The Second Chance Plan Page 6

  Or maybe an olive branch?

  I didn’t know, so I answered truthfully. “There’s no denying the towns are lovely.”

  Soon, the train pulled into Union Station in Philly. We both rose before it came completely to a stop, and when it did, momentum tipped me against him while he braced himself on the seatback. He caught me before I could fall the other way, and when I looked up, his eyes were darker than usual, full of unsaid things.

  Here was our moment. If this were a romantic comedy, we’d stammer and blush and set out for a montage of sightseeing and holding hands, snapping cell phone pictures and trying on hats, while posing with exaggerated pouts.

  Instead, I straightened my hair and grabbed my purse, murmuring, “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, and gestured me down the aisle ahead of him.

  People in real life had to be more sensible. Real hearts didn’t break seventy-five minutes in and heal by the ninety-minute mark.

  10

  Bryan

  Five Years Ago

  * * *

  “Kiss her! Kiss her now!”

  I swear Kat murmured that under her breath. Stifling a grin, I glanced over and saw her biting her thumb like it was all that kept her from shouting at the screen.

  We were at the movies again. It was our thing.

  After a missed email, and a missed text, and a missed phone call, the hero and heroine were still on unsure footing. Kat seemed ready to walk up to the screen, grab the backs of their heads, and press their lips together.

  Hell, maybe I was too.

  The hero pushed the button on the elevator, rode up to her floor, marched down the hall, and at her door, he took that deep breath and knocked hard. When she opened the door, her eyes lit up with hope and happiness. He’d come to tell her how he felt.

  “I’m so crazy for you, and if I don’t kiss you now, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life,” he announced.

  “I don’t believe in regret. I believe in kisses,” she said, and the moment their lips touched, Kat stole a glance at me, only to find I was stealing a glance at her.

  “Hi,” I whispered.

  “Hey, you,” she answered, her eyes locked with mine.

  There seemed to be an invitation in that look, but I knew, too, how important words were. When I reached a hand toward her, I went slowly, my eyes on her the whole time. At last I whispered, “Is this okay?”

  “More than okay,” she said softly.

  I ran my fingers through her soft hair, then my mouth met hers, and we kissed until the credits rolled, slow, sweet, summer afternoon kisses.

  Her lips were delicious, her smell intoxicating, her kisses were like a drug. The movie had taken us to another world, where the boy gets the girl and the girl gets the boy, and her kisses made me never want to come back.

  This was the kind of kiss that could go on and on, like a slow and sexy love song that thrummed through me from the inside out.

  When I broke the kiss, I leaned my forehead against hers, wanting to be closer to her. “Kat, I’ve wanted to do that since I first met you in the driveway the other day.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. You were so pretty, and then you were everything else.”

  She grinned. “I thought you were pretty hot when I met you too.”

  I wiggled my eyebrows. “You thought I was hot?”

  “I’m sitting here in the movie theater making out with you. How is it a surprise that I thought—think—you’re hot?”

  “What can I say? I like hearing it from a beautiful woman,” I said. She blushed, and I ran my thumb over her cheek. “It’s adorable that you’re blushing.”

  “Stop,” she said playfully, and I silenced her protest with a quick kiss. This one didn’t last more than five seconds, but it was the promise of so much more. More kisses, more moments, more than this one.

  When it ended, she said, “I think you’re everything else too.”

  I let myself be thrilled for a moment, then that thought brought up a troubling fact. “Part of that everything else is that I’m your brother’s best friend. Are you going to be okay with that?”

  “But I’m not going to tell Nate,” she said.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “He doesn’t need to know. And this is between us.”

  I didn’t think she could be any sexier, but somehow she was right now—how she owned this choice. How this was about her, not about my relationship with her brother.

  Maybe I was starting to believe in love at first sight. Because it was happening to me.

  11

  Kat

  Present Day

  * * *

  The factory was all noise and motion—whirring, humming, rattling. Bryan gave me the guided tour of the whole operation, stopping along the way to talk with his employees, from the managers who ran the facility to some of the men and women at the end of the line who worked like master jewelers with loupes, carefully and painstakingly putting the finishing touches on pair after pair of fine platinum and pewter and silver cuff links for the line called Sleek.

  Made Here also created cuff links for their Scuff line, made from recycled materials including old watches and bike chains that had a deliberately worn and tarnished patina. The factory had once made lug nuts for hubcaps. With his expertise in engineering and his vision for unconventional problem-solving, Bryan had retrofitted the factory for Made Here’s goods, and the result was a mixture of automation and craftsmanship.

  “You know what I really want most for the recycled line?”

  “What would that be?” I asked.

  “The lover’s bridge in Paris.”

  “The one the city remodeled a few years ago?”

  He laughed. “No. Just the padlocks that were removed.”

  On one of the bridges spanning the Seine, lovers had written their names on locks, hooked them to the links, and tossed the keys into the river as a promise. It had become so popular with locals and tourists that every year the old locks had to be cut off to make room for new proclamations of the heart. But in recent years, the city had taken the locks down in sections because they were weighing down the bridge.

