by Amelia Wilde
Why did I break this off again? I walked over to the freezer and removed a bag of peas, holding it against my forehead in hopes of shocking myself awake with the cold. It didn’t work.
“Well, it’s beautiful,” I said again. “I love it.”
“Well, I love you, so that’s fitting.”
My heart again picked up a few beats at his matter-of-fact words. I shut my eyes, willing myself to be normal. Why, why did he have to be so amazing?
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?” I asked.
Brandon chuckled. “Not my style, Red, although you’re not exactly a pushover.”
“I want to see you,” I blurted out before I could tell myself not to.
I pushed the peas against my forehead and squinted my eyes in pain at the thought of my idiocy. Jesus, what was I doing?
“Brandon?” I asked when I realized he hadn’t answered. “Are you there?”
He exhaled a long, audible breath before answering.
“Yeah, Red, I’m here,” he said softly. “When?”
I shook my head, willing my foggy brain to think rationally. No time, this was a mistake, I don’t want to see you—I needed to say that!
“How about lunch? Tomorrow?” I said instead.
God, I was helpless. My stupidity was surreal, like watching a car wreck happen while I was the driver.
“I’ll meet you at The Yard at one,” he said in a brusque tone I couldn’t quite read. “See you then.”
Before I could answer, he ended the call. I stood in the kitchen for a solid fifteen minutes, staring at the black screen on my phone and wondering what I had just gotten myself into.
43
At five minutes before one, I found myself pacing outside of The Yard, a chic bar-turned-restaurant that was built into the corner of one of the endless old brick buildings around Harvard Square. It boasted windows that could be opened like garage doors, pulling up into the ceiling of the place to connect the dark, modern interior with the heavily trafficked sidewalk.
It was a typically warm spring afternoon in Boston. After spending more time than I cared to admit rifling through my wardrobe, I ended up walking to the restaurant in just a short-sleeved, cornflower-blue shift dress made of eyelet lace that fell to about mid-thigh. I paired it with cognac-colored wedge sandals and the tan suede purse I had bought after making my first big commission on Wall Street. My hair fell in tousled waves down my back, and I basked in the scents of blooming flowers at the front of the restaurant. I paused before entering, taking a moment to mentally prepare myself. Somehow, I had a feeling this single conversation had the potential to change the rest of my life.
“You know, I think I’ve only ever seen you in shades of gray or black,” spoke a familiar voice behind me.
I spun around to find Brandon approaching.
“Other than that red dress, of course,” he said with a smirk as he leaned down to kiss my cheek. His familiar scent of almonds and soap engulfed me, and I inhaled deeper than I wanted.
He was dressed in light-gray pants, a black tie, and a white oxford shirt that was casually rolled up at the sleeves. The whole outfit was effortless and sophisticated, tailored in just the right places to accentuate the contrast between his narrow waist and broad shoulders. He waved kindly to David, who nodded from at the curb before smiling politely at me.
“Hi, David,” I said.
“Ms. Crosby,” he said with another friendly nod. “Sir.”
“I’ll call when we’re finished, David,” Brandon said, and we both watched with undue fascination as David slipped into the Mercedes and drove away. Brandon turned back to me. I tugged nervously at the hem of the dress, suddenly wishing I hadn’t chosen something that showed so much leg.
“You cut your hair,” I said through thick lips. My head still felt cloudy, although that feeling had gotten a lot worse in the last two minutes.
Brandon gave a grim smile and pulled a hand through his hair, which was now cut neatly around his neck, but left a bit longer at the top to curl. “Yeah. Margie finally told me I was starting to look homeless and dragged me to a barbershop. She says it makes me look younger. What do you think?”
I shrugged feigning indifference as best I could. “You look fine,” I said.
He looked fucking incredible.
“Well, you look gorgeous,” Brandon replied, as if I wasn’t acting like a sullen teenager. “As I was saying before, you’re a vision in color, Red. You look like spring.”
