The Second Chance Plan Page 5

  “Caramel macchiato. Only froufrou drinks for this girl.” She leaned in close—so close I could smell her shampoo, some kind of tropical rainforest scent that made me want to thread my fingers in her hair and see if it was as soft as it looked—and dropped her voice to a secretive whisper. “I even got an extra shot of caramel.”

  I pretended to be scandalized. “So decadent.”

  “And you?”

  I tapped the lid on my cup. “Just coffee. I like my coffee the way—”

  She scoffed and waved me silent. “Spare me whatever version of that sexist joke you’re going for.” Rolling her eyes, she deepened her voice and said, “I like my coffee the way I like my women—hot, strong, with cream.”

  My jaw dropped. I wouldn’t say something so crass. All my crass thoughts were filtered and dropped into a secure folder where I saved them for another time. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “Oh. Sorry. How do you like your coffee, then?” she asked as she unlocked the door to the store.

  Maybe it was her earrings, shaped like the Eiffel Tower, or the opportunity was simply too perfect to pass up, but I leaned in a little and answered in a low whisper, “Black, the way they drink it in Paris.”

  She seemed to shiver before she pushed the shop door open. I didn’t read anything into her reaction, but I enjoyed it.

  “It’s my dream to go there,” she said as she put her purse under the counter. “I want to visit all the boutiques and shops and see all the gorgeous jewelry. I want to be inspired by the designs.”

  “There’s not much that’s as inspiring as Paris.” I pictured being there with her, having coffee at a café, kissing her next to the Seine . . .

  “Have you been to Paris?” she asked, sounding wistful.

  “Only once, but I hope to go back. I’m pretty fluent from taking French in school, and the company where I’m going to work has offices there, so it could happen.” I made myself useful by straightening the shelves as she unlocked the register and readied the store to open.

  “Ooh, are they hiring? Then I can go to Paris too,” she said. Her brown eyes sparkled, like we had another secret.

  “I’ll go ahead and book a flight. We’ll sneak away.”

  She stopped what she was doing and looked at me, her eyes catching mine. Had I crossed the line? I felt like I knew her, but I realized we’d actually just met. I hadn’t had time to learn all about her.

  “Let’s do it,” she whispered, surprising me again. “Let’s go to Paris. We won’t tell a soul.”

  I grinned. “Wander around the city. No one will know where we are.”

  “Get lost in Montmartre on a cobblestoned, hilly street.”

  “Where someone is playing old jazzy music on a phonograph and it floats out the window.” It was like a slow dance, with each step bringing us closer to admitting what was happening.

  “And then we’d—”

  But I didn’t get to hear what we’d do next, because the jingle of the bell over the door cut short our trip to Paris, and the first customers strolled in.

  Time to get to business. Kat and I worked well together, which didn’t surprise me. There was an unmistakable vibe in the air, and everything between us clicked.

  When Nate arrived for the afternoon shift, Kat gave him a rundown of the morning business and crowd. “That all sounds great. Mom and Dad will be happy. What are you guys going to do now?”

  “I think I might go see a movie,” Kat said. “I know, big shock.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course. Movie junkie here. Are you going to go to the movies too?” Nate asked me, and I knew he wasn’t giving me permission to take out his sister, but I nodded. It wasn’t as if I’d said, Nate, I’m totally falling for Kat and I want to know if it’s okay if we sit in a darkened theater for two hours, but it was as close as I was going to get to some kind of tacit yes. Eventually, I’d say something, I told myself. Just not yet. There wasn’t anything to tell him anyway. Once there was something to say, I’d say it. For now, we were two friends going to the movies. Nothing more.

  At the local cinema, we perused the list of movies and both picked a Will Ferrell comedy, then she turned to me. “I’m going to be totally honest here. I kind of have a thing for silly humor. I know it probably doesn’t go with the whole I-want-to-go-to-Paris-and-be-inspired-by-the-designs, but sue me. I think Will Ferrell is a comedic genius.”

