Heels of Steel

by Barbara Kavovit

  The illusion was quickly shattered when Hana hopped off the stool and grabbed her purse. “She’s fine. Slept all day, but I didn’t want her to be alone while you were gone. I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Liam at a gallery in SoHo.”

  Jason tried to keep his face neutral at the mention of his wife-stealing ex-business partner and former best friend. “New show?” he said.

  She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and shook her head, her long eyelashes brushing against the curve of her high, polished cheekbones. She always made that face when she didn’t want to talk about something. “No, not mine.”

  “You got something coming up, though, right? It’s been a while.”

  She avoided his eyes. “Yeah, I guess it’s been a while. And no, nothing coming up.”

  He looked at her carefully. This was new. The Hana Takada he knew was an incredibly driven artist—someone who had at least two shows a year since he’d first met her.

  She shook her head again. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like—like you feel sorry for me or something. I’ll do a show when I want to do a show. I’ve just been...busy, you know? Liam has so many social commitments, so much networking for the business, and he likes me to come along with him to everything.”

  He held his hands up. “I was definitely not feeling sorry for you. And that’s good, right? I mean, I thought our problem was that we didn’t see each other enough? That I left you on your own all the time? Sounds like Liam’s got it covered.”

  She looked at him and sighed. “I’m not going to fight with you right now, Jay.”

  “Hey, I don’t want to fight, either.”

  She hauled her purse strap up over her shoulder. “Then I’m just going to go, okay? Have Alli text me when she’s feeling better, and I’ll come back to pick her up.” She started to leave.

  “Hana?”

  She turned and looked at him, suspicion and exhaustion equally written across her face.

  “All I meant to say was that you’re an amazing artist, and I hope you do more soon.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. The ghost of a smile brushed over her mouth. “Okay. Thanks.”

  And then she was gone. And it was funny, but for the first time in a long time, Jason didn’t feel sadness or anger in her absence. In fact, he stopped thinking about her almost as soon as she was out the door.

  Chapter 22

  Liam wished he was almost anywhere but at a gallery opening. He frigging hated art openings. The cheap wine, the precut cubes of cheese and rapidly dehydrating plates of crudités, the same crowd wandering around wearing the same clothes, saying the same things. And 99 percent of the time, the art was crap. Certainly not one of these artists tonight could touch Hana’s work.

  The name of tonight’s show was Tragique. Piece after piece depicting trauma and tragedy.

  “This one makes me want to cry,” intoned a woman in a shapeless brown dress and cape standing in front of an equally shapeless gray blob on canvas.

  Yeah, of freaking boredom, thought Liam.

  “Hey.” Hana appeared at his elbow and he suddenly felt his night get 50 percent better. “Sorry I’m late.”

  He kissed her hello. “That’s okay. I haven’t been here long. How’s Alli?”

  “Better. She said she will never eat chicken again. Then she threw up all over my shoes.”

  He laughed. “I guess that’s why you’re late.”

  She nodded. “Pit stop at home to wash my feet and burn my boots.”

  “Sounds like you could use a drink?”

  She grabbed his arm. “Yes, but not here. Boxed wine gives me a headache.”

  He grinned. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  She smiled back. “I did my face time with the gallery owner on the way in. Let’s sneak out.”

  It was still early evening when they slipped out back onto the street. The weather was finally warming up a little, feeling, if not like summer exactly, then at least like spring had some intention of ending. Hana tucked her hand around the crook of Liam’s arm and they steered their way into the crowded SoHo sidewalk.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked. “Hungry? Or just drinks?”

  Hana shrugged and Liam felt that her mood had suddenly shifted. “You okay?” he asked.

  She looked up at him. “Yeah. I was just thinking of something Jay said to me today.”

  Liam felt his jaw clench. He couldn’t help it. Anytime Hana spent time with Jay, it went two ways—they fought or they didn’t. When they fought, Liam was pretty much convinced that it was proof that they still cared about each other. When they didn’t, he started to think that they must be getting along, so Hana would obviously come to her senses and end up back with Jay.

  He tried to keep his voice light. “Yeah? What did he say?”

  She shook her head. “He just thought that this was my show we were seeing.”

  Liam cocked his head. That wasn’t so bad. “So?”

  “So. It’s not.”

  “And?”

  “And...it’s not. That’s why I wanted to leave. You know I can drink boxed wine until I’m blotto and it doesn’t matter. I didn’t want to be there because I haven’t had a show in almost two years, Liam.”

  “So have one. You need me to rent a space?”

  She rolled her eyes. “And just what would you suggest I put on the walls?”

  “Something new, I guess. How about a series of portraits of me? I’ll even pose in the nude if you want.”

  She didn’t laugh like he’d hoped she would. Instead, she dropped her hand from his arm. “You know. I have money of my own. I’ve sold plenty of paintings. I have the divorce settlement and money from my parents. I don’t need you to buy everything for me.”

