by Marian Vere
I was in heaven.
We were at my apartment, like usual. His was tiny, and had little more in it than some clothes and a bed. He was currently working in a local bookstore, and—as his apartment would suggest—not making much money. It didn’t matter though because he was the sort of guy who didn’t need much. He and his sister, Cathy, who I had yet to meet, grew up on very meager means, their parents having been public school teachers. Then both parents died when Nick was just out of high school, leaving him and Cathy with even less. They each had enough money to go off to college, where she graduated with a degree in social sciences, while Nick took a few years off, then began a major in information technology.
He stuck with it for almost three semesters, but withdrew of his own choice the year before we met. He claimed school just wasn’t his thing, and planned to go into business for himself. He already knew a lot about different technological services and wanted to start his own consulting company. He had spent the past few months testing the waters, but was finding it hard to land reputable clientele when he had no name and no diploma.
None of that bothered me though. Not his lack of money, or his thus far failed attempts in the business world. I knew he would make it. He had all the right stuff—personality, drive, skill—it was just a matter of time.
Speaking of…
I reluctantly pulled myself off the couch and made my way over to my laptop which was sitting open on the table. Just one more read through…
“Not again,” Nick groaned.
Ten days ago, I found out that Jill Fabian, VP of Personal Finance Management for Stauncher House, would be taking an intern.
One intern.
Ever since then, any thought that passed through my mind was in some way, shape, or form connected to the letter on my laptop, which was currently begging me to come over and read it over just once more.
My internship would be starting in a few weeks, and all the interns had been told during orientation that we would be assigned to a mentor. Our potential mentors would look over our résumés and qualifications, and then choose who they wanted to work with. Typical stuff, nothing we hadn’t expected. The blow had come the previous week, when I’d been at the Stauncher building for the preliminary tour. During our lunch break, I had been in the ladies room and, completely by chance, happened to overhear that Jill Fabian had just lost her secretary and had decided replace her with one of the new interns.
I flipped out—silently, because I was hiding in one of the stalls at the time—but there was much rejoicing.
Ms. Fabian was one of only three Stauncher House VPs. Having her name on my résumé— not to mention her knowledge and guidance—would land me any job I could want anywhere in the country. She had more seniority than practically anyone else in the entire company, which meant she would get to choose her intern first.
She had to choose me.
I had made up my mind then and there that I would do anything to make sure my name was at the top of her list. That, however, meant that she had to know my name, and the only way for that to happen was for me to let her know what it was. I decided to approach her. Not in person, as that would be impossible with her schedule, but I could send her a letter. An eloquent and professional letter, stating who I was and what I wanted. That was the best way for me to make myself known, show her my ambition and my drive, not to mention get a leg up on my competition. I was the only one who knew she wanted an intern, and I had to make the most of my advantage.
Ever since that fateful trip to the restroom, I had pretty much spent every waking moment working on my letter. I had gone through over thirty different drafts, and made Nick read it so many times he was probably seeing it in his sleep—which undoubtedly is what made him insist on a laptop-free movie night.
“Yes, again,” I said.
“Don’t make me restrain you…”
I giggled and made a run for it, but he was too quick. His arms came around me, pinning my back to his chest just before my fingers reached the keyboard. I tried to wriggle free but it was no use.
“No you don’t,” he growled, playfully biting my neck. “You promised.”
“I know, but it has to be perfect.”
“It is perfect,” he said, turning me to face him. “It was perfect two days ago, it was perfect this morning, it was perfect two hours ago, and will still be perfect tomorrow—that is, if your constant obsessing and overanalyzing doesn’t inadvertently end up ruining it.”
Hmm…I hadn’t thought of that.
“You see,” he said triumphantly, seeing the truth of his words register in my expression. “Enough. You can send it tomorrow, then feel silly when it gets lost in the mail, so she never gets it, and then chooses you anyway simply because you’re amazing.”
I rolled my eyes, but his lips came down on mine before I could argue with him.
After a long moment he broke the kiss and looked at me—a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Now then, Miss Basham,” he said, his voice low and gruff. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against my shoulder, making me shiver. “It looks as though you need a distraction.” His lips slowly made their way up my neck. “If only there was something we could do…”
I turned my head and caught his lips with my own. “I love you,” I said after a delightfully languid kiss. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes said more than his words ever could. His mouth came down to meet mine again, this time hungry. I leaned against him in an obvious invitation that he wasn’t slow in accepting. The next thing I knew, I was in my bedroom being thoroughly…distracted.
3
IT’S ONLY NINE THIRTY in the morning, and already this day is beyond repair. I overslept (too much wine last night), have a terrible headache (way too much wine last night), and forgot to clean my black skirt so I had nothing to wear this morning but old dingy khakis. Now I’m finally walking into the office forty-five minutes late.
Awesome.
I sit down at my desk, slump over, and hang my head in my hands. I’m going to need more aspirin.
As I reach into my bag for the bottle, Bree comes running around the corner.