  Straight shot to my heart.

  “Kat, I don’t know how to tell you this,” I said in a mock-serious tone. “So I guess I’m just going to be blunt. Will Ferrell is a comedic genius, and the fact that you have recognized this cosmic truth means the kettle corn is on me too.”

  Her lips curved up, and I was pretty sure she could get me to do anything with her smile.

  “Lucky me,” she said.

  “No,” I corrected, feeling bold as we were surrounded by the smell of fake butter and the snapping of kernels. “Lucky me.”

  When the lights went down in the theater, we shared the popcorn, and there were a few moments when my fingers brushed hers and vice versa. Those moments were enough to make me entirely forget the scenes unfolding on the screen, because all I was thinking about was how my blood was racing faster and my skin was heating up from a sliver of a touch.

  By the time we left the cinema, the movie was swiss cheese to me.

  My brain was occupied with thoughts of Kat, what she liked, how well we got along, how she laughed at my jokes, how she teased me right back, and how I was going to have to find ways to spend more time with her.

  I’d become that guy falling hard for a girl.

  That’s who I was that week, counting down the hours each day until our shared morning shift ended and we went to the theater. It was our routine, our habit, right down to the popcorn and the seats in the second row from the back. We worked our way through the marquee, seeing a thriller the next day, then catching a sci-fi picture, and after that we saw a movie with talking animals in it, starring a chipmunk as the lead character.

  Kat laughed the whole time, and so did I. The fact that this girl had such a wild sense of humor was another chink in my armor.

  When the final credits rolled, she stroked her chin and spoke in a deeper voice, adopting the persona of a pretentious movie critic doing a review show. “You know, Bob, this has shades of that talking raccoon movie that audiences fell in love with years ago. Do you recall John the Chattering Raccoon? It had similar themes, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded as if she were intensely serious. “Absolutely, Sally. Though I do have to say I feel John brought a bit more pathos to the lead role than the chipmunk did in this picture. A touch more empathy, don’t you think?”

  She pretended to consider my question, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling then returning her focus to me. “He did, especially in the scene when he rooted around in the garbage can. Do you agree?”

  Then she cracked up, a deep belly laugh where she placed her hands on her stomach, and I couldn’t help but laugh too. It was too fun to be with her. “He went after that discarded sandwich with such gusto and vulnerability, the likes of which you rarely see on screen,” I said, because I wanted another laugh, and I got one.

  We returned to our normal voices as we stood up and made our way out of the theater. “You’ve pretty much seen every movie, haven’t you?” I asked.

  “I’ve seen a lot of movies.”

  “Why? I mean, besides the obvious. That movies are fun. But why are you such an intense fan?”

  “Isn’t that a good enough reason? Just for entertainment?”

  “Totally. So that’s the reason?”

  “Sure,” she said with a little shrug that seemed to suggest there was more to it.

  “All right, Kat Harper. What’s the story?” I asked as we walked down the street, the afternoon sun warming us. I wanted to know everything about her. I wanted to understand her. “Tell me where your love of movies comes from. I mean, where does it truly come from?”
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  She took a deep breath. “I do love movies for the pure entertainment value. But I also love them because they kind of represent family to me.”

  I was utterly intrigued. “In what way?”

  “All these big events in my life were marked by movies,” she said as we walked past a local art gallery where a guy had set up an easel outside and was painting a vast open sky. “When Nate was in eighth grade and won the election for class president,” she began, and my gut twisted the slightest bit at the mention of her brother, but I pushed the feeling aside to listen to her story, “we all went to see the rerelease of Raiders of the Lost Ark because it was this great action-adventure, and I gripped the armrest when Harrison Ford raced against the boulder. The time I was picked to design the cover of the junior high yearbook, we went to see Ocean’s Eleven. That’s just how we celebrated things. I even remember when my grandmother died. We went to the memorial service. I was twelve, and I read a poem at the service, and then we decided that we should see Elf. Which probably sounds like a weird thing to do after a funeral,” she said, lowering her voice a bit as if that was hard to say.