  He felt a small wave of panic at her words. “I never said that I wanted to buy you everything.”

  “You didn’t have to say it. You just do it.” She sped up, marching ahead of him as he hurried to catch up.

  “Hana, wait—”

  She looked back over her shoulder. “Let’s just go home, okay? I’ve had a really long day.”

  He caught up with her. “Are you sure? I thought you wanted a drink?”

  She shook her head. “We have plenty to drink at home. I just want a night in.” She slipped her hand back under his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. I just need to really buckle down and work more.”

  “Of course. And I want to help you,” he said, inwardly cringing at just how relieved her words left him. You’re like a frigging dog, he thought to himself, she beats you and you come back ready to lick her face.

  They threaded through the crowd. Suddenly, she stopped and turned her face up to his, reaching for a kiss. Her mouth was soft and warm and sweet, and her hands crept up and locked behind his neck while his went to her waist and pulled her closer. He wished he could travel back in time and show this moment to the teenage version of himself. Here he was, with more money than he could have ever dreamed of, kissing this beautiful, sophisticated woman, on the streets of Manhattan, on a soft spring night.

  “I really am sorry,” she whispered. “I love you. I’m sorry I’m being such a jerk. All I meant was that I want to paint more often.”

  He nodded, pulling her back in. “Whatever you need,” he said breathlessly before kissing her again. “Anything you want.”

  Chapter 23

  There was a moment, just after she walked out of Harrington’s office and was still standing in the waiting room, when Bridget felt so sorry for herself that she decided to go home, get really damned drunk and not emerge until she had succeeded in forgetting everything that just happened. She quickly plotted it all out—go downtown instead of up, stop at her favorite liquor store for a bottle of Gran Patrón
Platinum tequila—wine was definitely not going to get the job done—lock her door, take off her shoes and then drink until she forgot what a gigantic, awful mistake she had made, and what a huge, probably once in a lifetime, opportunity she had just blown.

  But then she saw Jason Russo sitting there, and for an unreasonable, disoriented second she thought that, for some reason, he was there for her. And for another second she suddenly didn’t feel quite so bad, and in fact, she was actually happy to see him. And then her mind cleared and she realized why he was really there, like some frigging jackal—ready to go feast on her kill just like he had with Scarlett’s job—and she was so filled with rage that she actually had to hold herself back from launching at him from across the room.

  It wasn’t fair, of course. He had as much right to be there as she did. More, really, since he actually had a real company. But somehow, in her mind, her failure had become bound up in his success.

  Her phone went off. Larry Ludley, wondering where she was. So much for drinking her pain away.

  All that afternoon she resolutely went from one job site to the next. She spent the day checking in with project managers about how her clients’ projects were being handled. She had to stop herself from doing too much. Back when it was her business, she would have been bringing in the jobs, overseeing the estimating, submitting the RFP response, making sure the subcontractors were doing what her field supers and PMs told them to do. Now she did merely what she had to do, and then stood in the wide, echoing spaces, taking in the walls and ceilings demoed to the studs, the ground strewn with green dust, the sounds of reggae being blasted in the back, the screech of wet saws running in the front, the smell of sweaty men, metal and paint.

  It should have made her feel better. It usually made her feel better. On her worst days back when she was still CEO, she would select a couple of sites to live on, overseeing everything, calling on manufacturers to expedite the schedule on lighting fixtures, pushing the subcontractors to ensure that each trade was meeting their deadlines so the schedule didn’t fall behind, ticking every little box and detail off her list—and it would leave her feeling safe, in control and powerful.

  But today the building sites just reminded her of everything she’d lost. Today she could only think about walking out Mark Harrington’s door and knowing that she had lost her one chance to build something that would have put her on the map again. She’d been offered redemption and she’d thrown it away. This was the kind of project that would have left her without financial worries permanently. She would’ve never had to fret about not having enough for Dylan again. They could’ve moved out of that tiny apartment and back into their condo, picked up where they had left off before the bankruptcy. Everything could have come roaring back. The money, the travel, the clothes, the house in the Hamptons...and most important, the chance to work in the place where she really belonged. And it had all slipped right through her clumsy fingers.

  She tortured herself, replaying the scene, making her mistakes over and over in her head. And then seeing Jason Russo—it was salt in her newly bleeding wound. He had been a witness to her failure.

  At last, it was sunset, and she was nearly done. The crew was working on taking down an old cooling tower to make way for a rooftop restaurant. They were pushing a deadline and had an overtime permit and variance for night work. Larry had told her to check in with them—make sure everything was going as planned. The night before, while she was still being stupid, Bridget had invited Jason to meet her there. She’d said they could watch the water tower be taken out and then go out for dinner again. Demoing and removing large pieces of steel was always sexy to watch, even if you were already in the business.