“I guess black is more my thing,” I said lamely. “I stand out enough with this hair.”
I pulled at a wavy lock, which was curlier than normal in the late spring humidity. By August I’d look like a redheaded Diana Ross if I didn’t plaster it with conditioner. Brandon caught my hand in his and brushed my knuckles for a moment before releasing it.
“It doesn’t matter what color you wear,” he said in a low voice, his eyes suddenly burning a brighter blue than my dress could ever be. “You’d stop a man in his tracks anywhere.”
“Please,” I scoffed, but he stopped me with a shake of his head and a sly half grin.
“Well, you stopped me, didn’t you?”
Before I could reply to that, Brandon grabbed my hand and led me into the restaurant, where he gave his name to the hostess. She batted her eyes coquettishly at him and gave me a look that was pure jealousy before guiding us to a table in the back patio.
The restaurant was busy, full of parents here before graduation and older students and faculty celebrating the end of the term. Brandon pulled out my chair before taking a seat across from me. I took in the charming space, which was lined with potted plants and scattered with wrought iron tables.
“Scotch?” Brandon asked.
I gulped. I was still feeling the after-effects of drinking way too much the night before, but there was no way I could get through this lunch sober. “I’ll just have a glass of the rosé, please,” I said to the hostess.
“And whatever local IPA you have on tap,” Brandon added. “Thanks.”
The hostess batted her eyelashes again while she handed us our menus, then sashayed off with a distinct sway of her backside. I looked up to find Brandon’s deep-blue eyes pinned squarely on me, not having even noticed the obvious show for his benefit. He raised an eyebrow, then lowered his gaze to the menu.
We both studiously ignored each other while placing our orders with the waiter—a Cobb salad for me, and a pastrami sandwich for Brandon. Once we’d been served our drinks, Brandon watched with amusement as I quickly gulped down nearly half the sweet, chilled wine in one go.
“Something on your mind, Red?” he asked with a chuckle.
I pursed my lips. “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” he said, leaning forward as if to whisper a secret to me. “You did ask me here.”
God, he smelled good. I had almost forgotten that amazing scent of his—a mix of expensive soap, almonds, and a tinge of metal, the remnant of his secret hobby that was a dead giveaway to his gentlemanly façade. For a second, I wanted to leap over the table and bury my face in his neck right there in front of the entire restaurant. I’d rip open his shirt so I could get my hands on the washboard abs I knew were hiding under those buttons and have my way with him until he was completely out of my system.
Whoa. That escalated fast. Momentarily dizzy, I focused on getting that image out of my brain and took another large gulp of wine to ground myself.
“I just…I felt bad,” I said lamely. “About the way things ended. And I wanted to thank you for this.” I pulled the white jewelry box out of my purse and pushed it across the table. “It’s beautiful. It really is. But you know I can’t accept it, Brandon.”
“And…there it is,” Brandon replied dryly. He looked at the box, but made no move to take it. “Come on, Red, let’s not start that bullshit again, all right?”
“I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.” Did he not understand how hard it was for me to do this?
>
All signs of a smirk disappeared from his handsome features, and Brandon set his beer down and leaned across the table. Both hands took mine gently, and he brushed his thumbs lightly across my knuckles.
“This isn’t like the Tiffany garbage or that stupid trip to Paris, Red,” he said. “It’s not even like the piano, which I meant well, but didn’t really know anything about. This is personal. I had this made especially for you because the artist’s work reminded me of you. It’s strong and solid like you are. But it’s beautiful, and that’s because its imperfections make it so unique. Whether or not I ever convince you what I know—what I know in my heart, Skylar, to be true, that we’re fucking meant for each other—I want you to have it. Call it your graduation gift from your old boss if it makes you feel better, but I’m not taking it back.”
He released one of my hands and used his free hand to open the box and take out the bracelet, which he immediately pressed onto my other wrist. I watched, transfixed, as his fingers lingered over the delicate skin of my inner palm. Eventually, he released that hand as well.
