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We spoke a few weeks before I found myself looking down the barrel of coming back home. He reached out to me after seeing some of my work hanging a few places here in town. He had pitched the idea of opening a local gallery featuring local artists, but I was still trying make it in the big city. Now I wish I had come home when he first called, with my head held high, and with a mission in mind.
Me: Maybe. I can only hope. This guy has some deep pockets, so he seems serious about starting a gallery. I am so nervous
Suddenly, I don’t want to talk to this stranger—as familiar and fun as it has been to talk to him. I want to talk to Bran. After going so long without him in my life, just a quick dose of him has me craving more. I want to tell him about this and get his support and some of the enthusiasm he always showed for my work.
Before I can consider caving and asking Hailee for Bran’s number, I see the time on the clock. I am going to be late. Not that I am ever on time. I don’t often pay attention to time—it may be why I was a bad fit for my previous job. But today I spent most the morning preparing for this meeting, going over how I can convince Mr. Holmes I am the right person to head this project. A message pings as I am rushing out the door and I smile as I read it.
Him: You will do great. If you love what you do, he will see that. That will be enough. Go impress him.
Me: Thank you! I needed a little pep talk. I was close to reaching out to the best pep talker I know, but I doubt he would want to hear from me now.
After I climb into the car and speed towards our meeting place downtown, I hear my phone go off a few more times. And I wish it was a message from Bran. I wish we had stayed in touch despite all we put one another through. Wish I could call him right now and let him give me that pep talk I need so badly.
When we were in college and he was on the football team with Connor, Bran was the one who got the team riled up. He has a way with words. His passion for the game and his drive and focus was clear and it was contagious. He would give a speech before every game that led to the guys chanting and the crowd roaring, and often, they took the game. Today I would love him to give me that kind of speech so I could take this meeting.
Parking outside the cafe I am to meet Mr. Holmes in, I take a calming breath and go over all the things I spent most the morning going over. How well I know the local art scene, despite being gone for some time. How confident I am in my own art and it being deserving of a place to shine. And how hard I will be willing to work to oversee getting a gallery going here or even in Crystal Cove.
“You got this, Pais,” I tell myself, hearing it in Bran’s voice as I talk to myself in the rearview mirror, “you can do this.”
Smiling, I square my shoulders and step out of the car, seeing the café is mostly empty. Good, I beat him here. Unless I am so late, he left already. Glancing at my watch as I jog across the street, I am not paying attention. I twist my ankle in my wedge espadrilles, almost face planting into the sidewalk.
“Holy buckets!” I shout as strong arms wrap around me and haul me back against a firm chest.
Getting my feet beneath me, I curse the heels I should never have tried to pull off and turn to my savior. Smiling, I take a deep breath to settle my nerves. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the heady scent I would know anywhere. Bran. He always smells of leather, cinnamon, and football turf. Even after he stopped playing football, it is there, as if it is just part of him.
The arms around me tighten and pull me snugger against the hard frame and I know it is him. I fit to his body as if we are two halves of one whole. I don’t fight it. I don’t pull back or push him away. I let us have it for a moment. In fact, I melt into his chest, soaking up the warmth of him and breathing deep that intoxicating smell that I missed so badly tears sting my eyes as it clings to my skin and fills my lungs.
“Bran,” I whisper, my lips brushing against his neck.
“Pais,” his voice is rough, and his hands slide over my back, one going higher, one going lower, cradling me close, “you ok, babe?”
Tilting my head back, back, I meet his gaze, nodding once. I still don’t pull away. I am nestled against his wide chest, his arms banded across my back, my legs tucked between his. His hair is windblown, dark and too long on top, and I want to comb my fingers through it. Feel the silky waves in my fingers or the roughness of his short beard brushing against my throat.
“I am sorry,” I whisper, swallowing hard, “I was not paying attention. I am late and... you know me.”
His grin makes a fluttering erupt in my stomach and I flush. Yes. Of course, he knows me. His arms tighten and he nods, setting me on my feet. It’s only then I realize he was holding me up against him, as if afraid to put me back down. Yes, he certainly knows me—I am dangerous in bare feet let alone heels and a little dress.
“I do know you,” he says it with more meaning than I can handle right now, his voice deep and husky, “You look lovely today. How about I escort you safely wherever you were going?”
Flushing again, I shake my head and push at his chest. Only I don’t want him to let me go. Being in his arms again feels righter than it should. I crave the connection I only ever shared with him. There has been no one for me since we were together, and I ache a little knowing there has been others for him. That is what has me pushing harder at his chest as I straighten.
“No. No don’t let me keep you. I am heading here, for a meeting. I am just...a mess as usual,” I say, blowing out a sigh and ruffling a hand through my dark hair.
“A meeting? With whom?” his eyes scan the few tables with customers before they come back to me.
“Gabe Holmes? You heard of him doing rehabs in the area? He wants to talk about a possible gallery,” I offer in answer, seeing that he seems agitated. Why would he care who I am meeting?
“Oh, yeah I know him,” he answers, seeming to relax, “I know his wife too, Aria. Remember The End over in Crystal Cove? That’s her place,” he says, shrugging his broad shoulders as he takes a step closer to me.
I move closer too, as if I want to ease whatever had him so worked up. And I just like being close to him. Even if I hate it. Wish I could get over it. His eyes flash and I can recall a hundred times those eyes changed for me. When we fought or laughed together, when we made lovr, and when we gave up on one another.
“I-is it? I love that place,” I muse, gripping his biceps as he wraps an arm around me again. Why is he holding me still? And why am I holding him back?
“Me too,” he husks, his big palm smoothing over my back, heat radiating though my body, “you knock him dead today, babe. I am sure he will see you are worth whatever it costs to get a gallery going. Be careful for me, yeah,” his other hand comes up, brushing my hair away from my face, “don’t much like the idea of someone else being there to save you next time.”
Again, I am flushed head to toe, and I hate that he still has that effect on me. But I nod docilely, sharing a smile with him as he slowly drops his hands. I want to snatch them back and press close. Want to tell him how badly I miss him. How I wish I had not been so stubborn for so long, and how I wish we could fix things. I do none of that. I just step away from him and head for the café and my meeting.
When Gabe shows up ten minutes later, I am calm and collected. I feel confident. I know I am worthy of this. I know I can give local artists a great platform to shine, and I know I can be a great partner with him. He is charming and excited and by the end of the meeting, we seem to be on the same page. We set up meetings with his partners to go over possible sites and he invites me to visit all the rehabbed spots over in Crystal Cove too.
