The Second Chance Plan Read online

  “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, kitty cat.”

  The next morning Jill woke me up bright and early by throwing a sports bra on my face. “Rise and burn, sunshine. Rise and burn.”

  I rolled over in bed and shielded my eyes. “Go away.”

  That made Jill jump onto my bed and bounce until I opened my eyes.

  “How is it you can rehearse till midnight and have the energy to go for a run at seven in the morning?”

  “I’m a vampire. I don’t need sleep. I survive off the nectar of my Broadway ambitions. And let’s not forget I was actually up past midnight listening to you tell me all about Mr. Hottie McCuff Links.”

  I swatted Jill with a pillow then sat up in bed.

  Jill clapped. “I win. Let’s go run.”

  She was already in her leggings, sports bra, and a tight T-shirt, her long blonde hair looped in a hair tie. It would be less painful to give in and exercise with her than to resist. Which was saying something.

  “Fine.” I brushed my teeth, yanked my hair into a ponytail, and pulled on workout clothes. We headed out and broke into a run on Twenty-Second Street, heading for the West Side bike path. The sun was rising, and it promised a warm, clear September day.

  Jill ran with her arms tucked by her body, feet hitting the ground in a perfect runner’s stride. She did cross-country in high school, when she wasn’t being a theater geek. Now she does marathons. My sports specialty was walking. The one morning a week I ran with her, I spent twenty-five of the thirty minutes wondering when the torture would be over.

  “What’s your plan?” Jill asked, not even breathless. “How are you going to resist him during your mentorship?”

  “I’m asking for a transfer. But even if I can’t get one, resisting him isn’t the problem. It’s how to work with Mr. Clean Slate I-want-to-forget-I-dumped-you-but-also-make-sure-you-don’t-have-to-walk-home-in-the-rain.”

  “Nice,” she said, and I thought she was being sarcastic. But she gave me a sideways glance when I didn’t respond. “No, really. That is sort of nice.”

  “That describes him perfectly. He was sort of nice when he dumped me.”

  “I know he broke it off, but I always suspected there was more to it. Like he got scared or something. And I bet he still carries a torch.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Bet he does not.”

  “I have a feeling,” she said.

  “Based on what? Your wild imagination?”

  “Well, he did want to check you for a concussion,” she joked as she slowed her pace. Delighted, I dropped into a more comfortable jog.

  “Oh, sure. Clearly he’s carrying a torch and not making light of my clumsiness.”

  “See? That’s my point. He was smoothing over the moment and grabbing an excuse to get close to you.”

  “It was nothing. Because there is nothing going on between us.”

  “Right now there’s not. You might be above internet stalking, but I’m not. You know he’s single, right?”

  I groaned. Why was she tempting me? “He’s twenty-eight. I’m not surprised he’s not married yet.”

  “No, I mean he’s really single. Broke up for real with someone he’d been dating on and off for a few years,” she said.

  I had to stay strong. “If it was on and off, it’ll probably be on again. And on the same subject . . .” I slowed down and made a megaphone with my hands. “He dumped me. Don’t you remember why I started My Favorite Mistakes?”

  “People change. Maybe seeing you made him realize the error of his ways.” She gave a hopeful, encouraging smile, and I realized why she was taking this position. She was, in some ways, a hopeless romantic, wanting to believe anything was possible. She was an actress, was always trying to get in touch with emotions, and this was a helluva one to tap into.

  But it wasn’t going to be tapped.

  “Look, I can’t mess up this mentorship,” I said between heavy breaths from running. “Call me a freak, but I actually like my parents and want to help them. That means I’m all work and no play until the end of the fall semester.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” she said playfully. “And I like your parents too.”

  “Good. That’s why I can’t go there.”

  She nodded sagely. “I get it. You’re doing the right thing.” Then the grin reemerged. “I still say I’m right about him wanting to play doctor though.”

  “You are evil.”

  “I know.”

  I shook my head, but I was smiling at her persistence. This was all hypothetical anyway. The rules were clear and strict—no messing around between mentor and student. I had too much at stake to risk pushing the boundaries, not the least of which was my own bruised heart.

  7

  Kat

  Present Day

  * * *

  I knocked on Professor Oliver’s door, but it was wide open. He was that kind of teacher. The door was never closed.

  “Come in, Ms. Harper.” He gestured to the chair near his desk. “I’m delighted about the assignments this semester, and I hope you are too.”

  I drew a deep, fueling breath, prepared to make my argument. “That’s why I’m here, actually. While I have the utmost admiration for Mr. Leighton and all that he’s achieved as a chief executive at his company, I’d very much prefer a mentor in the retail sector,” I said, calm and confident, chin up. “I had really hoped to be matched with Lacey Haybourne, who founded the skateboard line, since we’re both essentially in the fashion industry.”

  Professor Oliver raised his eyebrows and put down his pen as if ready to listen, and I added the details of my reasoning and research. While I did, he nodded thoughtfully, as if considering my request, and for the first time since Bryan had walked into the classroom yesterday, I felt like I could exhale. That I wasn’t going to spend the next three months playing emotional ping-pong.

  My relief didn’t last long.

