by J. Kenner
My mother remarried when I was nine, and Cam was born when I was ten. His father--my stepdad--left before Cam's first birthday, sneaking out in the middle of the night with only a note for my mother and not even a hug for me, even though he'd always been great to me before that. Taking me to parks, talking to me, promising me that he was my daddy now.
And then, poof, he was gone. Guess he was right; he was just like my daddy.
In my head, I know that he was a jerk, too. And I know that both he and my father left because of my mom, not me. She had her own problems, God knew. But they just walked. They didn't say goodbye. They were there--and then they weren't. And no matter how hard I tried to be rational and make sense of it, their abandonment scarred me.
Maybe with a different mother, I would have healed. One who poured on love. Or even one who was tough and assured me that we'd get through it--that what those men did wasn't a reflection on me.
But that wasn't my mom, not by a long shot. And when I was twelve and Cam was almost two, she took us to her mother's house in Austin, supposedly so that Grams would watch us while Mom had some adult time.
That was the last I ever saw of her, not counting five Christmas cards--without return addresses--that came over the course of the next ten years. She didn't even come to Gram's funeral.
And, yeah, I know it's not my fault. And I know it's not Cam's fault. If anything, it's my mom's fault--she's the one who left, and considering everything, it's a fair bet that she's the reason the men left, too.
But it feels like it's me. And the scars are real. And even though I know the truth, my heart has never really healed.
I pull my feet up onto the seat of the chair and hug my knees, hating that I'm so vulnerable. And hating more that Ares sees it so clearly.
"And Owen?" Ares says gently.
I whip my head over, surprised. "What about him?"
"You're the one who left him."
I cringe, then put my feet down as I reach for my coffee. I take a sip, knowing that I'm stalling, then say, "That's just timing. He would have left me for that grad student."
"And you know that why? Because he slept with you?"
Owen Porter teaches at the business school, but I only had him for one introductory class, and we didn't start dating until much later. Things were fine while I was in school, but once I graduated and started pouring my energy into Crown Consulting, we started to drift apart. He even talked about taking a job at another college, even though he knew my business was rooted in Austin.
Honestly, I'm not sure we were that together in the first place. But we got along, and there was genuine affection, and when we'd married, he'd seemed like a safe harbor.
When things started to get rocky, all I did was get a jump on the inevitable, and I tell Ares as much.
Even as I speak, though, I can't deny the little twist in my gut. Because maybe, deep down, maybe I knew that if I'd stuck, things would have gotten better. But I couldn't stay and take the risk. Leaving was hard enough on my heart. If he'd been the one to walk, I think it would have destroyed me.
"Look, Owen was never my favorite guy," Ares says, "but you imagined him hooking up with a grad student and packing his bags because of your issues. He never actually said or did anything, did he? Because if he did, you never told me or Cam."
I scowl, but I don't respond. He's right.
"I'm just saying, keep an open mind," he continues. "Because if you don't, you're going to end up alone. Or worse, Noah will end up with someone else."
I turn sharply to him, and Ares smiles knowingly.
"Yeah," he says, "that hurts because you care. So don't pretend like you don't. Most of all, don't fuck up, okay?"
14
Because I spent so much energy not thinking about Ares' words, I get a lot of writing done Sunday morning. It's barely past noon when I email the lyrics of two completely new songs to Celia, and am rewarded by her emoji-laden cyber-squeal of joy.
In the afternoon, I turn my attention to work, and dive into an in-depth, meticulous review of my plans for the rollout. I spend hours going over every point and turning my notes into a PowerPoint presentation. Overkill, maybe. But considering the time crunch, I want everybody on the team to be as much in my head as possible.
There are no calls or texts from Noah, and I tell myself I don't care. Because why would he call or text? Or email? Or stop by? We had a great time yesterday, but the day served its purpose, and tomorrow we can go to work and not feel awkward around each other.
Still, I can't help wondering what he's doing today. Or, more accurately, I can't help wondering who he's doing it with.
Frustrated by the direction of my own thoughts, I force my attention back to work. On the dual campaigns for the trade and for consumers. On the presentation team I want to form, so that companies that may be on the fence about the viability of the project can see it in action. Of the television and web ads I want to get in place for the commercial market. And, most of all, the drip campaign counting down to the product's release.
I'm at the Stark offices by seven, and the receptionist leads me to the conference room that is going to be our ground zero. Maia's already there, her laptop open and her fingers flying over the keyboard. Her hair is pulled back from her face in dozens of neat cornrows that fall down her back, each fastened with a brightly colored bead.
She wears neon purple glasses that stand out against her ebony skin, and she's glancing between the papers at her elbow and the screen as she types. Documents are stacked neatly in front of every chair, and the projector is already on as she runs through the presentation I emailed her late last night.
She tilts her head as she pulls down her computer glasses, then looks over the frames and smiles at me. "Morning. I think we're all set."
