As they had the other night, they walked the few blocks to her home, strolling through Union Square and down to her town house directly across from Gramercy Park. He ambled with her up her stoop, waited until she had opened her door, but paused there as she entered. She turned, faced him with puzzlement on her features, and stepped outside again.
“Don’t you want to come in?”
Inside him, expectation and doubt tangled together like roses and weeds in a struggling garden. He grazed her cheek with the back of his hand, a hesitant touch. “I do, but we both know what might happen if I do.”
“And that would be wrong because?” she asked, unmistakably questioning his reluctance.
“Because you need to really trust me. So even though I want to come inside and be with you, I’m going to hold back my baser instincts.”
“Baser, huh?” she said with a wicked grin.
He chuckled and cradled her cheek. “Way baser, Mags. But not yet. Not until I know that you know I’m trustworthy.”
She narrowed her gaze and examined his features. “You surprise me at times, Owen.”
He grinned and rushed in for a quick, demanding kiss. At her sigh of acceptance, he resisted the temptation and pulled back.
“You surprise me all the time, Mags.”
Before she could say anything else or seduce him with another kiss, he backed away and skipped down the stairs. He paused at her front gate and nearly changed his mind when she covered her mouth with her hand, as if reliving their kiss.
Trust, he reminded himself. She had to trust that he would not betray her to curry favor with his father. He had to trust that, unlike the mother who had left him and Jonathan and never looked back, Maggie could never be that callous.
With a brisk wave, he hurried home to take the world’s most frigid shower.
Chapter 16
Teaching Maggie that she could trust him might ruin him for life, Owen thought a week later as he turned the dial on the gym shower as cold as it could go. He washed quickly so he could be on his way to the office and stop thinking about Maggie’s sexy muscles as she worked out in the weight room and the subtle but enticing touches and smiles as they passed each other in the gym.
Fuck, he thought. Even the icy blast of water wasn’t enough to quell the desire shooting through him.
He gritted his teeth against both the cold water and the heat of passion and finished before anyone else in the shower noticed his predicament. Speedily wrapping the towel around himself, he rushed out to the locker room, sopping wet, grateful that between his wet state and the cool air in the gym, the last of his erection subsided.
Toweling down, he dressed, and a short time later, he was on his way to the office. With every block and avenue that passed, dread grew in his belly. Not with the thought of the work that awaited him, because he liked what he did, but with the thought of facing his father and having to deal with his questions about Maggie and their relationship.
It had been nearly three weeks since that first dinner. In that time, they’d shared several meals and regularly run into each other at the gym. They’d gone for a jog along Sea Kiss Beach, and he’d discovered that despite Maggie’s athleticism, she was somewhat klutzy. He’d had to grab her to keep her from doing a header as they’d raced up the steps of the Sea Kiss lighthouse.
Not that he would complain about having Maggie close to him. All those luscious curves and toned muscle. The way she tucked her head just beneath his chin and how the soft silk of her hair grazed the underside of his jaw. The smell of her, so fresh and flowery, despite the miles they’d jogged.
“Pardon me, mister. We’re here,” the driver said from behind the glass security partition.
He mumbled an apology for keeping the driver waiting and handed him the fare and a tip. Exiting the taxi, he walked around the corner and changed up his usual breakfast, getting an egg sandwich and supersize latte. He lamented yet again that New York delis rarely had pork roll and told himself he would just have to wait until this weekend in Sea Kiss to satisfy that itch. Maybe another itch if things with Maggie kept moving in the right direction.
In his office, he ripped open the deli bag and used it as a place mat for his sandwich and coffee. He ate while he perused the Wall Street Journal his assistant had left on his desk. Sipping his coffee, he checked more news sites on the internet and logged in to see how his personal investments were doing. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned his attention to a memo on another possible real estate acquisition and, after that, reviewed the status of the project on the Upper East Side. He smiled, immensely satisfied. Everything was going well with that redevelopment. Demolition was moving along nicely, and it looked like construction would start right on time. Barring any issues with delays in the necessary permits or inspections, they would be able to start renting the units as planned.
Life is good, he thought, but then he looked up and saw his father heading down the rows between the cubicles toward his office. His features were set in unforgiving lines, and the expression on his face couldn’t have been more sour. If his father had been a cartoon, he could picture little, black storm clouds circling around his head and following him along. Add a couple of lightning bolts and torrential rain to match the darkness that swirled around him, and the picture would have been perfect.
He feigned interest in another report as his father came to his door and stood there, waiting to be acknowledged. That game went on for a few more minutes before his father finally grew tired of waiting, slammed the door shut, and stomped into his office. Literally stomped, his feet loudly thumping against the thick carpet.
Owen raised his head tardily and dipped his head in greeting. “Father. What brings you here this fine day?”
