. But yet, I didn’t want anything more in my life right now than this moment, this closeness, this man.
“I’m dying to
kiss you. I want to take you out to dinner, and walk around the city, and talk about anything and everything.”
I could barely feel myself anymore. My whole body was edgy, floating. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. I felt light-headed, like I’d just taken a painkiller and gotten that warm flush where it kicks in and spreads throughout your chest and belly. The little hairs on my arms were standing on end.
“But I can’t,” he said.
“Why?”
“I can’t risk it. The Wilco thing…”
“But she was a high school student. Wasn’t she seventeen?”
“Yeah, but still. He’s hunting out dirt. He’s hunting out anything right now.”
“I’m twenty-three. I’m not an intern. I’m just a…”
“A protege. At a school where we endowed the new wing of the library. It’s too close. No one has said anything to me, but this is my choice. This is how I have to be. I have to be above reproach. I don’t want anything to look bad for Made Here, and I don’t want anything to look bad for the school. That’s why I couldn’t even email you anymore. I can’t have a trace of impropriety.”
I half wanted to add that I had to be a good girl too, but what was the point? I didn’t need to dole out my stakes as well. There needn’t be any one upsmanship.
I nodded into his chest. I didn’t like these rules, but I understood them.
He placed a hand under my chin and lifted my face so I was looking at him. His lips were so close to me. “But maybe I can call you?”
“Of course.”
“Can I call you tonight?”
I was a pinball machine, buzzing and humming, saying yes, yes, yes. Then I remembered the name of the vendor.
“I would love that. And, you may want to try Geeking Out in the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn. Great guys, and super speedy with parts.”
He shook his head appreciatively. “Do you have any idea how hot it is that you are so damn business savvy?”
“No. Are we talking broiling, boiling, or scorching?”
“Smoking.” Then he pulled me against him for a moment, and I could tell exactly how hot I’d made him.
We left the theater a few minutes later, and when we turned the corner Bryan bumped into a balding man wearing a pinstriped suit that reeked of old money.
“Hello, Mr. Caldwell,” Bryan said. I noticed this was the first time Bryan had addressed someone by the honorific Mr.
Mr. Caldwell gave him a strange look. “Seeing a movie?”
I tensed, and Bryan straightened his spine too. Crap. This was exactly what he was trying to avoid.
“Actually, I just finished a run, and bumped into Kat outside the theater. Kat, this is James Caldwell, who’s on our board.” His eyes widened as he said the last few words, but he didn’t need to worry – I got it.
I shook hands with James Caldwell and assumed a most proper and poised look, as I said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Mr. Caldwell, Kat is working with Made Here through NYU this semester.”
Caldwell raised a thick gray eyebrow. “NYU?”
“She’s in the graduate business school,” Bryan added quickly.
What? Did I look seventeen like the intern?
Caldwell nodded. “Glad to hear this is all business.”
Seventeen or twenty-three, the message was clear. There was to be no hanky-panky.
Chapter Twelve
My phone was mocking me. It was sneering, as I carried it around like a lifeline leashed to me, a hard brick reminder that I was waiting for a call. I curled deeper into the dented corner of the mustard-colored couch, laptop on my thighs as I worked. Jill and I were mirror images, as she sat cross-legged on the other end, tapping away on her computer too. Her hair was twisted up in a red chopstick and a few dark blond strands framed her face. “Do you have any idea how many technical white papers I authored today on nuclear fusion?”
I gave her a look. “Let me guess. Zero?”
She nodded. “Yup. That is exactly right. But I am, in fact, almost done with this list of recommendations for my group of Upper East mommies on their training and diet for the next few weeks before the New York City marathon.” Jill was making headway as a young actress, but she still took on jobs on the side as a running coach. She operated a few running clinics and clubs, especially for men and women who wanted to tackle marathons for the first time, as well as 5Ks and 10Ks. “If I’m going to finally finish this book-length email, I’m going to need a beer. But we have none in this apartment, and it should be considered a crime to be beer-less.”
“Then you should make sure no one carts you away to the pen, Jill.”
I stretched my arm to the coffee table, grabbed Jill’s wallet and tossed it to her. She caught it in one hand, placed her laptop on the couch, and went in search of the nearest six-pack at ten o’clock at night.