  “I’ve been trying to work with the city of Paris for years to buy the used locks from them. But French bureaucracy is, well, French bureaucracy.”

  The idea sparked my imagination, and for the first time since seeing him in my classroom that day, I spoke from the heart. “That would be amazing though. What a perfect gift. A pair of cuff links made from padlocks on the lover’s bridge.”

  “Right? Wouldn’t it be? They just go to waste, but what if I could take those off their hands and turn them into something beautiful and meaningful?”

  “Do you think it’ll happen?”

  “I’ve made some headway. But it’s not a project I can delegate. I’m the only one at the company who’s fluent enough to converse with French bureaucrats.”

  “Well, if you need any help, you know where to find me. But you should know, I charge a fee for my translation services.”

  That earned a brief smile. “Let me show you more of what goes on here now.” He pointed to the machines running with precision timing to move the parts along. “Automation lets us turn out product quickly and fulfill larger orders.” We stopped next at a section of the factory floor where workers took their time turning the material into new shapes and sizes.

  One of the guys who was assembling parts from used bike chains gave Bryan a quick nod.

  “Hey, Joe,” Bryan said.

  “Hey, Boss Man,” Joe said.

  “How’s the wife? Does Megan have her teaching degree yet?”

  Joe nodded. “Just a few more months and she’ll be able to start working in the school district.”

  “That’s fantastic. Keep me posted.”

  So, Bryan knew his employees’ wives’ names, and what they did for a living. As we walked on, I thought about how if he were a jerk, it would be much easier to
dislike him and keep him at a distance. But it was getting harder to pretend he was nothing to me.

  We popped into a glassed-in area where a dozen people in white lab coats were doing the finishing work on the cuff links, tie clips, and money holders. “Looking good, guys. I’m psyched about the progress you’ve made this month. Make sure Delaney knows how you take your coffee or latte or whatnot. We’ll do a pick-me-up order from Stella’s later,” he said, and I assumed Stella’s must be the local coffee shop. “On me.”

  There were cheers behind us as we headed to Bryan’s office on the second floor. His assistant, Delaney, cradled a phone receiver as she scribbled down elaborate notes. She was cute and perky and had a librarian sexiness to her, with black glasses and blonde hair fastened in a bun.

  Bryan held the door and motioned me ahead into his office, which was functional but it didn’t scream “executive.” There was a large wooden desk, a gray couch, a navy-blue chair, and a few framed awards on the wall. I checked them out—they were from the Eco-Alliance. The train, the car, his entire recycled line . . . Bryan didn’t just talk the talk.

  Another chunk of my ice-wall came down.

  He gestured me toward the chair in front of his desk, and for the next hour, we talked about the manufacturing process, his distribution strategy, and some supply chain challenges he’d been facing lately.

  He was just going into detail about them when Delaney knocked on the door, popped her head in, and asked if it was time for the Stella’s run.

  “The usual for me,” Bryan said. “Kat? You want something?”

  “An iced tea would be great.”

  Bryan angled his head as if he was trying to figure me out. I knew he expected one thing from me, but I gave him another. That was intentional, though when it came to the coffee this morning, I may have been proving my point the hard way.

  He turned his attention back to Delaney in the doorway. “I told the finishing crew that drinks were on me, so if you could see what they’d like as well. And don’t forget yourself.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” she assured him as she left.

  We got back to work, Bryan asking me about My Favorite Mistakes and how I envisioned growing the business. I had to confess that I didn’t entirely know, but it was easier to admit after spending this time with him, seeing him not just as a savvy businessman but a conscientious employer.

  Delaney returned shortly, carrying a cardboard drink holder with an iced tea and a coffee.

  “Those papers you requested from the board concerning the Wilco termination should be in your email,” she told Bryan, setting the drinks on the desk. “I’ve summarized their comments so you can be ready for your two p.m. call.”

  “Great. Thank you. I look forward to reading what they have to say.” He didn’t look eager at all, but Delaney didn’t seem to take it personally. As she left, closing the door behind her, Bryan glanced at me, as if watching for a particular reaction. “She’s very involved and eager to learn. She has a lot of responsibility.”

  He didn’t have to explain why his admin assistant was reviewing paperwork. “I imagine keeping your act together is a huge responsibility,” I said, straight-faced.

  Laughing, he reached for the coffee she’d set on the desk. It was wedged in the carrier, so he slid the cardboard tray closer to him. “She makes me look good when I go before the board, it’s true. And not just by making sure I’m adequately caff—”

  He’d been paying more attention to talking than to wrestling the to-go cup from the holder. The cardboard was stubborn—until it wasn’t. When it released, Bryan’s tug turned into a jerk, the lid came off the cup, and coffee splashed all over his dress shirt.

  We both froze for a startled second and then . . . I started to laugh. It started small and built into uncontrollable guffaws. It felt so good. I was always so worried about success and my parents, it felt like forever since I’d let loose, and I couldn’t believe it was with Bryan.

  On the other hand, I couldn’t imagine feeling free to laugh with anyone but Bryan, and the wounded look he exaggerated didn’t help.