“Jules! There you are!”
“I’m late, sorry. I got stuck on—”
“No, don’t worry about it, it’s fine. I’m just glad you’re here.” She runs to her desk, grabs two folders and tosses one to me. “Come on, Margaret is waiting for us. We have to go.”
“Go where?” I ask, caught slightly off guard. She seems to be a little hyper for this early in the day—though that could be the hangover talking.
“Up to the conference room. Mr. Kerkley is here for his meeting.”
My stomach rolls over. It’s a good thing I didn’t have time to eat this morning or I would probably throw up. “W-What?” I stammer. “I thought the meeting was yesterday.”
“It was supposed to be, but he got stuck in a different meeting and couldn’t make it. Oh my goodness, Jules, he is so nice!” she gushes as she pulls me to my feet and starts towing me toward the hall, while I concentrate all my energy on remaining conscious. As the elevator doors close behind us, she continues. “So yesterday after you left, we were waiting for Mr. Kerkley when he called and said he was caught up, and wouldn’t be able to make it. And he insisted on taking us out to dinner to apologize for keeping us waiting! How sweet is that?”
“Hmm,” I say, barely hearing her. I watch the lights on the elevator slowly go up as we approach the conference level—the knot in my stomach grows with each passing floor.
“I swear,” she goes on, “he has got to be the nicest man I have ever met! The three of us talked all through dinner, and not once about business. He insisted we save all the work talk for the meeting today, and just enjoy the evening. It was unreal! You’d have thought we were all old friends.”
“Wow,” I croak out.
“Working with him is going to be wonderful, I can just tell! He is so friendly, and obliging, and sweet. You have no idea!”
> Actually, I do.
The doors slide open and we step out into the empty hall. Bree leads the way to the room while I follow behind, my feet suddenly weighing a ton each. I can’t even hear her as she continues to gush over our newest client, due to the panicked thoughts flying through my head.
What do I say? Hopefully nothing.
What will he say? Hopefully nothing to me.
Should I act like I know him? No need, as I won’t be talking.
Does he even know I work for this group? Yes? No? I’m not even sure which one to hope for.
If he does, did he say we had met before? Probably not, or Bree would have mentioned it.
Okay, so we’re strangers. I can do strangers. Can’t I?
Sure…
My hands start to shake as we round the corner and the door to the conference room comes into sight. I can barely breathe over the lump in my throat, and all I want to do is run into the nearest bathroom and cry. Oh God, this can’t be happening. Why did I even bother coming in today? Why didn’t I stay in bed?
“And just wait till you see him!” Bree whispers as we approach the door. “He is unbelievably hot!”
I am two seconds away from darting the other way down the hall, but before I can make an excuse, Bree pushes the door open and steps inside, leaving me no choice but to follow.
“There you are,” Margaret says to Bree, smiling. “We can get started.” She sits near the end of the long wooden table in the center of the room. I lock my gaze on the table leg, determined not to notice the second figure sitting at the table. “Oh, Julia, you are here, wonderful!” Margaret adds as she sees me standing behind Bree, silently calling upon every ounce of dignity I can muster. I’m frozen in place, every muscle in my body rigid as ice. Margaret stands and makes a gesture toward the only other occupied seat in the room.
Oh boy, here we go…
“Mr. Kerkley, this is Julia Basham, our admin.” I drag my gaze over to the chair holding a figure with dark hair and a light green shirt.
It’s him. My God, it’s really him.
Not that I didn’t know it would be, but I guess there was still some little part of my mind that was hoping it might be some other Nicholas Kerkley. But no, it was Nick. My Nick. I fix my stare on his collar button.
Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush…
“Julia,” Margaret continues the introduction, “this is Mr. Nicholas Kerkley.”
Blush.
DAMN!
“Nice to meet you,” he says, nodding stiffly. He doesn’t stand or offer to shake my hand, for which I am eternally grateful. I don’t think I can move. I open my mouth to reply, but my “Nice to meet you too” catches then dies out in my throat when I see that he has turned away from me and back toward the table, as though he didn’t even expect an answer. “Shall we start?” he asks Margaret with a smile.
With that, Bree and I take our seats and Margaret begins the meeting.
That was it. It’s over.
After eight years, Nick and I are officially in the same room, and it’s as though we are complete strangers. He greeted me like someone he has never seen before and may never see again.
Like a nobody.
I fight the lump in my throat and concentrate intently on the cap of my pen. Of course he treated me like a nobody—what did I expect? A hug? Yeah, right. A “Hey, it’s been a while”? Honestly, I’m glad he didn’t because I don’t think I could have answered.
The meeting continues and I sit quietly, not paying nearly as much attention to the discussion around me as I should. Eventually, I realize we are talking about a piece of real estate somewhere in Maine. I assume he must be looking to buy it, though I haven’t been listening close enough to any of the specifics to know for sure.