  I reached out to touch her arm, resting my hand against it briefly before I pulled away. “No, it doesn’t. Not at all.”

  “It was really the perfect movie to see because I think we all just needed to not be sad every second, you know?”

  “It actually makes perfect sense,” I said, and she stopped walking and looked me in the eyes. This time there was no flirting, no wink and a nod. Just a truly earnest and caring look in her deep brown eyes, as if she was grateful that I understood her.

  “But I guess it all started with my mom. She’s a huge romantic comedy fan, so she started showing me all the great ones. Sleepless in Seattle. Love Actually. Notting Hill. You’ve Got Mail,” she said, and we resumed our pace. I wasn’t even sure where we were headed—to her house, to the beach, down the street. But I didn’t care. I was with her, and I didn’t want the afternoon to end.

  I didn’t want any of our afternoons to end.

  9

  Kat

  Present Day

  * * *

  A sleek black car with tinted windows waited outside my building at nine on the dot the next morning. Then Bryan stepped out of the car, wearing dark jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a tie with cartoonish giraffes on it.

  “Oh!”

  He ran a hand down his tie. “Did the giraffes surprise you?”

  “No. I just thought you were sending a car. I didn’t realize you’d be in it.”

  “Since we’re headed to the same place, I figured I could bum a ride. That okay?” he asked playfully.

  “Of course. That’s only sensible,” I answered with humor I couldn’t help.

  He held the door open, and I slid into the car then smoothed out the soft folds of my green skirt as the driver turned on the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  Bryan gestured to the drink holder. “As promised.”

  There were three drinks there, and I glanced at him curiously. “Someone joining us?”

  “No. I brought you the coffee with a dollop of cream. I also brought a caramel macchiato.” He flashed a flirty smile. “In case you were just pretending you liked drip coffee.”

  “Why would I pretend about something so trivial?” He’d seen through me, and I didn’t want him to see that I liked it, so I kept my tone serious.

  He held up a finger. “One, anyone who thinks coffee is trivial has never had a truly great cup of coffee. And two, I wanted to see if I could remember—” He broke off and corrected himself. “I mean, I wanted to see if I could guess what kind of coffee drink you actually liked.”

  I looked from the coffee to the macchiato to Bryan. I let my hand hover over the first drink, then the second, as if it were a shell game. “Hmm. Did he guess right? I wonder, wonder, wonder.”

  He raised his eyebrows expectantly. I reached for the coffee and took a drink. It tasted like bitter sludge. I wanted to spit it out. Instead, I took a long swallow and fixed on a fake smile. “Mmm. There is nothing like a cup of joe to get the day going.”

  “Damn.” He shook his head. “I really thought you were still a macchiato girl. I even got an extra shot of caramel in it too.”

  I stubbornly took another drink, the harsh taste a reminder not to give in, even if he’d remembered the extra caramel.

  We’d only been driving for five minutes when the car slowed to a stop and the driver came around to open the door. I gave Bryan a quizzical look. “I thought we were going to Philly?”

  “We are. By train,” he said, getting out first and then holding out his hand.

  I waved away his offer, and we walked together into the station, took the escalator to the tracks, and went into the first-class car. It was quiet and air-conditioned, with dove-gray leather-backed seats.

  “Would you like the window?”

  I nodded then sat down, wishing I didn’t find manners such a turn-on. He sat next to me, his leg brushing against mine. I should have shifted a few inches away, but we stayed like that, legs touching, as the train pulled out of Manhattan and picked up speed.

  He answered emails on his phone, and I read some chapters in a business book that had been assigned in one of my classes. The silence wasn’t awkward, but I didn’t know if it was a good use of mentor time.

