The Second Chance Plan (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 3)

by Lauren Blakely

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re kind of giving me an order.”

  “Kind of. Or more like a request. Stay my mentor for the next few weeks, and then when I graduate, we can . . .”

  “Be together?”

  “Yes. But we really have to cool it till then. No taking chances. No calls. No nothing.”

  “I think I could be amenable to waiting for you—under one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  He put his good hand on my waist and gently pulled my chest to his. Then he whispered in my ear, his voice low and smoky, “Stay with me a little while tonight. Just to hold me—us—over until then.”

  “That . . . seems fair.”

  “Fair enough.” He reached for me with his left hand, shifting my body alongside his and spooning me on the couch. He layered kisses on the back of my neck that turned me inside out. He pushed my hair out of the way and traced his tongue lazily across my skin, over my earlobe, and down to my shoulder blade. He moved his hand to my waist, slipping his fingers underneath my sweater. I gave in to the feeling of his fingers dancing on the waistband of my jeans. His hand was warm, his skin was soft, he felt amazing. I closed my eyes.

  “Good thing I’m left-handed,” he said.

  Even though I could feel the soft little hairs on my arms standing on end, I moved his hand off my belly. “Yes. That means you can use your left hand to work the TV remote.”

  He heaved a long, laborious sigh of playful resignation.

  “You have a will of steel, and it only makes me want to get you naked even more. But for now, I surrender. Want to watch a movie?”

  “I’d love nothing more.”

  I handed him the remote and settled in next to him. We scrolled through the options on demand, debating whether we wanted to see Pitch Perfect or Bridesmaids. Anna Kendrick was my girl crush, so her movie won. Plus, I didn’t have to worry about whether that sexy scene where the cop and Kristen Wiig spend the night together would make me break my vow.

  Besides, it was better this way, curled up and warm in his arms. For tonight at least.

  26

  Bryan: I woke up next to an empty Ben & Jerry’s pint.

  Kat: Was it good?

  Bryan: You tell me. I can’t remember devouring it. Did you?

  Kat: Nice try. But nope. I am not to blame for the empty carton. My best guess? You finished it for breakfast this morning.

  Bryan: Ah! I had it on French toast.

  Kat: Has anyone told you your sweet tooth is the size of Texas?

  Bryan: Yes. You.

  Bryan: Also, thank you.

  Kat: I didn’t get the ice cream.

  Bryan: No, Kat. Thank you for coming to see me. For being there. For listening. Thank you for all the times we’ve talked over the last few months.

  Kat: Are you still on pain meds?

  Bryan: No. This is all me. From the heart. You’re amazing.

  Kat: So are you. And I’ve loved all our talks too.

  Bryan: Same. I’ve loved all this time with you. Also, your lips are spectacular.

  Bryan: I didn’t dream that last night, did I?

  Kat: If you did, we had the same one. That’s how I know yours are spectacular too.

  Bryan: Good. It’s okay if I forgot I ate the ice cream, but I would never, ever want to forget kissing you.

  27

  Kat

  Present Day

  I surveyed my open suitcase, thumbing through my folded clothes and neatly aligned shoes. I was ready for four days in Paris. As I double-checked that I’d packed a power adaptor, and triple-checked that I’d included extra tights—November is cold in the City of Lights—I chewed the inside of my cheek with worry.

  What if I returned from Paris empty-handed? Or worse, what if I brought back a brilliant prototype for a new line of necklaces and it still wasn’t what Claire and her contacts at the Elizabeth’s department store had in mind? Where would my parents be then? I had a chance with Claire; it was in my grasp, and I needed to hold on tight and not let go.

  I took a deep breath and shut my black suitcase. Then I checked my computer bag, made sure my passport was secure, and finally looked up the weather on my phone. A storm was headed toward Manhattan in a day or so. I would probably escape the city in the nick of time.

  I’d just moved the suitcase and flopped onto my bed with my e-reader when I heard the front door crash wide open. Jill always had to make an entrance.

  “Kat! I have to tell you my news!”

  Her heels banged across the floor as she ran down the hall and jumped onto my bed.

  “Tell me your news before you explode.”

  “I got a callback for the new musical. The new Frederick Stillman musical,” she said. “He is a legend. Actors will do anything to be in his shows, and I have a callback!”

  I knocked fists with her. “You are a rock star!”

  She twisted her index and middle finger together. “Don’t jinx me. But I hope so! I hope I’m a Broadway star.” She flopped back on my bed. “Oh my God, Kat. This is my dream. A role in a Stillman musical. It’s called Crash the Moon, and the score is to die for. Well, the song they gave me. It’s a rock ballad I have to sing. But the casting director saw my Eponine and called me in for a supporting role. And the director is none other than the Tony-winning Davis Milo.”

  “I didn’t even know you were auditioning for it.”

  “I didn’t tell a soul. I was terrified I’d blow it, so I kept it totally secret. Now they want to bring me in for the producer next week. It’s a good thing you’ll be gone because I’ll pretty much just be practicing my song whenever I’m not coaching my newest half-marathon club.”