  "That’s all the sympathy I get?” He shook his head sadly, placing the half-empty cup on the table. “The world is a cruel place.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said between chuckles, wiping my eyes.

  He flashed me a grin that was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds—manufactured clouds, but still—of his woebegone expression. “Liar.”

  I didn’t deny it, but I did get control of myself. “It didn’t burn you, did it?”

  “No, I order it less hot. I like to be able to drink it right away.” When he stood, the front of his white shirt looked like coffee-colored modern art. “But I was thinking ready to drink, not ready to wear.”

  A giggle threatened to pop out. “Don’t get me started again.”

  He grinned like there was nothing he’d like better, but just walked to a small closet in the corner of the office and took out a new shirt. It didn’t surprise me that he kept clothes here.

  It did surprise me a little that he started unbuttoning the shirt he was wearing.

  I cleared my throat and started to rise. “I’ll just, uh . . .”

  He froze with his fingers on the buttons. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—” He broke off like he had some choice words for himself, then to me said sheepishly, “Talking with you like this, I forgot you were a student. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, I’m not uncomfortable,” I assured him in a rush. “Unless you’re uncomfortable. Are you uncomfortable?” If I was flustered, it was because I’d felt the same way—like we were business associates, not mentor and mentee. He took my ideas seriously, and that was almost as hot as watching him reach for one of his cuff links and, when I sat back and pretended to be at ease, deftly remove it.

  “No,” he said, watching me as if he knew what I was thinking. “I’m not uncomfortable.” He took off the other cuff link and laid them both on a nearby bookshelf, then he shrugged out of his shirt, stripping down to his undershirt.

  “Your, um, T-shirt is stained too,” I pointed out.

  He glanced down with an exaggerated sigh. “That’s never coming out.”

  “Maybe you’ll get more for Christmas. Nate always loved when our parents gave him underwear for Christmas when he was little.”

  "When he was little? Your mom was still sending him new underwear in college. I don’t know what she thought he was doing to go through it so fast.”

  “Better not to know,” I said.

  “Agreed.” Bryan grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, but before he pulled it off, he looked at me as if for permission. I waved a careless “go ahead,” but like anyone could have pried me from my seat. I could pretend it was curiosity, that I wanted to see how he’d changed in five years. But one thing I could tell hadn’t altered a bit was my desire for him.

  Maybe he was playing it cool too, but he pulled off his T-shirt and went about getting a clean one from the closet, leaving me free to drink him in. His chest was broad and firm, his arms strong, and his stomach as flat as the earth before Columbus proved otherwise. There was the slightest trace of hair running from his belly button to the waistband of his slacks.

  I looked away. This wasn’t going to work.

  Not the mentorship—that was working fine.

  But this pretending I was impervious to him. That he didn’t stir up feelings as well as memories. That I didn’t notice all the ways he showed me that, whatever had happened before, in this do-over he had feelings too.

  “Hey,” I heard him say softly. I focused on him, startled to see he’d crossed the office and stood right in front of me wearing a clean shirt.

  “Hey,” I echoed, watching his fingers work the buttons through the holes.

  “Where did you go?” he asked, and when I frowned in confusion, he went on to explain, “You were miles away for a moment there.”

  I recalled the first day in class and reached up to rub be
tween my brows. “Was I frowning?”

  “No.” He reached out, slowly enough that I could have moved away if I’d wanted, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingertips brushing my skin as he did.

  I imagined leaning into his hand, purring like a cat. Imagined him tracing my bottom lip with his thumb as he still cupped my cheek, tilting my head up as he bent down and touched his mouth to mine . . .

  I met his gaze, searching to see if he felt the same thing. And yes, all that and more. All I had to do was lean in just a little.

  Or I could be sensible and lean back, smooth my skirt with my palms, and say, like my mother, Right. Let’s get to work.

  Before I knew for sure which I would do, Delaney’s voice boomed through the buzzer. “Hi, Bryan. Just a reminder you have your call with the board in ten minutes to go over the final Wilco papers. The notes are in your email.”

  Bryan cursed under his breath. “Thanks, Delaney,” he said in a perfectly professional voice. When she hung up, the longing had been stripped from his eyes. He was a man ready to conduct business. “I have to do this.”

  I waited for him to acknowledge that we were in a moment. That he wanted to kiss me, that this timing sucked. But he was already, as he had put it, miles away.

  Ouch.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Kat. What’s a moment, really? What does that even mean?

  He’d been thoughtful, and he’d implied he enjoyed talking to me. That was all.

  Stepping back, he finished buttoning his shirt and retrieved his cuff links. He didn’t say we’d get back to our discussion when he was done, didn’t ask me to stick around, didn’t ask me to dinner. He simply said, “I need to focus on this call.”

  But what I heard were echoes of “I have to go” and the silence of the disconnected call.

  “Of course.” I downshifted to a crisp and businesslike tone. I could go toe to toe with him in this department.

  “But let’s take the train back to New York. The four o’clock, okay?”