My heart jumps right along with my stomach at his words. My heart wants to believe him. Wants to rush straight back into his arms. My brain though – my brain can really hold a grudge. And I'm caught somewhere in between these two warring parties, not sure which way to go. Not knowing which way is right.
Carter sounds sincere, and I really want to believe him. At the same time, he's also proven that he can't always be trusted with my heart.
Which makes me doubt him. I'm overwhelmed, and my head is such a mess, I want to scream, and punch him all at the same time.
“I don't know, Carter.”
“Do you need me to get down on my knees and beg for a chance here, Darby?”
I laugh and shake my head. The idea of Carter down on his knees is too funny to not laugh at. But then, as I stand there giggling, he does just that. Carter Bishop falls to his knees before me. The man who does not kneel before anybody, is now kneeling before me. He clasps his hands together as if in prayer, his eyes pleading with me.
“Darby White,” he says. “I've made some terrible mistakes in my life. I've done very wrong by you. I'm begging you – literally begging you right now – for a chance to make good on those wrongs I've done. I'm begging you for a chance – just one chance – to make up for the things I've done. To properly apologize.”
I cover my mouth with my hands, unable to stop the laughter that's bubbling up and out of my throat. The actual image of Carter down on his knees is a lot funnier than the pretend image that ran through my head a moment ago.
“And you think taking me to dinner will right all those wrongs?” I ask.
“I think it would be a start,” he replies. “An actual conversation might do wonders for us, if you give me a chance.”
“There is no us, Carter.”
He shrugs. “No, not right now,” he says. “But this is a crazy world and the only constant is change. That's the old saying, right?”
“You are impossible,” I say and shake my head, though I can't seem to get the smile off my face. “Get off your knees.”
“Not until you agree to have dinner with me,” he says. “And as I hope you now know, I tend to keep my word about things. You wouldn't want your kids coming into the classroom tomorrow to find me here down on my knees waiting for an answer, would you?”
“The kids won't be here tomorrow,” I say. “It's a flex day for the teachers. Long weekend for us.”
“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, that might be a problem. But, once you're back in session, I give you my word, that I will come around here every day.”
I honestly can't recall the last time I've laughed as hard or as genuinely as I am right now. Carter has always been able to make me laugh, and it’s disturbing that I feel myself falling back into it again so easily.
“Fine. Dinner,” I say, shocked to hear the words falling out of my mouth, “but, this is not a promise of anything. Nothing. I'm simply having dinner with you. Period. In fact, you should probably get used to the idea that I'm only going for the free food.”
Carter gets to his feet, a wide smile on his face. He looks like a man who'd just scored a major victory and is basking in the glow of that win. It unsettles me just a bit, because he has the same look in his eye that Mason gets when he's regaling me with his tales of his latest courtroom victory.
This is no game and I'm not some prize to be won.
“Great,” he says. “Then I'll pick you up at seven.”
“Tonight?”
“No time like the present.”
“I can't,” I say. “I have – things to do. I have to resubmit a stock order and –”
“You need time to eat too,” he says. “You have to learn to take time for yourself.”
“Spoken like a man who has the money and luxury to afford the ability to be able to do that,” I say.
He scoffs at me. “You're not hurting for money, Darby,” he says. “You don't even have to work if you don't want to. We both know that.”
“I also have a responsibility to my kids,” I say. “I have to make sure they have the tools they need to be successful.”
“And they will,” he replies. “Trust me. They will. Now, I'll see you at seven.”
Before I can rebut him again, he turns and walks across the room. He's whistling to himself as he pushes the door open and disappears through it.Did I really just agree to have dinner with Carter? Tonight? What in the hell was I thinking? Hadn't I told him not tonight? Why in the hell am I going out with him tonight then?
My head spins as I look down at myself and slowly realize that I need to get home and start getting ready.
I may not know what in the hell I'm doing, but I'm going to make sure I look damn good doing it. Torture and taunt Carter with something he obviously wants, but is never going to get.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Chapter Eleven
Carter
“Which color tie?”
I'm standing in my walk-in closet, looking at my tie rack, totally perplexed by what is usually a very simple choice. I look at myself in the mirror, at the dark blue slacks, blue button-down shirt, and the blue jacket sitting on a hanger, and suddenly don't like anything I'm wearing.
“You look fantastic,” Shelly says, as if reading my mind.
“Don't you think the gray one –”
“No,” she says. “That one is great. Christ, Carter, I've watched you put on three different suits. Please don’t make me suffer through another one.”
I laugh, but give her the finger. Shelly has been my personal assistant for more years that I can count. She's great. Like Rupert, she's always willing to give me the unvarnished truth about anything and everything – and she often does, whether I want it or not. She’s no shrinking violet, that's for sure. It's one of the things I love and respect about her the most.
Some guys like to surround themselves with nothing but people who will grovel at their feet. And although I do need people who will do the job when, and how I say to do it, I take great pains to surround myself with people who don’t put up with bullshit, and have the stones to call me out on my own.
