Chapter 12 #2
My eyes widened. Lincoln had been obsessed with getting that creative director role. He’d even been more of a dick to me once he realized Curt thought I did good work and maybe had a shot at it.
“The job is fine. I hate the people. The CEO was saying some misogynist shit to Carmen. Everyone acted like it was no big deal. Just everyday crap, you know?”
I nodded. My own meetings with Curt flashed through my mind. “Sweetheart” this; “honey” that. I hated generic endearments.
“So, you’re friends with Carmen now?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Friends? Maybe. Keep your enemies close. Natasha’s another one. I don’t trust either of them.”
“That makes sense,” I added, sipping some of the white wine Linc had ordered for us to share. “I suppose it must be hard to figure out who to trust in your position.”
He met my eyes over the rim of my glass.
“Not really,” he countered. “I know I can trust you.”
He pulled the bottle to refill my glass, his knee brushing mine, but neither of us moved away from the touch.
My traitorous heart dropped and thundered faster.
The dim lighting darkened and deepened the intensity of his blue eyes.
I was getting lost in the current of this trust he’d placed in me.
And all I could think about was how, for the month I’d been by his side, I didn’t feel unimportant to Lincoln Carter.
I was the air he needed to breathe. And I knew air.
The right air could keep you alive, and the wrong kind could suffocate you.
I told myself it was nothing. He was just relieved to be alive, to be working again, to not be outright hated by me anymore. Still, when his eyes lingered—so steady, so fierce—I couldn’t help but notice my hate for Lincoln didn’t shine brightly anymore.
Lincoln smiled then, in a self-deprecating way, those dimples etched with sadness, no pretense.
So I could see him. The vulnerable, broken Lincoln underneath all the entitlement and disdain.
He wrapped his hand around mine, over the stem of my wineglass for a second, a second he hadn’t been able to contain himself.
“But I know you don’t trust me.” He exhaled, pulling his hand away. “It’s hard to reconcile what I know with what I feel.” He frowned. “It’s like I have most of the pieces of the puzzle, but I still can’t fucking put it together.”
My hand shot out to his, the impulse fast and untamable, but in truth, I watched it happen in slow motion. I could have stopped it, but I wanted my hand on his. I wanted his warmth and the fluttering in his eyes when I touched him.
“I wish I could hand you the missing pieces,” I admitted. “Even if I told you, they’d be mine, you know? You’d still miss how it felt for you.”
He nodded, leaning in and caressing my knuckles with his thumb.
“Vinny says I did some messed-up things in high school.” He scoffed. “And I thought we’d been sweet.” His eyes shifted back to me, all seriousness and guilt ridden. “I wasn’t sweet to you, was I?”
I shook my head. He’d opened so many wounds; the same wounds he was trying to close, as if my healing was his personal responsibility. It still wasn’t enough.
He squeezed my hand. “And now we can’t move forward. Because I was … whatever I was to you.”
“You can’t know what it’s like …. You’re already at the breaking point and then you have someone fanning the flames of the dumpster fire that’s your life, and all you hear are whispers and gossip. It makes everything worse.”
“I made everything worse.”
“You can’t get it unless you’ve lived it, you know? The constant paranoia that everything being said within your earshot is a mockery of you.”
He nodded, silent now, but something sharpened in his expression. I could almost feel the weight of it pressing between us, unspoken but alive, some kind of plan taking shape in Lincoln’s mind.
“Eat,” Lincoln murmured.
We talked about my day and this project or another. His questions brought up details I’d shared with him. He brushed his knee with mine, or he’d linger on my smile before darting back to his plate. Every little detail pulled at the stitches I’d tried so hard to keep tight.
As we left the restaurant, even after Lincoln had paid for the meal, I felt all the memories that he’d forgotten between us. I almost wanted to overlook it all. The way his gaze lingered on me with such certainty that I was worth keeping, I almost believed we could be something different.
The door jingled as Carmen breezed in, wearing a silk blouse and pointed heels that didn’t belong anywhere near the mismatched tables and chipped mugs. Lynnie and I exchanged a look.
