Chapter 5 #2
“Well, I did. For about three years.” My words come out softer than I intend.
“What happened?” he asks. His eyes are on me again, but they’re less piercing now.
I hesitate, fumbling for a moment, wondering how much I should say.
“I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business,” he says, and I can feel him snapping our professional boundaries back into place.
But tonight, for some reason, I don’t want them there. I just want to talk to him, the real person underneath that steely facade he puts on.
“No, it’s fine. He dumped me in the middle of bar prep.” I say the words faster than I mean to, as if speed will lessen their sting. “He said he wanted to marry someone who could focus more on giving him a family than her career.”
I let out a hollow laugh and take another, longer sip of my martini, trying to swallow down the bitterness that still lingers.
“Turned out it was his parents’ idea.” I meet his gaze again, expecting judgment but finding something closer to understanding. “And he just didn’t care enough to fight them on it.”
He sits in silence, contemplating everything I just laid out. I feel exposed, raw. Like there’s a part of me he sees past the polished exterior I try so hard to maintain.
“Idiot,” he says under his breath, his voice full of something that almost sounds like anger.
“What?” I reply, nervously taking a sip of my drink. The words catch me off guard, a flicker of intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
“I said he’s an idiot,” he growls, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
A warmth spreads in my chest, a reckless thrill at seeing him like this, showing a side of himself I didn’t expect. I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting to see if he’ll say more.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I say, finally exhaling.
“What about you?” I ask, eager to shift the focus away from my own exposed emotions. “I’d ask if you come here often, but I think I already know the answer.”
I glance at the bartender, hinting at the familiarity he seems to have with James. His mouth twitches into a smile, the kind that always seems to leave me wondering what he’s not saying.
“Every Valentine’s Day,” he replies, and there’s a softness in his eyes, a moment of vulnerability that I rarely see.
His response catches me off guard. I want to know more, need to understand why he’d spend this day alone every year.
“Why?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
He observes me, a penetrating look that makes me feel as if I’ve overstepped, pried too far. I’m about to retract my question when he inhales sharply, like he’s drawing strength before revealing a part of himself he usually keeps hidden.
“My mom died when I was sixteen,” he begins, his voice steady but carrying a depth of feeling that anchors me to each word. “She was sick.” He pauses, and I can almost see him lost in the memory.
“I watched my dad witness the love of his life wither away and die. He’s been heartbroken and lonely ever since, like a part of him died with her. Watching him go through that was hard,” he continues, his eyes distant as if caught between the past and the present.
His gaze searches mine, and despite the crowded bar, it feels like we’re the only two here.
“I swore I’d never let that happen to me, so I never get close enough to anyone to spend a day like today with them.” He takes a breath, the weight of his confession settling around us. “So I come here,” he finishes, and there’s an unexpected rawness in the way he speaks.
I don’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, sounding inadequate against the gravity of what he’s shared.
“Don’t be,” he replies, the restraint in his voice controlled but revealing the faintest hint of vulnerability beneath his polished exterior.
A long silence stretches between us, the kind that demands to be filled.
I want to break the tension, to restore some semblance of lighthearted banter, so I tease, “You’ve never had a girlfriend?”
I watch him carefully, gauging his reaction.
I like teasing James. He’s always so cool, so Mr. Perfect Picture of Professionalism, that it’s nice to see that tough exterior crack, watch him wrestle control of the situation when things don’t go exactly as he plans.
“I’ve had women I’m…friendly with,” he says, his tone suggestive as he lifts his drink, his unwavering eyes lingering on me over the rim.
They hold a meaning I can’t ignore, and my cheeks heat at the thought of what he’s insinuating. The notion that my teasing might have backfired leaves me flustered.
I struggle to regain my composure, not trusting my voice after what James just said. It’s too easy to picture him with these women. Even easier to picture myself as one of them, which is dangerous.
The clink of porcelain and cutlery interrupts my thoughts as the bartender places my tortellini in front of me.
The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I hesitate, my mind racing like crazy.
“Are you going to make me eat alone?” I ask before I can stop myself. I’m unsure if it’s the alcohol, his unexpected openness, or the long day that makes me so bold.