  She glanced at her phone—wondering if she should actually cancel. But surely he wouldn’t show after she’d blown him off like that at Harrington’s office? She’d made herself pretty clear. She scrolled through the screen absently. There were multiple texts and missed calls from Ethan—which she ignored. She had told him about the Harrington project, promised to bring him onto her crew if she got that far. She didn’t have the heart to tell him how badly she had screwed up just yet. She hesitated again, looking for Jason’s contact, but then put the phone back in her pocket. What was the point? No way would Russo show up and she certainly had no stomach for talking to him right now.

  She climbed up the stairs to the rooftop, already hearing the crash and hum of the men at work. She opened the door and her heart lifted a bit. There was something almost festive about the way the sun was starting to set, and then the balloon lights and plant towers got switched on, the way the air cooled and the workers’ spirits perked up. The metallic sparks flying off the torches and grinders, the men calling to each other across the site, the smell of smoke and melted metal.

  “Hey, Bridget! You come for the show?” Charlie called out. He was a short, broad man with a friendly smile that belied just how tough and cutthroat he could be when he wanted. He was one of her favorite field supers, not least of all because he genuinely seemed to like and respect her.

  There were very few men in this business who could get over working for a woman. Oh, they said they could, of course, when they wanted the work. Back when she was a CEO, Bridget had always been astounded by the way men she had personally interviewed, who knew from day one that she was the top dog, could get a little comfortable in their jobs and slip into talking to her like she was a secretary there to bring them coffee. Once they did that it was either start yelling at the top of her lungs and scare the hell out of them until they remembered just who she was, or, if she didn’t feel like putting in the effort, simply telling them to get their stuff and get out. A guy like Charlie, who honestly seemed to have zero issues with his coworker not having a dick, was a rare gem, indeed.

  “You’re here just in time to see the first cuts,” he said as Bridget put on her purple hard hat. They walked over to the massive structure. Lean, muscular men in hard hats and thick leather gloves, work boots, tight, faded jeans and white T-shirts, their faces partially obscured by masks designed to filter out the dust in the air, hung off ladders on all sides of the water tower, preparing their saws and torches to start taking it down piece by piece.

  “I saved you a seat,” said Charlie, indicating a cleared off piece of brick wall safely away from the fall zone.

  Bridget smiled and perched on the wall, trying to take the advice of every therapist and yoga teacher she’d ever had.

  Be in the now. Stop worrying about things you have no control over. Take deep breaths and—

  “Hey!” She was up and striding over to the tower. “Jenowski! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are those tennis shoes on your feet? Where are your work boots?”

  God, half these guys were like a bunch of children. They wouldn’t survive a day if she wasn’t around to keep them in line.

  Jenowski, a skinny kid with blond hair cut so close to his head that he practically looked bald, sheepishly climbed back down his ladder and went to change into his boots. “I was hot,” was his ridiculous excuse.

  “You should have caught that,” Bridget shot at Charlie as she went back to her seat. “He could have lost a foot.” Charlie held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. She caught him glancing at her own stiletto-clad feet.

  “They’ve got steel toes, Charlie,” she said. “And it’s not me up on that ladder. I’m in sales, not demo.”

  The first cut was loud and shrill. Sparks flew and Bridget was squinting through the cloud of black smoke that had been released into the air when the door to the roof opened and Jason Russo emerged.

  Bridget stared at him, not quite believing what she was seeing. He’d showed. And god damn it, why did he have to look so good while he was doing it?

  Russo was wearing a lightweight, tailored dress shirt, rolled up to show his tan, muscular forearms, and open at the neck. Jeans—faded to perfection and clinging to all the right p
laces, and a well-worn pair of Timberland work boots. This guy wasn’t dumb enough to wear sneakers on a work site. His dark, wavy hair was mussed, and he had a brushing of stubble across his jaw—something new that had shown up since she’d seen him that morning.

  He spotted her right away—giving her a wide smile and casual wave that seemed to deny everything that had happened between them earlier in the day. Bridget felt an ache in her stomach—and she honestly couldn’t say whether it was anger or lust.

  She jumped down off the wall and cut him off before he could get any farther onto the roof. The last thing she needed was for the crew to see her having it out with some guy like a hysterical teen girl.

  “Hey—” began Russo, still smiling. “You look good in a hard hat.”

  She cut him off. “What are you doing here?”

  “Um,” he said, cocking his head to the side. “Didn’t you invite me?”

  She stared at him for a moment, and then grabbed his shirtsleeve and roughly yanked him forward.

  “Everything okay, Bridget?” called Charlie.

  She forced herself to smile and waved her hand. “Yeah, we’re fine. Go ahead. Don’t wait for me. I’ll let the Ludleys know everything is good. I just need to talk to my associate here.” She continued yanking Russo’s shirt, pulling him around the other side of the roof where they couldn’t be seen. The whine and screech of saws and smell of torches filled the air as the crew started back up again.

  Bridget looked around to make sure they were alone and then leaned close. “I didn’t think you’d show. Not after this afternoon.”

  “About that,” said Jason. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”