I feel like having plenty of dissenting voices in the room is how I keep my edge. I have employees who continually challenge me, push me to do better, and help me refine my ways of thinking. Although I'm damn good at what I do – I'd even go so far as to say I'm one of the best – I also know that I'm not infallible. I make mistakes. I let my ego get out in front of me sometimes. I'm human. It happens.
Having contrary voices in the room with me, though, helps to mitigate some of those mistakes. It keeps me in check and helps prevent me from doing something stupid or reckless. I know a lot of guys in the industry like to claim all the credit themselves. They like to thump their chest and proclaim themselves titans of industry. But, the truth of the matter is, you're not going to accomplish shit without good people at your side. That's just a fact.
I get a lot of the credit because my name is on the company letterhead, but I know without the crew I've assembled, I probably wouldn't be running a multi-billion dollar shop.
“Okay fine,” I say. “Blue suit. Blue shirt? Or is that too much blue?”
Shelly sighs and turns me around. She looks me up and down. She'd come in to get my signature on a stack of papers, but I'd roped her into dressing duty. This is my second shot to make a good first impression on Darby and I don't want to blow it because I show up looking like I got dressed in the dark. I want to look good for her. It's very important to me.
“White shirt, metallic green tie,” she says.
“Green?”
“The color brings out your eyes.”
I take the tie off the rack, hold it up next to my face and nod. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” I say. “Good call.”
Shelly laughs. “Jesus,” she says. “I never thought I'd live to see the day when playboy Carter Bishop lost his fucking head over a woman.”
“I haven't lost my head.”
She gives me a very pointed look, letting her eyes drift down to the pile of clothes on the ground at my feet.
“Oh, really?” she asks. “I'd hate to see what this place looks like when you actually do then.”
“Nothing wrong with wanting to look a little snappier than usual,” I say.
“You always look snappy,” she says, chuckling to herself. “This takes snappy to a whole new level.”
I laugh and quickly change my shirt, dropping the blue one on the ground and putting on one of my white dress shirts.
“She must be really special for you to be going to such extremes,” Shelly says. “I've never seen you so fussy over a date before.”
I can't keep the smile off my face. “Ever heard of the one that got away?”
She smiles wide, looking genuinely pleased for me. “This the one that got away, huh?”
“Yep. That's her.”
I finish dressing and turn around, holding my arms out for Shelly to inspect. She walks around, picks off a few pieces of lint, and the nods.
“You look very pretty, sweetheart,” she teases.
I laugh. “Thanks.”
She looks at her watch. “You better get going if you're going to pick her up at seven,” she says. “No woman likes a man who isn't punctual. And that goes double for the woman you're trying to impress for the second time.”
“You’re fantastic, Shelly,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, I really am.”
I dig into my wallet and push a few hundred dollars bills into her hand. “Take Chad out for dinner. On me,” I say. “Go. Have a good time.”
“You really don't have to do that,” she says.
“I know I don't, but I insist,” I say.
I turn and hustle out of the closet, and hurry through my bedroom. Pulling my cellphone out of my pocket, I call down to the garage.
“I need you to bring the car around, Roger,” I say. “I'm running a little bit late and need to make up some time.”
* * *
“I was surprised you were on time,” she says. “The Carter I knew was always running late.”
I shrug and laugh it off. Good thing Roger knew some quick shortcuts as he navigated us through and around the city, or I would have been late. Thankfully, because of Roger's slick navigating, we'd pulled up to Darby's place at seven on the button.
“I've turned over a new leaf, Darby,” I say. “And I'm hoping we can too.”
“Pump the brakes there, cowboy,” she says. “I told you dinner with no promises of anything else. Like I said, I'm just here for the free food.”
“I'm not asking you to make me a promise about anything,” I reply. “I'm just stating my hope.”
Her smile is warm and genuine, and I see color flare in her cheeks. In a simple green vintage-style dress – one that happens to match my tie, thank you Shelly – that accentuates her curves and shows off a slight hint of her amazing cleavage, Darby is every bit as radiant today as she was a decade ago. I can't seem to take my eyes off her.
I'm so enamored with her, that I can even ignore the stupid holiday music and decorations all around us. That has to say something, right?
We're at a small, intimate cafe called Havana's – home to some of the best Cuban food anywhere outside of Cuba. It's not a fancy place, but it has a homey vibe to it. The aromas coming out of the kitchen will make your mouth water, and the staff treats you like family, rather than just a customer. I've been coming here for – I don't even know how long, honestly.
“I'm surprised you didn't try to impress me with some trendy, five-star restaurant,” she says, looking around at the restaurant. “I figured you being who you are, you would have booked us a table at some chic place uptown.”
Some call it a hole in the wall. There is no valet service, no stiff-necked, uptight staff, or overpriced meals. It's nice enough, I mean, it's not dirty or anything like that. Old black and white pictures of Cuba line the walls, the interior is decorated in a riot of garish colors – only made more gaudy by the influx of holiday decorations – and authentic music from Cuban musicians play over the restaurant's speakers. Christmas music, of course. But, whatever. Tis the season and all that garbage. All that matters right now is the woman sitting across from me.