  “You’re going to blow them away and make gobs of money as a star. Break a leg.”

  My phone rang. Jill raised an eyebrow as she picked it up from my nightstand and brandished it at me. “If it isn’t Mr. Hottie McCuff Links. I thought you two were cooling it until after the semester was over.”

  I sat up straight and looked at Bryan’s name on the screen. I wanted to hear his voice. I also wanted to be strong. Jill decided the matter when she swiped her finger over the phone.

  “Kat in the Box’s line. How may I help you?”

  I rolled my eyes as she waited.

  “No, I don’t believe she is available. She’ll be free again to speak with you in about five weeks.” Jill spoke in a professional voice as if she were my receptionist.

  A pause. Jill smirked and nodded several times. “My, my, my. Isn’t that just convenient that the padlock deal came through.”

  My shoulders tightened with excitement. Padlocks. That could only mean one thing.

  “Oh, really? Well, you definitely shouldn’t go anywhere near the Hotel Le Marquis that’s just three blocks from the Eiffel Tower on rue Dupleix when you go to Paris tomorrow.” Jill clasped her hand over her mouth in an overly dramatic gesture. “Oh my. I did not mean to drop the name of Kat’s hotel. Especially since you two have your chastity belts on. Pretend I didn’t mention it. Wipe it from your brain. I’ll make sure she knows to stay away from the W Hotel too. Ta-ta for now.”

  She hung up the phone, and I stared at her, mouth agape.

  She shrugged. “What was I to do? He was giving you a heads-up that the city of Paris called him in for some last-minute meeting about the padlocks, whatever that means. He didn’t want you to be surprised if you see him at the airport tomorrow. He said he had to move up his flight a day because of the storm.” Jill winked. “Convenient, that Mother Nature, isn’t she?”

  Très convenient. Or inconvenient. Depending on how you looked at it.

  28

  Kat

  Five Years Ago

  The only thing better than strolling around my new campus was strolling around it with Bryan. In July, not every building was open, but there were enough people on campus to help me imagine what it would be like.

  “I can’t believe I’m going to be here in a month! It’s going to be
amazing.” I squeezed Bryan’s hand as we walked along the outside of one of the dorms. “Did you love it here?”

  “Yes. I loved it,” he said, seeming nostalgic. “And you’ll have a ton of fun too.”

  “I can’t wait to start. I know I’m going to love it.”

  “You are,” Bryan said, but there was something sad in his tone.

  I looked at him. “Hey. You okay?”

  “Totally.”

  “Because you sounded . . .”

  “I’m fine.”

  We checked out the café where I could see myself doing all my homework, and the library, which was speckled with students for the summer session. But since we’d left the campus bookstore, Bryan’s mind seemed elsewhere, and he didn’t tell me where he’d gone.

  At the station on Sunday night, waiting for the last train to Mystic, I thanked him again for the necklace.

  “You should always wear it.” He sounded so wistful, and when he kissed me goodbye, the moment turned melancholy. I didn’t feel like a girl who was returning in a week. I felt like a girl being sent off with only an Eiffel Tower necklace to remember him by.

  I told myself I was worrying for nothing. That he was probably already thinking about the work week ahead. But when I called a few days later to confirm our weekend plans, I knew I wasn’t imagining things. His voice was different. Strained and distant.

  “I don’t think you should come in,” he said.

  We’d been planning this weekend for more than a month. My unsettled feeling had become worry, which climbed toward panic. “Why? Did something come up at work?”

  “No. It’s just . . . I don’t think we should . . .”

  “Don’t think we should what?”

  There were many ways to answer the question, but the scariest one was what he said next.

  “I don’t think we should be together.”

  I looked at my phone as if it were a radio tuned to a station in another language. Then I raised it back to my ear and said the only thing I could think of. The thing I was clinging to. “But I’m totally in love with you, Bryan. One hundred percent and then some. And I want to be with you.”

  Then I waited. And I waited. And I waited.

  Words didn’t come. Not those words and not any others.

  The silence choked me, gripping me around the neck.

  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. “It’s the same for me. But we can’t be together. I have to go.”

  The screen told me the call had ended, but not why. I ripped off the necklace Bryan had given me, breaking the clasp in a single fierce pull, then I tossed it into the trash, stuffing it at the bottom of the can.

  I could hear his words the rest of the day, and on through the night—the pause before he spoke, the shape of each and every syllable. The words it’s the same for me were meaningless when followed by but we can’t be together. I have to go.

  That’s exactly what he did. He left.

  29

  Kat

  Present Day

  The lights of the city shone like fireflies as New York City fell away below me. The plane soared higher, and I worked on a crossword puzzle, filling in “edict” as the answer for a five-letter word for “doctrine.” How apropos, given my self-imposed edict to stay away from Bryan for the next five weeks. I didn’t see him when I boarded, but I suspected he was in first class, and I was stuck in lowly coach.

  As I finished the puzzle, one of my least favorite odors permeated the air—the scent of smelly man-foot. The guy next to me had removed his shoes. I wrinkled my nose and tried to breathe through my mouth.