With a glower and a huff, his father dropped into the chair in front of Owen’s desk, signaling that this wasn’t going to be a quick discussion.
“How are things going, Owen?”
Owen motioned to the papers in neat piles on his desk. “Everything is going well. The Sunnyside location seems like a good acquisition to consider. The Upper East Side project is on time and—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Owen,” his father said, every syllable filled with contempt.
Owen wouldn’t take the bait. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Goddamn it, that Sinclair woman of course,” his father nearly hissed and skewered him with his direct gaze. His father’s eyes were so much like his own, it was downright scary. He didn’t want to imagine himself thirty years from now, staring at a bitter, old man in the mirror with those same exact eyes.
“What’s happening with Maggie is…complicated.” And personal, he wanted to add, but that would be sure to inspire anger and nothing else.
“Complicated? You don’t know the meaning of complicated,” his father said, voice rough with emotion, and looked away, as if suddenly uncomfortable with the discussion.
It was almost too much to hope that his father might finally be softening his stance. That he might share something more about what had happened between himself and Bryce Sinclair.
“Please explain it to me, Father. Please tell me why it’s this way. Why it can’t change.”
His father gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles white from the pressure. His gaze was downturned, averted, but Owen could still detect the gleam of moisture there. He wouldn’t call it tears because, well…he’d never seen his father cry. Not ever. Not when his wife had left. Not when Jonathan had hit the road. Not ever.
“Father? Please tell me why it’s so complicated,” he said, experiencing sudden sympathy for him.
In the blink of an eye, his father’s demeanor did a one-eighty. A blank stare and features hard as stone replaced the softness he’d seen barely moments earlier.
“It’s not complicated at all, Owen. You fuck the girl. You marry her. You get the prope
rties. Sounds pretty simple to me.” To emphasize his point, his father slapped his hands on the arms of the chair.
He couldn’t deny that he wanted to sleep with Maggie, but hearing it said so crudely and with such venom made his stomach revolt. As for marrying her…he hadn’t thought about it, although the idea wasn’t displeasing. After all, when you loved someone…
Whoa, whoa, whoa, the little voice in his head shouted to control that runaway thought.
He didn’t love Maggie. Not yet, he didn’t think. If he did, he needed to be honest with her and with himself about the situation they were in. He needed to tell her the truth about the lie he had told his father and about the reasons why he’d even considered such a preposterous and hurtful idea.
Not to mention that he had to have an exit plan for what he would do once his father tossed him out of the company. His stomach twisted at the thought of that happening, since he had always imagined being part of the company’s future. He told himself that he could handle it if he was forced to leave. He had money and connections. He would find something to do with himself. Maybe he’d even start up his own real estate development company.
Avoiding his father’s too condemning gaze, he said, “It is not as simple as you’d like to think, Father. Unlike you, I find it harder to fake love.”
A rough harrumph greeted his statement, and his father’s features softened once again. “Is that what you think I did with your mother?”
Interesting, he didn’t said “my wife,” Owen thought before responding. “I don’t think you ever loved her.”
He didn’t need to say that he didn’t think his father had ever loved anyone, but his father knew and shot to his feet with unexpected agility.
Jerking a shaky finger in Owen’s direction, he said, “You have no idea what it means to love someone. To lose them.” He jabbed his gut with that unsteady finger, and the sheen of tears came to his eyes once more. “It sticks with you here, no matter what you do. It never leaves you, no matter how hard you try to forget,” he said, his voice tight with the emotion he strangled into submission.
Unlike whoever left him, Owen thought. It hadn’t been his mother, he realized in a moment of blinding clarity. It made it a little easier to understand why she’d left his father but not any easier to understand why she’d left her two sons behind.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Father.”
With another angry poke of his finger in Owen’s direction, his father said, “Fuck her. Marry her, but don’t fall in love with her.” In a softer tone, he said, “Don’t ever fall in love.”
He stalked out of Owen’s office, stomping down the hall, leaving behind a host of questions whose answers might explain the hate eating at his father’s soul.
* * *
Maggie listened patiently to the presentation from her advertising department, although she was anything but patient inside. She had laid out what she wanted for their holiday campaign—something that created the feel of old-time New York. The elegance of shopping in a store instead of online. The memories created by spending time with your family in the winter playground they would be building on the vacant floor adjacent to the now-shuttered restaurant in the flagship location. Her plans even included restoring that restaurant to its former glory and hosting high teas and brunches for their shoppers in addition to a smaller kiosk where they could buy treats to munch on while waiting for a visit with Santa.
Her team wasn’t quite getting the message she wanted to get across for some reason. Maybe because they were all part of Generation X or millennials and their real-time lives were intertwined with their online personas. She was part of the same group but had never gotten all caught up in being online. She’d been too busy with work to spend much time on social media, but she understood the allure of it. As the presenter finished, she said, “You’ve got a good start, but something’s missing. How about we all take a walk downstairs to the restaurant floor? See what’s happening there so you can picture it better?”
