Chapter 7
The question burning in his gut as Troy approaches the high-rise office building sets a thrill tingling in his fingertips and kicks off a fluttering in his chest. How will she react?
This could go only very badly or very well. It’s a risk, but one he feels he has no choice but to take. What else could he do? Attend every local bar association event with the hope that she might be there, too? That didn’t work for him last time. In fact, it was rather disastrous.
But it has created an opening for what he’s about to do.
The gift bag dangles lightly from his right hand. He clutches the rose with the fingertips of his left, its stem smooth, the thorns shaved away by the florist.
Troy arrived at the bar association event hoping to see Klara and prepared with a cover story.
He wasn’t making a pass at her, wasn’t hitting on her—he’d always hated that expression.
Call it what you want, he was merely networking, mingling, in the most platonic way.
He is trying a different tactic now. Courting.
Wooing. Christ, is there not a bearable way to describe any of this?
The point is, this time, he’s making his intentions quite clear. It’s time for a Gesture.
Klara’s office building is tall and reflective, although somewhat less so than his own building, which is a modern monstrosity in downtown DC.
Troy pushes through the revolving door and scans the digital directory for Barron she’ll know, but the truth is, that might not be the truth. His is not a common name, but still, Klara might not recognize it. It pains him to admit that she might not remember his name at all.
“Weston,” he adds reluctantly. “Troy Weston. Thanks, Dawn.”
She flushes at the sound of her name and taps at the buttons on the phone.
Relief courses through his veins as Dawn murmurs, “Hi, Klara,” into the phone.
She’s at her desk. It didn’t even occur to Troy that she might be in a meeting or out of the office. As it turns out, he was right not to fret over that possibility.
Yet his anxiety is there. Simmering like a low-grade fever. He’s perplexed by his lack of calm confidence, which is usually as reliable as his breathing. He both loves and hates this. He both loves and hates what Klara Martin is doing to him.
“Someone is here to see you,” Dawn continues. Then, ducking her head away from Troy, as if that will conceal her words, “Troy Weston. I know he doesn’t have an appointment.”
A pause while Troy’s heart pounds and blood thunders in his ears.
“Okay, thanks,” says Dawn before hanging up the phone. “She’ll be right out,” she tells Troy. “You can have a seat.” She tips her head toward the row of armchairs arranged in the small waiting area.
Troy thanks her, then strides across the room and drops into one of the chairs, but he’s disappointed. He was hoping to go back to Klara’s office. He was hoping for privacy.
He waits so long that he can’t help but wonder if Klara is making him wait on purpose, if she’s hoping he will give up and leave. The petals of the rose wilt, the stem warming between his fingers.
Finally, once panic has begun to course through his mind, obscuring and inhibiting any clear or rational thought, once Troy has begun to consider that perhaps he should just cut his losses and leave, he hears faint tapping against the shiny tiled floor, silken and creamy, and Klara steps into the reception area.
The source of the tapping reveals itself—a pair of red suede kitten heels.
Black ankle pants expose inches of golden foot and the very base of her shins.
Her blouse is also black, and a scarf with an abstract print of coral, indigo, and red that matches the shade of her shoes perfectly is tied loosely and jauntily around her neck, for fashion rather than warmth.
Her mouth is tight and tense as she approaches; her eyes, which he’d remembered as warm, chocolate, and inviting, are hard and cold, and she brushes a curtain of dark hair away from her face as she comes to a stop in front of him.
Troy watches her gaze fall to the rose, the gift bag, and he’s disappointed to note that her eyes remain devoid of pleasure or excitement.
She has clocked his offerings, yet she isn’t happy.
“Let’s step outside,” Klara says before Troy can speak, and then she’s holding the door to the office open for him, and her quick and effortless seizure of control irks him.
Troy is aware of Dawn’s amused eyes on him as he slips from the office. He wants to whirl toward her and hiss, “Just wait.” He doesn’t, of course. He moves several steps down the hall and waits for Klara to join him.
She lets the glass door to Barron & Briggs fall closed with a dull thud. She approaches but keeps her distance, as if he has foul body odor.
“Troy,” he says, and he smiles, trying to convey warmth, an absence of threat. “We met at the bar association event the other night.”
“I remember,” she says curtly, not elaborating as to whether she remembered his name or whether she only remembered meeting him. How could she have forgotten that? He spilled his drink on her, after all.
Hence the gift bag, which he holds aloft.
“I know you said I couldn’t pay for your shirt that I ruined, or pay for it to be cleaned—but, well, I haven’t been able to stop feeling bad for what I did, so I had to bring you this.”
She seems to lean toward him infinitesimally, but she hesitates, not taking the bag.
“Please take it,” he continues. “For my sake. If you toss it into the trash the second I step into those elevators, fine. Just don’t tell me. But I had to do something to assuage my guilt. I hope you understand.”
There it is then, the softening around her mouth and eyes, the chocolate beginning to melt.
“It’s really not necessary,” she says, but she takes the bag.
Pressing his luck, or perhaps just reading her correctly, Troy extends the rose. “This is for you as well,” he says. His eyes are cast down, unable to meet hers, the very picture of embarrassed admiration, of shy respect.
“Oh,” she says as if surprised, as if she hadn’t previously noticed the rose, when he is certain that it was the very first thing she noticed.
Troy blows out his breath in apparent relief. “Thank you, Klara,” he says. “I already feel so much better.” He’s grinning at her broadly now, and he can tell that he has her.
“Have a great day,” he says, and he turns away from her, still smiling.
“You too,” he hears her murmur. She seems rooted to the spot, surprised. Like she was expecting him to say more, and that’s exactly what he wants.
Troy strides down the hall and pushes into the stairwell, hurtling down two flights and out of the office building, back to his car.
He knows what will happen next. The surprise will wear off, to be replaced by disappointment. A gift, a rose—that’s all? She assumed he was going to ask her out on a date, and when he didn’t, she was left feeling arrogant and ashamed and, yes, disappointed.
When she returns to her desk, she’ll open the bag.
She’ll remove a shirt—a new ivory silk shell to replace the one he ruined.
It will be too small for her, but she will find this flattering rather than annoying.
She will unfold the shirt to inspect it, and a small handwritten card will fall to the ground.
Klara,
I couldn’t bear to ask you to your face, lest you reject me to mine. But I also couldn’t not ask. Join me for dinner sometime? A lunch, a drink, a coffee? I’d love to get to know you better. No hard feelings either way. I’d just never forgive myself if I didn’t take the chance.
—Troy
Beneath his name will be his phone number.
She will bite her lip as she drops the note into her purse, feeling relieved and confused.
She’ll agonize over the note for the rest of the day.
She’ll agonize over it all night—alone in her home, alone in her bed, alone.
The sweetness and humility of the Gesture will become too much for her to resist. She will type that number into her phone and then type out a text. She will agree to see him.