"And that's why I adore you," I say. Maia's worked with me for a while now, and since I realized I'd do pretty much anything to keep her, I offered her a partnership a few months ago, which she eagerly accepted. She's six years younger than me, and I hired her while she was still working toward her MBA, then covered her last semester's tuition because I wanted her on my team. She's ridiculously hard-working and has some of the most original ideas I've ever heard.
She's also ambitious and as keen as I am at building Crown Consulting into a kick-ass operation. Plus, she's no dummy, and she knows that her partnership coupled with me doubling up on my music career, means her trajectory here is pretty much a straight path to the top.
Most important, though, we work well together, she's got a wicked sense of humor, and we share a secret love of bad reality television and peanut butter M&Ms.
"Mr. Carter assigned all the offices on this hall to your team," the receptionist says to both of us. "I took the liberty of selecting the corner offices for the two of you," she adds. "Your name plates are on the doors. I'm Elise, by the way. Let me know if you need any help getting settled. You're expecting five more for this morning's meeting?"
"From our team," Maia says, standing up to hand Elise a list of names. "And then the in-house folks?" She says the last as a question, looking at me.
"Our people at eight," I say. "Noah and the Stark marketing people at ten. That gives us two hours to make sure our team is up to speed and the plan is perfect. Once the Stark folks are in the room, I want to hit the ground running. With the truncated time frame, we don't have the luxury of wasting minutes."
"Right-o," Maia says, as I turn back to Elise.
"Thanks again, and just send everyone this way when they arrive."
Elise promises to do that, and Maia and I dive into work, with me pulling a chair over so that I can see her screen as we make final tweaks on the presentation.
We've been going at it for over half an hour when there's a light tap at the door. I look up, see Noah, and my heart skitters in my chest.
At my interview, I'd been too nervous to pay attention to what he'd been wearing. Now, though . . .
Well, now, all I can think is wow.
But it's not the suit, but the way Noah wears it that has my mouth going dry. This is a Noah I've only seen hints of; this is the Noah who runs this entire operation. And if the look of confidence on his face is any indication, he does it exceptionally well.
"Good morning," he says, his eyes lingering on me for a second too long before he turns his attention to Maia. "I'm Noah Carter," he says, walking toward her and extending his hand. "You must be Maia Hancock."
"Nice to meet you," Maia says. "We weren't expecting you until ten, but if you want us to run you through it now, we're ready."
"I have no doubt. But actually, I need to talk to you," he says, turning toward me. A ball of irritation forms in my stomach, and I force myself to manage a civil smile.
"Sure. Let's step outside." I start that direction, barely noticing the way his brow furrows as I pass him. He's right behind me, and I shut the door. Then, for good measure, I drag him into the empty office across the hall. I want privacy before I lay into him.
"What the hell are you doing?" I say, my voice low, but tight. Even with the door closed, we could be overheard. "The last thing I want is for folks to know that there's something going on with us." I've already told Maia we have a history, but I also told her that it was all very much in the past.
His brows rise, and he looks like he's about to laugh. Which, of course, only makes me more annoyed.
"What am I doing? I was introducing myself to your colleague. Who, according to the resume on your website, seems extremely competent. What makes you think I was doing anything more?"
"You smiled at me," I say, and the moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Clearly, I'm an idiot.
"I'll make sure not to do that again," he says dryly.
"And you said you needed to talk to me. Alone. Why would you need to do that?"
"I didn't," he says. "You assumed it." He takes a step closer, and I wish he'd back up. He's making it even harder to think straight.
"But since we're here," he says, "I'll say that I enjoyed Saturday very much. And it took a lot of willpower not to call you yesterday and invite you out for a walk around the lake."
"Oh. Well. I was working." My voice is level, but I fight to hide the surprising little twinge of disappointment that I'd missed out on seeing him. I quash it down. "What did you need to talk about this morning?"
"I'm going to tell the whole team, but I wanted to give you a heads up about possible corporate espionage."
"Great," I say ironically after he tells me the details of his conversation with Mr. Stark. "Hopefully, we're not a target, and it's just limited to the Israeli company we're racing to the finish line."
"Fingers crossed," he says as we head back to the conference room. He fills Maia in, who looks at me suspiciously the entire time he's talking. To the point that I rub my hand over my mouth in case I have cream cheese on my chin. Noah and I had returned to find a full spread, and I'd dug in immediately.
But, no. My chin is clean. And I can't help but wonder what my perceptive soon-to-be partner is seeing that I'm not.
We've just finished bringing Noah up to speed when my team arrives, a group of five freelancers that I've used on various projects. I trust them all, and I'm also certain that Noah has vetted them, in light of the espionage concerns. So now I trust them even more. After quick meetings with each of them in turn, it's time for the Stark marketing team to join us.
Soon the conference room is full, and the presentation begins.
Noah starts by discussing the espionage concerns, which I think is a brilliant move, as it underscores his trust in his team, something that's especially key since he's new to the company.
After that, he turns the meeting over to me. I gather the slippery stack of file folders, head to the front of the table, and then drop everything when I'm just inches from Noah.
Stellar.