I direct my eyes down to my notepad, idly wondering how hard I would have to stare to actually burn holes through the paper. I fix my gaze, determined not to look up for the remainder of the meeting. Well, that may have been my plan, but after a few short minutes I realize it’s not going to happen. No matter how hard I try, every so often I can’t help but glance over at him. At this point he’s looking at some paperwork with Margaret, so thankfully my glances go unnoticed.
He is still the same old Nick: dark hair, blue eyes, dimple in his chin. Yet, he’s definitely changed. It isn’t a physical change—nothing you could put a name to—but there is an overall difference. Something beneath the surface, spelled out in the experience in his face and the wisdom behind his eyes.
He has grown up.
What’s more, with his adulthood, I can no longer agree with Bree’s assessment of his looks. He’s not hot. Not anymore. He’s beyond that—he’s handsome.
“I’ve already been in contact with the executor, and he will have the house open for us tomorrow.” Margaret’s words snap me out of my daze. “Will anyone else be joining us?”
Damn, what have I missed?
“My sister and brother-in-law”—Brother-in-law? Cathy must have gotten married—“will be coming up with two of my best friends, so with your team, the total will be eight,” Nick tells her.
Wait, “with your team”? What the hell is going on? Where are we going? Damn it, why wasn’t I paying attention!
“Great, we will drive up tomorrow then,” Margaret says.
Suddenly it hits me. He is looking to purchase property, and we are all going to a showing. That’s what this is about.
Property showings for the rich aren’t like showings for the rest of us. You don’t spend millions of dollars on a home you’ve simply walked through a few times and seen some pictures of. No, no…you move in. You pack a bag, bring family and friends, and test drive the property to make sure it is a good fit for you. You would also bring a personal advisor to oversee the inspections, or (if you have one) a financial planner, and (if he or she has one) their team.
I feel sick.
I look over to Margaret and Bree who are packing up, and also notice that Nick has walked to the corner of the room, his back to us, having taken a phone call.
“I’m going to run to the restroom,” I whisper over to Margaret.
“Sure, go ahead. We’re just wrapping up.”
I grab my notebook and make a beeline for the door. Luckily the restroom is right next to the conference room, and once inside I take a deep breath, lean over the sink, and wait for the room to stop spinning.
Go away with him, with his family and friends, stay in the same house as him for God-only-knows how long—could this possibly get any worse? I have never even met his sister! Does she know about me? Do his friends?
I turn the faucet on and let the cold water run over my hands and wrists. All right, there has to be a way out of this. There has to be a story I can come up with. But no more doctors. I need something original this time.
Wedding?
No, it has to be something last minute.
Reunion?
No, Bree knows I never go to those.
Death?
No, that’s just…wrong.
It’s useless! I could come up with the perfect story, but it still wouldn’t matter. He saw me. He knows I know about the showing, and he knows I am supposed to be there. If I don’t go, it will be obvious that I’m avoiding him, which is just as embarrassing as going.
I’m totally stuck.
I can’t take this anymore and I have to get out of here. I peek out the restroom door and see that Bree, Margaret, and Mr. Kerkley are still in the room. I run to the stairway entrance, burst through the door, fly down the stairs to my floor, and collapse into my desk chair before consciously taking a breath.
I rest my elbow on the desk and lean my head in my hand, huffing and puffing.
Did I really just do that? Seriously, can I be more of a wuss? Why can’t I handle this like an adult? It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, right? We are just two people who used to see each other, and…
…and…
Sigh. Okay, maybe it is a big deal.
I came up behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and rested my cheek on his back. I felt his shoulders relax as he brought one of his hands up to cover both of mine and sighed.
“I love you,” I said, sensing he needed to hear it.
Without answering, he turned in my arms, took my face between his hands, and kissed me. When our lips parted, he kept his eyes closed, and rested his forehead against mine.
“What happened?”
He let out something between a groan and a growl. “Oh, nothing really. Met Cathy, told her my thoughts, and spent the rest of the time listening to her tell me that all my ideas are horrible, that I’m not using my head, that I should give it up, that I should grow up, that I should go back to school, et cetera, et cetera.”
Ouch. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it the way it came across.”
“I know she’s trying to look out for me. I get it. She even said she would support me no matter what I decided, but she also made it perfectly clear that she thought I was deciding wrong.”
He walked a few steps over to a bench and sat, running a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Well, the only thing left to do is show her she’s the one who’s wrong,” I said, sitting beside him.
“And you really think I can?”
“Of course. Why? You’re not having doubts, are you?”
“No, not at all. It’s just that you seem to be the only one, other than me, who believes I can do this.”
“I know you can.” I smiled and kissed his cheek. “Now we just have to prove it to everyone else.”
He caught the back of my head and pulled me into his chest, holding me tight. “Thank you,” he whispered into my hair. “You don’t know how much it means.” He didn’t finish the thought, but I knew. After several quiet minutes, he let me go and I sat up to find his eyes burning into mine. He took a deep—if not a bit shaky—breath.