  “Those are good points,” said Professor Oliver. “But the assignments are set.”

  “Why is that?”

  His eyes turned intense, and he leaned forward, shifting from the usual jovial man to what he was—a tenured and respected professor. “Because I have reasons for my choices.”

  I gulped. This was a different side to him. I’d never heard him speak this sharply, this forcefully before.

  He picked up his pen again—a fountain pen that reminded me of one I’d seen at the upscale Elizabeth’s department store recently. He twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Let me shed some light on why I made the match. For My Favorite Mistakes to grow and become a powerful jewelry brand, you’ll need to learn about scale. About production. About manufacturing. That’s the field Mr. Leighton is in. And what I think your business needs most is that sort of symbiosis. Yours is smaller, his is multinational, but your businesses have shared attributes. And you will learn plenty from a company that has weathered storms and come out ahead.”

  “I understand, sir.” I’d hoped to sway him with logic and leave my personal life out of it. But still, Bryan and I had been involved. Surely a prior romantic relationship would be a good reason for a switch. “The thing is—”

  But he cut me off.

  “Ms. Harper,” Professor Oliver said, gently but firmly closing the door on any more discussion. “Bryan Leighton will be your mentor, and it will be great for you. Thank you for your understanding.”

  Briefly, I weighed making one last push. But I wanted my private life, past and present, to remain private. I didn’t want my professor, who apparently had a much tougher edge than I’d realized, to know about my romances. And maybe I needed to be more like him—to have a tougher edge so I could weather the storms.

  Time to woman all the way up. To lean on the tough edge I had too.

  “Thank you for your time,” I said, rising from the chair and turning to go, deciding to take this as a challenge. And if the professor thought I would benefit that much, maybe it was worth the frustration of spending thre
e months with someone I’d spent five years trying to forget.

  “Oh, one more thing,” he called before I reached the door.

  I looked back, and he handed me a business card with a phone number. “My wife wants to give one of your necklaces to a friend. They’re going to be huge, your jewelry. Can you give her a call?”

  “Of course. Thank you, sir.”

  On the way out, I called Professor Oliver’s wife, who did seem excited to hear from me. It seemed she didn’t just want my necklace for a friend. She had much bigger plans and wanted to discuss them over lunch, so we agreed to meet later in the week. After I hung up, I used my phone to google her so I could go in prepared. But when I entered her full name—Claire Oliver—I found nothing to connect her to the retail jewelry business.

  I’d have to wing it.

  Then, I bit the bullet and emailed Bryan to let him know that Friday would work for a visit to his factory. When that was done, I stuffed my phone, with its Eiffel Tower case, underneath my e-reader, my wallet, and some tissues at the bottom of my purse, hoping out of sight, out of mind would rule the rest of my day.

  Not that I was waiting for his reply. Not that I wanted to see him again. Not at all.

  I’d picked out the perfect outfit to meet Professor Oliver’s wife.

  I zipped up my A-line skirt, slid into a pair of black pumps, and adjusted my purple scoop-neck top one more time. I’d snagged the shirt from a shop in Brooklyn that always had amazing deals on clothes so I could look sharp at the occasional business meeting without blowing my budget. My dark hair was blown straight, and I had just the right amount of makeup on, just lipstick and some mascara. I grabbed my electric-blue purse, a cute retro number, because it was large enough to hold necklace samples in different styles, lengths, and colors, as well as an assortment of charms.

  I left the apartment and caught the subway to my meeting on the Upper East Side, checking my email on the way.

  When Bryan’s name appeared in my email, my skin tingled.

  That was inconvenient.

  And utterly annoying.

  Control. In an exercise of self-control, I triple- and quadruple-checked the charms in the inside pocket of my purse, I appraised my lipstick in the train window, and I peered at the time on my watch. Then, as if I’d proven something to the judge and jury of me, I took a breath and calmly tapped on the note.

  * * *

  Kat—I trust we’re still on for tomorrow? I’ll send my car to pick you up at 9 a.m. if that works for you. Are you one of those rare breeds who can manage the morning without caffeinated assistance? If not, please let me know your preferences these days—coffee, tea, or one of those fluffy drinks with lots of milk and made-up sounding names.

  (If I were an emoji sort of guy, I’d insert one here to show I’m joking, but I’m not an aficionado of smiley faces and/or internet abbreviations.)

  My best,

  Bryan

  * * *

  I read the note several times, always stopping at the same spot—these days. Had he truly forgotten my tastes? He’d known before that I worshipped at the altar of fluffy drinks with frothy flavors. Maybe he was simply playing along with the whole “we just met” thing he tried the other day in Washington Square Park. Or maybe he’d forgotten because I’d never really mattered to him.

  Fine, it was just a coffee preference we were talking about. But I had my pride, and I didn’t want to confess I’d try any drink with an -ino ending.

  I hit reply.

  * * *

  Bryan—The time is fine. I’ll take my coffee with a splash of cream, please.

  Best,

  Kat

  * * *

  I reread my note. It didn’t sound like me one bit. Normally, I’d try to say something fun, like Frothy drinks need love too. But he hadn’t earned the right to banter again. Besides, if I didn’t let him in, he couldn’t hurt me.

