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My heart again picked up a few beats at his matter-of-fact words. I shut my eyes, willing myself to be normal. Why,whydid he have to be so amazing?
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?” I asked.
Brandon chuckled. “Not my style, Red, although you’re not exactly a pushover.”
“I want to see you,” I blurted out before I could tell myself not to.
I pushed the peas against my forehead and squinted my eyes in pain at the thought of my idiocy. Jesus,whatwas I doing?
“Brandon?” I asked when I realized he hadn’t answered. “Are you there?”
He exhaled a long, audible breath before answering.
“Yeah, Red, I’m here,” he said softly. “When?”
I shook my head, willing my foggy brain to think rationally. No time, this was a mistake, I don’t want to see you—I needed to saythat!
“How about lunch? Tomorrow?” I said instead.
God, I was helpless. My stupidity was surreal, like watching a car wreck happen while I was the driver.
“I’ll meet you at The Yard at one,” he said in a brusque tone I couldn’t quite read. “See you then.”
Before I could answer, he ended the call. I stood in the kitchen for a solid fifteen minutes, staring at the black screen on my phone and wondering what I had just gotten myself into.
Forty-Three
At five minutes before one, I found myself pacing outside of The Yard, a chic bar-turned-restaurant that was built into the corner of one of the endless old brick buildings around Harvard Square. It boasted windows that could be opened like garage doors, pulling up into the ceiling of the place to connect the dark, modern interior with the heavily trafficked sidewalk.
It was a typically warm spring afternoon in Boston. After spending more time than I cared to admit rifling through my wardrobe, I ended up walking to the restaurant in just a short-sleeved, cornflower-blue shift dress made of eyelet lace that fell to about mid-thigh. I paired it with cognac-colored wedge sandals and the tan suede purse I had bought after making my first big commission on Wall Street. My hair fell in tousled waves down my back, and I basked in the scents of blooming flowers at the front of the restaurant. I paused before entering to mentally prepare myself. I had a feeling this single conversation had the potential to change the rest of my life.
“You know, I think I’ve only ever seen you in shades of gray or black,” spoke a familiar voice behind me.
I spun around to find Brandon approaching.
“Other than that red dress, of course,” he said with a smirk as he leaned down to kiss my cheek. His familiar scent of almonds and soap engulfed me, and I inhaled deeper than I wanted.
He was dressed in light-gray pants, a black tie, and a white oxford shirt that was casually rolled up at the sleeves. The whole outfit was effortless and sophisticated, tailored in just the right places to accentuate the contrast between his narrow waist and broad shoulders. He waved kindly to David, who nodded from at the curb before smiling politely at me.
“Hi, David,” I said.
“Ms. Crosby,” he said with another friendly nod. “Sir.”
“I’ll call when we’re finished, David,” Brandon said, and we both watched with undue fascination as David slipped into the Mercedes and drove away. Brandon turned back to me. I tugged nervously at the hem of the dress, suddenly wishing I hadn’t chosen something that showed so much leg.
“You cut your hair,” I said through thick lips. My head still felt cloudy, although that feeling had gotten a lot worse in the last two minutes.
Brandon gave a grim smile and pulled a hand through his hair, which was now cut neatly around his neck, but left a bit longer at the top to curl. “Yeah. Margie finally told me I was starting to look homeless and dragged me to a barbershop. She says it makes me look younger. What do you think?”
I shrugged feigning indifference as best I could. “You look fine,” I said.
He looked fucking incredible.
“Well, you look gorgeous,” Brandon replied, as if I wasn’t acting like a sullen teenager. “As I was saying before, you’re a vision in color, Red. You look like spring.”
“I guess black is more my thing,” I said lamely. “I stand out enough with this hair.”
I pulled at a wavy lock, which was curlier than normal in the late spring humidity. By August I’d look like a redheaded Diana Ross if I didn’t plaster it with conditioner. Brandon caught my hand in his and brushed my knuckles before releasing it.