I wandered into the kitchen and reached for an apple inside the three-tiered, silver-looking wire basket that hung by the side of my kitchen sink. I needed to throw the crappy contraption out. But it reminded me of my parents. They had one of those baskets too, towering with fruit – apples, oranges, nectarines, lemons that threatened to spill out – in our home in Connecticut. I washed the apple and then headed into the living room. I sat on the window sill and took a bite.
This probably sounded crazy but my parents really are those people. As in those people you can’t believe still love each other madly after all those years. They’ve been together for thirty years and my mom still makes breakfast for him every morning. She’ll set the table with the same green and white checked plates, and the same matching cloth napkins that we’ve had since I was in high school. Then he’ll come downstairs, give her a kiss on the cheek, and they’ll have breakfast together. He’ll do the dishes and clean up and they’ll walk to the store holding hands. When the workday ends, they’ll return home and repeat the same routine for dinner, with him taking out the garbage or mowing the lawn as she cooks. After dinner, she’ll reach for a bar of dark chocolate from the kitchen cupboard, breaking off a section. He’ll have bought either Scharffenberger or some fabulous Belgian chocolate bar. “I never want you to run out of chocolate,” I overheard him whisper to her once after he’d picked some up from the grocery store.
It was almost enough to make you gag, if it weren’t totally 100 percent legitimate.
So when my mom admitted earlier tonight on the phone that the online daily deal had bombed, my heart withered a bit for them. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”
“Well, you know, you’ll just have to keep me stocked in chocolate, my Katerina.”
“I will. I promise. Even though I know it won’t come to that.”
I took another bite of the apple, as I raised the shades halfway to look out onto Twenty-Second Street. A cab pulled up outside the building. A slim man emerged. He had a strong jawline and a regal, Yul Brynner-esque bald head. A woman with a pixie cut stepped out next. She laughed at something he said. Then he reached for her waist and pulled her close, because he simply had to kiss her right then and there. Soon, they walked into the building, holding hands.
I wanted to do that with Bryan. I wanted to walk down the street with him. To kiss him in public. To share a car back to his place, my place, any place. But then, I’d also take what I could get, so when my phone finally rang, I pounced on it.
“Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Bryan.”
My heart leapt. I was the girl in high school, waiting for the quarterback to call. Fine, I’d never dated a football player, and I didn’t even care for most sports. But I bet the zing I felt was precisely the same.
“Hey. What are you up to?”
“Talking to you.”
I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me. Now we really sounded like teenagers again.
“Same to you,” I said, as I placed the half-eaten apple on the coffee table.
“What’d you do tonight?”
I gave him the rundown,
then asked the same of him.
“Work, work, and more work. I heard back from the city of Paris on the padlocks. They said they’re trying to make some arrangements for a deal, so that’s good. But the best part is this amazingly brilliant MBA student I’m working with may have saved the day for us.”
I bounced on my toes. “Really? Did Geeking Out come through?”
“They’re putting a competitive bid together tonight. I should have it first thing in the morning, but they said they could meet the timeline.”
“Damn. I rock.”
“You totally and completely rock.”
“So where are you right now?” I asked as I walked down the hall to my bedroom. I didn’t know when Jill would return with her beer, but I didn’t want to be interrupted.
“My apartment. Finally. Car just dropped me off.”
“So calling me was the first thing you did when you got home? Nice.”
“I walked in two minutes ago.”
“I don’t even know where you live.” I shut the door to my bedroom and lay down on my bed. The one luxury I afforded myself was the bedding. A shimmery purple duvet covered the bed, with pillows in rich shades of red and dark blue.
“Sixtieth and Park.”
I wanted to whistle in admiration. I pictured the block perfectly, seeing it on a rain-soaked night, the quiet street glistening, lined with beautiful brick brownstones. He probably lived in one of those buildings. Double doors, four stories, hardwood floors, white-paned windows that opened on the kind of street that romantic comedy heroines strolled down, holding hands with their lovers.
“What’s on tap the rest of the night? More work?”
“I’m calling it a night on the work front. No more email, no more reports. I’m just kicking back on my couch talking to this girl with my cell phone pressed against my head. I’m probably getting a brain tumor, but c’est la vie.”
“You’re not one of those Bluetooth people? You haven’t been walking around with the headset in your ear all evening?”
Caught Up In Us Page 8