  As we sped through the suburbs on the way to his factory, I thought about what I’d ask anyone else if they were my mentor—if I’d gotten switched to the skate-wear founder, for instance. I’d want her to describe how she started her business. Since I’d decided to act with Bryan like I would any other mentor, I closed my book and did that.

  “So, I’ve read the official story of how you started Made Here, but I’d love to hear it from you.”

  He looked up from his phone, and I felt an electricity, a tightly coiled line between the two of us. He could always make me feel as if he were touching me, even if we were inches apart. Maybe it was because he wasn’t afraid to look me in the eyes or hold my gaze. The effect was heady, especially when it took me by surprise.

  “Paris inspired me, actually.”

  It was as if someone knocked me out of time. There was a day that summer when we talked about Paris while we worked in Mystic Landing. He had to be thinking about it too.

  “You were in Paris?”

  He nodded, still looking me in the eye. “Right out of graduate school, I was hired to work in New York, but the company sent me to their Paris branch for a year instead.”

  “A year?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I transferred there right after . . .” He trailed off, and I filled in the blank. Right after he broke up with me.

  “It’s okay. You can say it. Right after you broke up with me.”

  He sighed deeply. “Yes. Then.”

  I held out my hands. “See? You said it and we both survived. And now we go back to the whole ‘we just met’ routine. Good?”

  He nodded.

  Fortunately, talking about Paris was easy for me. “Where did you live?”

  “In the Latin Quarter. Across the river from Notre Dame.”

  “Me too.” I pictured the flat I’d shared with a trendy young French couple—the narrow staircase that wound up four flights, the cramped kitchen and even smaller bathroom. But from the window in the second bedroom, I had a view of the river and Notre-Dame, and beyond that I could see Sacré-Cœur. A torch singer living across the street used to fling her windows open in the evenings, and while she cooked, she’d sing in a voice like whiskey and honey about love gone awry. “So you went to Paris for work. But this was before Made Here?”

  “Yes. The firm did a lot of business with small suppliers who made handcrafted special goods. High-quality watches, leather bags, wallets, and such. And I was able to observe some of the processes, the handiwork, the craftsmanship. It got me thinking I could do the same back in the States, but I had to capitalize on something that was on the cusp of being popular and wouldn’t
just be a trend. That’s when the cuff link idea came to me. When I returned from Paris, I connected with Wilco,” he said, referring to his former business partner. “He was the money guy. I was the idea guy. He raised the capital, and I started building the business. And voilà. Four years later, here we are.”

  I noted that he didn’t say anything bad about Wilco, when it would be easy to disparage the man, given the trouble he’d caused for Made Here. “Voilà indeed. I take it you’re fluent?”

  “Oui.”

  “Moi aussi.”

  He raised an eyebrow and said in French, “Then I can flirt with you in French and it’ll be like a secret language just between us.”

  Flirt. Secret. Us. What was he doing using words like that? Playing with my emotions? “A secret between us and the millions of other people who speak French.”

  I turned to look out the window. We were passing through a beautiful town in Pennsylvania, rushing by farmhouses and stately white homes with impeccably trimmed green lawns and shrubs.

  He peered out the window too, and I was keenly aware of his body so close to mine. For a moment, I imagined how this could play out. The train would take a curve. I’d bump into him. We’d share a moment.

  A part of me desperately wanted him to touch me. To run a hand down my arm, to brush a strand of hair from my cheek. But I knew better.

  Because I’d thought I was over him, but I was wrong. I had been forcing him into an out-of-the-way corner of my mind for five years. Now, with him inches away, I knew all I’d done was white-knuckle it through, faking my way through every other relationship when all I was really doing was resisting him, even while he was gone.

  He pulled his gaze away from the window. “The towns are so pretty, Kat. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” I managed to say without melting into his arms.

  “And sometimes I think they’re even prettier five years later.”

  Was that some sort of veiled compliment?