“Better,” Brandon said, sitting back again and taking a drink of beer.
Before I could reply, the waiter arriving with our food. Having skipped breakfast in the wake of my hangover, I realized I was famished, and dug in immediately. It was several minutes before either of us slowed down enough to talk again.
Brandon seemed content enough to make small talk through the rest of the meal, allowing me to avert my gaze when his burning one was too much to bear. He asked politely about school, about my family, and about where I was planning to work when I was finished.
“I, ah…” I wasn’t actually sure I should tell him.
“Will it be Kieran’s firm or the D.A.’s office?” he asked after polishing off the rest of his sandwich.
My mouth dropped open, making him grin.
“Friends in high places, Red,” he said. “So, which is it going to be? They’d both be damn lucky to have you, although if I had my way, you’d still be the newest litigator at Sterling.”
I finished my last bite of salad and pushed the plate to the side. “Well, if you must know, I’ll be leaving Boston right after graduation.” The decision came out of my mouth before I even knew I’d made it. “I’m taking the job with the district attorney.”
Brandon looked at me with a strange expression: pride mixed with sadness. His blue gaze shot like a laser to the center of my heart, where I thought I had done a good job of patching up the breaks. Brandon Sterling definitely still had the ability to cut to the quick of me with just one look.
He raised his water glass to me in a small, sad salute.
“Good for you, Red,” he said. “I’m sure your family will be happy to have you back.”
Before I could reply, our server arrived with the check, which Brandon paid with a hundred-dollar bill without even glancing at the final tally. Our meal couldn’t have cost more than half that.
“Come on,” he said, standing up. “Let’s take a walk. I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”
He leaned down so I couldn’t avoid his piercing blue stare. A lock of dark-blond hair flopped onto his forehead, and I fought the urge to muss up the rest just to feel its softness once more.
“Please?” he asked, holding his hand flat out for me.
I sighed. “All right,” I said and let him pull me up from my chair and out of the restaurant.
I tried and failed to ignore the electricity passing between our fingers. He gripped my hand so hard I thought he might never let go.
“So, I have something to show you,” Brandon said as we walked amiably into Riverside Park and down to the Charles, where the crew team was out for its afternoon practice.
It was the same route we’d taken several times before on our occasional runs. There was the bench where he’d given me his sweatshirt…the tree trunk where he’d cornered me in the sunlight and started—I shook away the memories that kept flooding back. No good could come from reminiscing now.
He hadn’t let go of my hand since leaving The Yard, but did so now to withdraw a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves in the restaurant, and now the face of his Rolex gleamed against his tanned skin. His forearm flexed as he handed the paper to me.
“What’s this?”
I scanned the document. It appeared to be a photocopy of an agreement signed by both him and Miranda—an agreement to meet for arbitration in a month to finalize a settlement.
“It’s binding, that’s what. Once we leave that room, we’re done for good.”
I looked up and handed the document back to him. “Why now?”
Brandon sighed. “Because it’s time. Because I threatened to take it to trial if she didn’t, and my bluff paid off. She doesn’t want this public any more than I do. Miranda has been incredibly stubborn. She said it’s because she’s Catholic, but I don’t really think that’s why she hasn’t signed anything so far.”
I snorted. “No, it wouldn’t be. Not with billions of dollars at stake.”
He continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “Half of Boston is Catholic. I thought it wouldn’t matter. I didn’t mind supporting her, not really, and I figured I’d never want to marry anyone again anyway, so what did it matter if I stayed married to her? Technically, anyway. But then…well, you read my letters. At least I hope you did.”
“Yes, I read them.”
I kicked a rock off the path with my toe and watched it tumble down the sloping grass toward the river. The idea of him staying married caused a ringing in my ears, and the intensity of what he was implying made my heart pound so hard that I tried hard to block out by focusing on the crunch of gravel under my feet.