“Would a fancier place have impressed you?” I ask and give her a grin. “Because, if you'd prefer, we can go somewhere that has white linen tablecloths, expensive champagne –”
She holds up a hand and laughs. “No,” she says. “This is actually pretty great. You know I'm not a high maintenance girl. I prefer cozy places like this.”
“Good to see some things haven't changed.”
The waitress comes back and drops off our mojitos. She greets me with a cackle of a laugh and a kiss on the cheek.
“Mr. Carter,” she says, her voice deliciously thick with her native accent. “Good to see you again. It's been what, a week?”
I laugh. “Yeah, about that,” I say. “It's nice to see you too, Maria. As always.”
She turns to Darby and gives her an equally warm greeting. “And who is this?” she asks.
“This is Darby,” I say. “Darby, this is Maria. She's the owner of this fine establishment.”
Maria gives Darby a wink. “Mr. Carter never brings a woman here with him,” she says. “You must be very special.”
I feel my stomach lurch and an unexpected rush of heat to my cheeks. Darby's smile is uncertain, but there's a twinkle in her eye that’s undeniable. She quickly looks away from me and down at the menu in front of her.
Maria, not missing a thing, slaps me on the shoulder and laughs, saying something in her native tongue that I can't even begin to decipher.
“Maria, can we start with some of your world-famous empanadas, please?”
“Of course,” she says. “Anything for you, Mr. Carter.”
Maria bustles away, leaving an awkward silence in her wake. I clear my throat and quickly recover though. She's not wrong. Darby is special. And because this is my place, I don't bring the women I date here. Most of them would look at it and turn their noses up at it anyway, thinking it was beneath them.
But, Darby isn't like that.
She's not pretentious in the least, and doesn’t look down on anyone. Unlike many of her contemporaries, Darby realizes her privileges and advantages in life, and takes nothing for granted.
I raise my glass to her and Darby follows suit. “To new beginnings,” I say.
A wry grin touches her lips. “To dinner,” she replies.
“Well, it's the best I'm going to get for now, so I'll take it.”
We clink glasses and take a drink. I watch her, still not quite believing she's actually sitting here across from me. After all these years, having Darby back in my life feels – amazing. Like a hole inside of me is in the process of slowly being filled.
“Tell me something,” she says as she sets her glass down.
“Anything.”
“How in the hell did you find out all that information about me?” she asks. “I mean, that's some next level stalking.”
I grin. “I'm a man with a particular set of skills.”
“Great,” she replies. “Going Liam Neeson on me now?”
I shake my head, chuckling softly. “No, I did a basic background check on you. Nothing too invasive. I just wanted to find out a little more about you.”
“Definitely a stalker,” she says. “But, a basic background check wouldn't have told you I don’t have a boyfriend. Maybe that I wasn't married, but there's no way you could have known I was single from a basic background check.”
“I actually didn't,” I say. “I was guessing. I took a stab and you confirmed it for me.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Great. I'm my own worst enemy. As usual.”
“Come on,” I say. “Is that really so bad?”
“Well, let's see,” she says. “You pester me until I agree to go out with you. Then, I find out you’ve been snooping into my
private life, running background checks on me, and generally behaving like a stalker. Is it really so bad? You tell me.”
“On the plus side, I was on time.”
She tries to bite it back, but she can't stop the burst of laughter that erupts from her mouth. She's trying to make this hard on me – and rightly so. I know I deserve a lot of shit for what happened all those years ago. I hurt her, and it’s up to me to make it right.
“Tell me something,” she says. “Why are you so persistent? You're good looking, have more money than you could spend, and can land almost any woman you want. Why are you chasing after me? I'm nothing special. I'm just a teacher. I'm not some underwear model, or Hollywood actress.”
“That's where you're very wrong, Darby. You are special to me,” I say, and take a drink, before setting my glass down, my eyes never leaving hers. “And I don't want just any woman. I want you, Darby.”
She shakes her head. “I'm nothing,” she says. “I've seen the pictures in the tabloids – those lingerie model blondes on your arm at this or that event. I don't compare to any of them.”
“You're right,” I say. “You don't compare to them.”
I see a shadow pass through her eyes as if my words had just harmed her.
“The truth of the matter is, not one of the women in those pictures holds a candle to you.”
She scoffs. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I don't,” I say simply. “Because it's true.”
She looks at me, biting her bottom lip as her cool, cheeks flare with color once more.
“Darby, I never stopped thinking about you,” I say. “All these years, you've been the woman I measure all the others by.”
“But, you still walked away,” she sighs. “You gave me up.”
“You know why I had to, though,” I say. “I didn't have much of a choice.”
She shakes her head. “It doesn't make it any easier,” she says. “It doesn't make it right.”
“You're right, it doesn't,” I reply. “But, given what we meant to each other, don't I deserve a second chance? Don't we deserve a second chance? I mean, is it coincidence that you've never married, and are single too?”
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