  “Ah, that’s better,” he said to the woman with him as he wiggled his freed feet in their white tube socks. The woman smiled without showing any teeth, and then began clipping her nails.

  Great. Now I had not one, but two things from my never-do-in-public list right in my row. At least I had the aisle seat. I turned, shifting my body away from them and hoping the lady might gently remind her man of proper social mores.

  But after several minutes of sweaty-sock-scented air and the clip-clip-clip of nail maintenance, I started to wonder if perhaps my seatmates might break out Q-tips next and check for earwax. I frowned at the image as the plane reached its cruising altitude, and one of the flight attendants strolled down the aisle, a purposeful look in her eyes. When she reached me, she bent down. She wore her hair in a perfectly coiffed twist.

  “Bon soir. You are Ms. Harper?”

  “Bon soir. I am.”

  “If you’d like, I can move you to a row closer up.”

  “You can?”

  “Yes, the seats are much more comfortable, and there is a spare one.”

  She didn’t have to ask twice. I grabbed my computer bag, unbuckled, and followed the sharp-suited woman. She escorted me out of coach, held open the blue curtain to economy plus, and guided me through the cushier section. I spotted a few empty seats, but she didn’t stop. She marched forward to the next blue curtain, the one that led to first class. I slowed my pace when I realized where she was taking me. The empty seat was next to Bryan. He turned around, smiled with his eyes, and gestured grandly to the massive leather seat next to his, so large it could turn into a bed. He no longer had a bandage on his right hand.

  “Would you care to join me? The seat is empty, and I have plenty of miles, so it’s not a problem.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. The guy next to me had his shoes off and his wife was cutting her nails.”

  “Those activities are forbidden under my regime.”

  “I know!”

  I took the seat, buckled in, and leaned against the buttery leather chair, feeling like a princess flying through the sky to Paris.

  “Would you like to see the wine list?”

  A dark-skinned woman with light-brown eyes proffered what looked like an invitation to a fancy party. I tried not to let my jaw drop. They weren’t just passing out diet sodas and seltzer here in first class. There were several varieties of wine on the list, not to mention cocktails. I looked at Bryan. “Are you getting something?”

  “I’m not really a wine person. I’ll take a Glenlivet on the rocks,” he said to the flight attendant. Then to me, “You?”

  I shook my head.

  “Would you like a cocktail, then?”

  “Just an orange juice, please.” I felt like a kid, but the truth was, I didn’t trust myself not to pounce on Bryan if I had a drink or two in me. She nodded and walked away.

  “Not in the mood? Or do you really not drink?”

  “Not often.”

  “What’s that all about? Any reason?”

  “No. No deep-seated childhood trauma. No dysfunction I’m trying to avoid. The truth is I just don’t like the taste of alcohol.”

  “Not even champagne or cosmopolitans or chocolate martinis? With your sweet tooth, I would think you’d be all over the chocolate martinis.”

  “Ugh. No. None of them. Those fruity drinks and sweet drinks—all they’re doing is trying to add enough sweet stuff to mask the taste of the liquor. And I can’t stand the taste of beer. I mean, I drank it in college. But now it just reminds me that I never really liked the taste even then. It’s like swill.”

  “And hard liquors are out, I assume?”

  “They taste like gasoline to me. Well, I’ve never had gasoline, of course. My mother would correct me now and say, ‘You mean they taste like gasoline smells.’”

  The flight attendant reappeared with our drinks. She placed Bryan’s sturdy glass of scotch on his tray table alongside my orange juice and two glasses of water. After she left, Bryan held up his glass to toast.

  “I’m glad to see your hand is better.”

  “Just a sprain. It’s pretty much back to normal now.”

  “Good.”

  “To a successful business trip to Paris.” We clinked glasses.

 
“I will definitely drink to that.” I took a sip of my orange juice. “So, how did it all come together? The padlock thing?”

  “It’s not a done deal. But I’ve been waiting on the city, and I heard this week that there’s someone new in charge, and she wants to meet right away.”

  “How exciting! You’ve been wanting this for some time.”

  “I think it’s going to be a great way to make something out of a symbol that lots of people love,” he said.

  “Here’s a question for you. If you hadn’t started this company, if you were doing something else entirely, what would it be?”

  “You mean, like playing shortstop for the New York Yankees?”

  “Yes. Like that.”

  “Well, shortstop for sure. Otherwise, I’d have to say rock star.”

  “Rock star would be awesome.”

  “And after that, I’d say write for a wine magazine.”

  I chuckled. “A wine magazine? I thought you didn’t like wine.”

  “I don’t like wine. When you write for a wine magazine, you can say anything you want, and no one will challenge you.”

  “Explain.”

  “You just make it up. You ever read that stuff?”

  “Well, no. Obviously.”

  “Oh, I do. Just for fun.” He launched into an imitation of a wine writer, pretending to hold a glass and swirl it with one hand, while taking notes with the other. “Mmm, I taste a little sandpaper. Yes, sandpaper and fresh soil.”