“So now she’s suddenly going to agree?” I asked.
Brandon shrugged. “We talked. I told her…I told her that I’m ready to move on.”
His eyes softened at me briefly, but he wisely chose not to pursue that line of thinking. Instead, he slapped his hands together and rubbed his palms as if preparing for battle.
“It’s not going to be cheap, that’s for sure. She’s angry and has new representation from Stern and Bouvier. You know them?”
I nodded. Everyone knew them. They were the most cutthroat divorce lawyers in the city, the kind of attorneys who encouraged their clients to throw around false accusations of domestic abuse and the like to earn sympathy in court. They would dig up every piece of dirt on Brandon they could find and make him seem like the worst husband possible. It wouldn’t matter that Massachusetts was a no-fault state—there were lots of ways to gain sympathy.
“Please tell me you’re not going to self-represent,” I said.
“Why, you want to be my lawyer?”
I snorted again. “Seriously, Brandon, you’re going to be smart about it, aren’t you? You have to keep your mouth shut. They’ll make you look like an ass without blinking an eye.”
“You sound like my lawyers.”
His mournful half smile made me want to wrap my arms around him and tell him he’d be all right; as an alternative, I crossed them around my waist as we continued to walk.
“You know I’ve already retained counsel,” he said. “Don’t worry. It’s not me.”
“Kieran.”
“And a few others. You actually saw them the night we met.”
“Why didn’t you hire someone from Sterling?” It was odd, really, that he wouldn’t keep his money in the firm.
“It would be like hiring your brother to be your sex therapist.”
I laughed, and Brandon chuckled with me.
“Plus, I needed someone I could trust, and that’s Kieran. Anyway, our family law department needs a little work.” Brandon gave me another sly look. “Actually, that was one reason I was hoping you’d come to us after the internship. But I guess we’ll have to settle for that fool from BC. He doesn’t have your legs, but he’ll be fairly merciless.”
I couldn’t help but smile a little. He
really did track all the new hires. I looked away so he couldn’t see the flood of red rising up my throat. It didn’t matter. I’d already decided I wasn’t going to be a part of this.
“Something wrong?”
I sighed and stopped, looking out at the river. It was uncharacteristically warm for early May, and most of the trees on the waterfront were already a mix of blossom and bright green. New growth. New beginnings.
I walked onto the grass so we wouldn’t be in the way of oncoming runners and other people taking strolls by the river with their families. The soft grass gave slightly beneath my heels.
“I think it’s great that you’re trying to move on,” I said slowly.
“But?”
I took a deep breath. I could do this. I had to focus on the water and avoid the magnetic pull of those baby blues.
“But I think I need to focus on what’s important in my life right now,” I said, making sure each word was perfectly enunciated. I didn’t want any confusion. “That’s moving back to New York, passing the bar, and starting my new job.”
“And you don’t think I could help you with any of that?”
I could hear the smirk on his face rather than see it. Images of him helping me study for the bar naked popped into my head, and I cursed myself for enjoying the idea. And for being unable to keep the smile off my face.
I shook my head. We weren’t together anymore and weren’t ever going to be.
“No,” I blurted out. “I’m sorry, but no. I don’t need any more distractions. I’ve worked too hard to get here, and I need to do this for myself. You’re wonderful, Brandon, truly.”
I focused on the crew team passing by again while Brandon stared a hole through me. No wonder the guy had made his fortune twice over as an attorney; Brandon could probably intimidate just about any answer he wanted out of anyone.
Finally, I found the courage to look up. “What?” I asked weakly. “What is it that you want?”
“I want to know why you’re being such a damn chicken,” he said softly, his voice barely carrying over the breeze. “I don’t know what’s stopping you from doing what you and I both know is the right thing, but it’s not this damn divorce. It’s all but over. It’s been over for years. So what is it, Skylar? What’s really holding you back?”