The four members of the team exchanged worried looks, but then each one nodded their agreement.
She stood, and they followed her out of the meeting room on one of the business floors of the store and down the stairs to the employee’s lunchroom that was adjacent to the restaurant. There were a few people there, taking advantage of the calm space for their break time, enjoying the food the kitchen staff still prepared for the employees even though the restaurant hadn’t been in business for several years. She had that going for her at least—a good staff and a kitchen that, while underutilized, was still in tip-top shape. It made it easier to put that part of her plan into place.
Pushing through the doors to the kitchen, she greeted the workers and kept walking through to the other set of doors into the restaurant, where she already had carpenters and painters renovating the space. Outside the restaurant, on the opposite side of the floor, other laborers were busy creating where Santa, his elves, and his workshop would be along with an expansion of their toy department and the kiosk for the quick treats.
She moved into the center of the space, held out her arms, and did a slow pivot as she said, “I remember coming here to the Savannah Courtyard with my mom for high tea when I was a kid. I couldn’t wait to get all dressed up, and it was so exciting to think that I was grown-up enough for the fancy finger foods. Afterward, I would sit on Santa’s lap and ask him for the gifts I wanted for Christmas. I loved spending time here with my mom.”
She choked up as she recalled those moments and how in a child’s naïveté, it had never occurred to her that those moments might be way too few in number.
“I didn’t realize just how special those times were, but I know now. I want others to have moments like that to remember. To cherish.”
She gestured to the murals on the walls that stretched to high ceilings where a painted sky was always blazingly blue and eternally sunny. Painters were already at work, giving the dulled paint new color and sparkle.
“Imagine all this full of life again. Imagine something better than a bunch of boxes on your front porch—time with your family, a relaxing afternoon combined with a visit with Santa.”
Santa being Mr. Mitchell, one of the retired floor managers who had always played the role when Maggie had been a child. Not that she’d recognized him at the time. Of course, there would be other Santas hired to give Mr. Mitchell a break, as well as elves and additional temporary staff to entertain customers as they shopped.
“I want a visit to this store to be a magical experience. To be about more than pushing a button and getting the cheapest price. That’s not to say we won’t offer competitive pricing on quality merchandise. We need to get that across as well.”
“Not asking too much,” one of the advertising team grumbled beneath his breath.
She understood. It was a tough mountain to climb, but the only other option was giving up. That was something she wouldn’t do. For her mother. For herself. And for the many employees who would lose their jobs if the stores closed.
“Go back to the drawing board. Think about all this,” she said and gestured to the room once more. “Think about what we want the store to be for the people who walk in through our doors. How we can make it special for them. How this experience will be far better than placing an order on their computer or smartphone.”
The head of the advertising department peered at each of his team members before indicating his acceptance with a slow nod. “When would you like the new mock-ups?”
It was already Tuesday afternoon, and she would be asking a lot of them, but they didn’t have much time left to put their plans into place. They’d need to do some buys for ad space in the local papers and on the area television stations. Plus, they’d have to work up a social media campaign to boost their traditional efforts. To do that, they’d have to act quickly.
“Can you have something for me by Friday afternoon? I�
��ll look at it over the weekend, and then we can meet on Monday morning to discuss it.”
If the team members were dismayed by her request, they hid it well. The department head didn’t hesitate when he said, “We know how important this is for all of us, Maggie. We’ll have it ready.”
Chapter 17
Maggie hated the thought of canceling on Owen, but her people had delivered as promised, and she wouldn’t disappoint them by not having her comments ready on Monday morning. Granted, it probably wouldn’t take all weekend to review their revamped campaign, the drafts for the print ads, and the storyboards for the television commercials, but she had a lot of other things to do as well for Monday morning. Not to mention that a weekend away with Owen at the Shore…
Even though it was well over four weeks since that game-changing night and they’d had what you could call dates on multiple occasions, a weekend alone carried all kinds of implications, namely that it was time to take the next step: having sex.
She wouldn’t call it “making love” just yet, because she wasn’t sure she was in love with Owen. She liked being with him. He could be funny and sensitive. Occasionally broody, but rarely. Intuitive. Understanding.
Incredibly sexy.
Dear Lord, when he kissed her, touched her, the desire he kindled made her insides burn hotter than a habanero pepper. That heat and need could only lead to one thing, and despite her bravado of the other night on her stoop, she wasn’t quite sure she was ready for that next step.
She picked up her phone, and because she was feeling cowardly, she dialed him instead of using the video app. She didn’t like lying and wasn’t particularly good at it. He’d read her like a book and know she was just searching for a reason to delay what was happening in their relationship.
He answered after the first ring, his voice sounding all chipper, which only made her feel more incredibly guilty.
One Summer Night Page 13