  The train pulled into my stop and I exited, walking quickly up the steps and into the sunshine of a late Manhattan morning. As I waited for the light at the crosswalk, I glanced at the screen and saw Bryan had already written back.

  * * *

  Kat—Funny, I seem to recall you were rather fond of caramel-itos and mocha-treat-os. Wondering what else I’ll learn about how your tastes have changed in the last five years. Oh, wait—we’re starting over, so this is all new information to me. Black coffee with a touch of cream it is, then.

  (No emoticon inserted here intentionally, even though I would wink if you were here in person.)

  My best,

  Bryan

  * * *

  Damn him. He did remember how I liked my caffeine.

  Damn him for trying too hard. He should be a jerk. Because I didn’t want to feel the tiniest zing race through me when I read his words, because he did remember details of me. But it was time for my meeting. As I walked into a small restaurant with crisp white tablecloths, stainless steel vases holding lilies, and waiters wearing perfectly knotted ties, I extradited Bryan and his coffee winks from my brain.

  Mrs. Claire Oliver ordered a Cobb salad with the dressing on the side. I followed her green example, opting for a Caesar with light dressing. She drank iced tea, and I did the same. She was a pretty woman, with dark-blonde hair cut in a straight and sharp bob, haunting brown eyes, and creamy white skin. She wore a sea-green blouse, designer jeans that probably cost more than my rent, and a pair of suede cutout Giuseppe Zanotti heels that were the height of haute couture. She was impeccably put together, like a Hollywood star appearing on a talk show, and she was younger than I expected. Professor Oliver had to be in his fifties, but I was betting his wife was no more than thirty-five.

  “Mr. Oliver tells me you’re one of his best students,” Claire said as the waiter walked away.

  “He’s very kind to say that.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t say it unless it were true. He thinks you’re going to be a superstar in your field. I wouldn’t be surprised, either, because I think your designs are top-notch,” she said, and she wasn’t the warmest woman, but there was something admiring in her tone.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “You can call me Claire.”

  “Claire.” It felt funny to call her by her first name. She was my professor’s wife, she was older, and she was so perfectly high fashion that I felt as if I should be deferential.

  “Kat, the reason I wanted to have lunch with you is I have a proposition for you. Your designs have such great promise, and I absolutely see a tremendous market for them. But what you’re lacking is distribution. I’d like to show them around to a few buyers I know, get the pulse of the market, and see if we can’t get you into more stores.”

  There wasn’t a chance I’d say no to her or to anyone making such an offer. Still, I wanted to know who she was working for, or if she was a middleman for herself. “That would be amazing. May I ask which stores or which buyers?”

  She waved aside the question. “Don’t worry about that. My connections are good.”

  I wanted to know more, but if she was taking a chance on me, I’d have to take a chance on her. We discussed more of the specifics, the cut she’d receive of sales, her plans for showing my line around, and her vision for how women around the country would be giving and receiving these necklaces as gifts come holiday time. I mentally crossed my fingers because maybe, just maybe, this could help me help my parents.

  “Now, you said I could see more of your designs.”

  I opened my purse and took out my latest necklaces, showcasing an array of charms.

  She nodded and touched each one. “Some of your designs have a modern and sleek look. But others have a sort of European sensibility. Where do your inspirations come from?”

  “Definitely from Paris. I lived there for a year.”

  “Ah, the most wonderful city in the world,” she said to me in French.

  “There is nothing better,” I replied in the same language, and we talked more about our favor
ite places in Paris. I told her I adored the shopping in the Marais, and that my heart would always be in Montmartre with its curvy, cobblestoned streets, but that the best deals were to be found at the open-air markets. “The jewelry there, the charms and trinkets, and the things you never thought could be charms, like tiny teacups or birds, are a total steal.”

  “You are a woman after my own heart. I, too, love shopping at the open-air markets, with their fruit and flower vendors and vintage jewelry sellers, as much as I love the Champs-Élysées.”

  We chatted just a little more, and then she excused herself for the ladies’ room. While I waited for her to return, I noticed a sharply dressed man enter the restaurant and walk toward a woman with wavy auburn hair, already seated. She lifted her face to him. He leaned down and kissed her, a long slow hold.

  I looked away, feeling wistful after talking about Paris. I’d once thought it must be the most romantic city in the world, a city of love stories. It still had the power to stir my heart, because I loved the city. But love stories were only that—stories.

  8

  Bryan

  Five Years Ago

  * * *

  I was slated for the afternoon shift at Mystic Landing along with Nate, but I was outside the shop waiting for Kat when she arrived that morning, ready to work. If my choices were to sit around all morning waiting for Nate to finally get up, or to spend the time with Kat, there was no contest.

  Maybe I’d learn she was annoying, a pain in the ass, or silly, which would be great. Problem solved.

  Or I’d find out that she was just as sweet and funny and smart as I’d seen so far, and I’d fall harder.

  Problem quadrupled.

  But the gamble didn’t keep me away. As she came down the sidewalk toward me, I gestured to her drink. “Must have just missed you at the café. Coffee too?”