“Lovelies,” she said, with that smile that was half boardroom, half Mean Girls. “I was in the area. Thought I’d drop in.”
She didn’t just “drop in.” Carmen’s eyes moved over the space like she was running numbers. She leaned on the coffee table, so I clicked out of my hourly tracker. Lynnie excused herself and went to check on the goods in the oven, giving me a look to holler if I needed her.
“You’re not at the client dinner, Carmen?” I asked.
Her perfectly styled brow arched. “Did Lincoln tell you there was a client dinner?”
He’d been back at work for a full week now and had built back his routine of drinks or dinner with … whoever.
Carmen rattled off names—two small real estate firms, one furniture factory, one construction company.
They all wanted marketing support from me.
And she’d whipped out those business cards she’d made for me every time.
She’d been popping by day in and day out: dropping clients into my lap without a second thought or effort.
“So …,” she said, taking Lynnie’s mug and sipping from her tea. “What’s your plan? How many clients are you taking on now?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Lincoln might’ve been back to his normal social life that didn’t include me, but he was right about something. Carmen was too good and too shady not to be taken with a grain of salt.
“How many can you handle on your own? What’s your next step here?”
She was scattering breadcrumbs for me to follow without explaining where the trail would lead. Carmen thrived on deals, favors, and shortcuts. I was still good ole me and putting in more than forty hours a week while making coffee and baking on top of it.
“And how’s everything else?” Carmen asked, her gaze pinning me in place. She didn’t need to say Lincoln’s name. The question was already burning in the air between us. In how she’d told me there was no client dinner.
I busied myself by typing, ignoring the question.
She gave a low laugh. “Nina, Nina, what am I going to do with you?” She clicked her tongue. “You have to look at what he does. Men will say anything. What has he done?”
Her words hit me low in the chest because I had been watching.
He’d met me at Reality Bites every day, lingering in the doorway at closing time.
He made breakfast and ordered the almond milk I liked.
He’d gotten me medicine, no questions asked; it just showed up on my bed.
Old Lincoln would have never. And yet, my memory kept replaying the boy who’d burned me down just for sport.
I said nothing and glanced at the business card. She wouldn’t let it go, though.
“We did have a client dinner today,” she said, and I hated the relief swelling in my chest. Until she added, “It finished a couple of hours ago. I left; Natasha and others went for additional drinks.”
And he’d gone. With Natasha. It wasn’t just Carmen’s tilt of the head that one time.
She’d dropped little comments about how files don’t disappear.
Natasha had something to do with my disastrous presentation for Infinity Weddings.
And Lincoln and her were still close. I pretended to type the contacts into my laptop as I tried to keep this bottomless pit in my belly from swallowing me whole. So much for being worth keeping.
Carmen’s smile turned sly. “Speaking of men …, I have a proposal for you.”
“Another one?” I asked her, forcing my voice to sound even.
“Yes! This one’s more personal.” She looked at me. “You know, I have a brother, and I think he could use some distraction.”
“Am I the distraction?”
Carmen shrugged. “I mean, he could be your distraction too. He’s a bit too much of a cinnamon roll for my other friends but …” Her smirk widened. “Diego is free tomorrow night.”
My stomach flipped, not in a pleasant way. “I don’t think—”
“Think less. Everyone needs a distraction, Nina. And you need to be reminded there are other men out there. Ones who don’t distract themselves with nasty redheads.”
Maybe Carmen was right. Maybe I’d just been too wrapped up in Lincoln, old and new, and just needed out.
I didn’t want Lincoln’s voice in my head, tender with possibilities, determination, and wounded pride.
He was out with Natasha, wasn’t he? Maybe a date wasn’t such a bad idea. A real clean slate.
“J … just dinner,” I said, though it already felt more than that—and it had nothing to do with Carmen’s brother.
Carmen’s smile softened a fraction. “That’s all it has to be.”
But the way her eyes lingered on me told me I’d played into her hand without having all the cards.