I crouch immediately, trying to gather the loose sheets, my cheeks burning because I'm certain that Noah has a rather undignified view of my ass pressed tight against my linen skirt as I crawl halfway under the table.
Then he's down on all fours beside me. "Fancy meeting you here," he says, and I laugh.
"I like to command control of a room," I say.
"You got everyone's attention, all right."
I scowl at him, but he just laughs, then passes me a sheaf of papers. For a moment, his fingers linger on mine, then our eyes meet. One second, then another, and it's as if I can feel the tension running all the way through me, electrifying my skin. Making me hyperaware of even the air around me.
I open my mouth, but I have no idea what I'm going to say. That's okay, though. Noah says it for me.
"Go on. Show everyone what you've got."
He helps me up, and that's exactly what I do. My clumsiness is a tiny blip in a sea of productivity. We go through the plan, assign goals and tasks, and make sure the timeline is clear. I handle questions, give Maia the floor so that the team knows they can go to her as well, and then sit back in my chair as we move on to the final point of today's meeting.
"Product name," I say, then nod to Maia who puts up the slide. "We propose Red Brick for a number of reasons. It has both corporate and commercial appeal. It suggests strength, but also has an element of both danger and protection. You can hurt someone with a brick--but you can also build. Red has similar connotations. We're marketing a product that has intense security applications, but that is a bit edgy and potentially controversial. And also very, very useful for law enforcement. Red for danger. Red for life. Red for help and assistance and protection. Just think of the Red Cross, right?"
We toss that around for a while, but ultimately, the name is approved unanimously, although only Noah's vote truly counts. We move from there to the drip campaign I want to get started next week--a slow build to introduce the product to our core markets.
And then, right in time for a late lunch, we finally break.
"I think that went great," Maia says, after Noah and his group have left. "You all had great suggestions," she tells the team, then dismisses them to go work on their assigned tasks. "God, I love the power," she says to me, and I burst out laughing.
"Don't make me have to take it back," I say, teasing. She's accepted my offer of partnership, but we're still waiting for my lawyer to get back with the various bits of paperwork.
"You'd never," she says. "You love me too much, and that went too smoothly."
"It did," I agree, pleased. "I'm going to go find this office that Elise assigned me and see if I can narrow down a list of possible companies for testimonials." One thing we're planning to do is offer early releases of Red Brick to potential clients for beta-testing and marketing testimonials.
Right now, though, we don't have those beta-testers in place.
I'm mentally running down a list of companies as I step into my office, only to stop dead when I find Noah leaning against the edge of my desk.
"Great meeting," he says.
"Thanks." I've done hundreds of rollouts, but this is the first time a client's praise has made me feel quite so warm and wonderful.
Deliberately, I move behind the desk and take a seat in my new chair. "Nice," I say. "Most clients just shove us in a conference room."
"Maybe I wanted you to have privacy," he says, going to shut the door.
"Noah." My voice is soft. Breathy. But it's also firm.
He shakes his head. "So that you can get work done," he says, and I feel my cheeks heat all over again.
"You're playing with me on purpose, aren't you?"
"Never," he says, but I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing. He is, of course. And the smile that is now crinkling at the corners of his eyes proves it.
"Actually," he continues, taking a seat opposite me. "The priv
acy does come in handy. I wanted to tell you that I have a couple of ideas for security companies we can talk to about beta-testing. A good friend heads up Sykes Security and has access to WORR."
"Which is?"
"The World Organization for Rescue and Rehabilitation. It's a private organization that works closely with international law enforcement."
"Which you know about from when you were doing the covert work?"
"Right," he says. "Which is another reason the door is closed."
I realize just how much he told me during our afternoon out. Personal things. Private things. And several things that weren't his to tell. "Thanks," I say.
"For what?"
"For trusting me."
"I do," he says, and for a moment silence hangs between us. Then he clears his throat and adds, "We can't actually use Stark International's security team to beta our own product, but I'm sure that Ryan Hunter--he heads it up--will have some additional suggestions."
"This is all great. Can you make the introductions and I'll call them?"
"Absolutely. In fact, I can introduce you to Ryan next week when we go to LA."
I lean back in my chair, my fingers twined behind my head. "We're going to Los Angeles?"
"The wrap party for M. Sterious is next Thursday."
"That superhero movie?" I'm incredibly confused.
"My friend Lyle's the lead guy," he explains. "And you're coming to the party. As my plus one."
I sit up, the chair spring bouncing me back faster than I had expected. "Noah!"
"As a friend and a business colleague only."
"No," I say firmly. "I have too much to do here. And--"
"And what?"
I have a killer glare when I need to, and now I aim it hard at him. "There's just too much work and too little time."
He says nothing, and after a while I can't hold the glare any longer. I look down at the desktop and try to calm down.
When I look back up, I find his eyes on me, like I'm some complicated equation. Which, I suppose I am. He's invited me for business. I'm not going because it feels personal.
But it only feels that way because I'm seeing him that way. And because I do have feelings for him.
And because, more than anything, I want to protect my heart.