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Are you going to share?” he counters, a teasing tone to his voice.
He motions to the bartender to bring another plate and leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter. There’s an ease between us I didn’t expect, and for a moment I forget about any boundaries at all.
“So, just how many women are you friendly with?” I challenge, attempting to steal the upper hand. His eyes meet mine, a clash of intrigue and amusement.
“Not as many as you’re probably thinking.” His answer is almost playful. “I have certain…tastes,” he continues, his voice almost hesitant, like he’s testing how I’ll react.
Cryptic enough to intrigue me further, the words send a shiver of curiosity through me that borders on exhilaration.
“Ones that don’t suit some women.” His eyes don’t leave mine, gauging my response, perhaps aware of the effect he’s having on me.
I can’t tell if he’s trying to warn me off or pull me in.
Does he know I’m holding my breath? That my heart is racing?
The ambiguity, the mystery of what exactly he means, leaves me wanting to know more, to press further. His expression is unreadable, but the tension between us is not. The entire room seems to disappear, leaving just the two of us tangled in a moment that feels like it could pivot in any direction.
The bartender delivers another plate, and I watch James divvy up the pasta, fascinated by this new version of him. I sense a change, a shift in the space between us, and I wonder how much further I can push.
As if he knows I’m already in too deep, he leans back and takes a measured sip of his drink.
I sense him pulling away, keeping his distance.
He’s so practiced at it, at reigning in any emotion that might make him vulnerable.
That might make me think this could be anything more than two coworkers making conversation over drinks and pasta.
I have to find a way to shift without embarrassing myself, without crossing another line that he won’t hesitate to draw. He watches me, waiting to see if I’ll pry further and risk being shut down, or if I’ll be smart enough to bring us back to safe ground.
“Didn’t realize you had time for anything other than work,” I say, reaching for a bite of pasta, an attempt at nonchalance. “You’re pretty committed to it.”
The shift in topic seems to ground him, to affirm his sense of order and structure. There’s a part of me that’s annoyed he’s so good at this, so effortlessly skilled at sidestepping anything that feels real.
“Not unlike someone else I know,” he replies. “How did your hearing go today?”
I tell him about my loss in court today as we finish the pasta, and he listens with an expression that seems like understanding. We spend the next hour at the bar, drinking and talking about safe topics that include everything from tort reform to the traffic on my morning commute.
I find myself too distracted to even pretend I’m interested. I’m more focused on James, on his eyes, on the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his hands move, and his mouth, which forms around his words with a quiet intensity that makes my heart race.
The conversation is light, a reprieve from earlier, but the tension between us is still there, humming beneath each word.
He lowers his drink, setting it down with a sense of finality. I take a look at the empty glasses in front of us and know it’s time to go home. We’ve exhausted all territory, both safe and dangerous, and there’s nothing left to do but leave.
“I should get home. My cat is probably pissed I’ve been gone for so long,” I say reluctantly, savoring the lingering closeness.
“You’ve been drinking. I’ll drive you home,” he says, and it’s more a declaration than an offer.
He’s also been drinking, though he doesn’t even seem tipsy.
I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already turning toward the bartender with a look of resolve.
“Put hers on mine,” he says in a way that makes it clear he’s decided for both of us.
There’s a commanding air to it, the authority I’m used to from James when he’s made up his mind and won’t be dissuaded. I barely have time to react before he stands and offers his hand, a gesture equal parts courteous and insistent.
“It wasn’t a question, Avery. I’m driving you home.” His voice is low and sure, leaving no room for argument.
The use of my first name catches me off guard. I’ve grown so accustomed to being “Anders” to him, especially at the office, that hearing James call me Avery sends a flutter through my chest.
“Okay,” I say softly, as I place my hand in his. He pulls me gently to my feet, and for a brief moment, we’re closer than we should be.
Then he’s grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his chair, reaching for my purse and handing it to me with a light brush of our fingers. There’s a charge in the simple contact, a reminder of everything we’ve alluded to and not exactly said tonight.
James moves toward the exit with assured strides, his hand finding its way to the small of my back. It’s protective, almost possessive, as he guides me out of the hotel and into the cool night.