Two Months Later

I step out onto the street as a car whizzes by, nearly taking off my right foot.

Jumping back, I heave in a breath. I am so not made for this city.

The closest I’d ever gotten to leaving Bradys Bend was UPenn, and there was a reason all the stories I ever wrote for my journalism class were about my home.

I hate the city. Hate, hate, hate.

Pittsburgh looks gloomy. It’s late January, well after the Christmas holidays, with dirty piles of snow everywhere, and the buildings are drowning out the sun, making a blustery day ridiculously cold. With the wind chill, I read it was going to be something like ten degrees, tops, today. When I got the call from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette that they wanted to interview me for a junior editorial assistant position, I almost said no. I’d never been to Pittsburgh before. But then I remembered how I’d always dreamed of getting out and writing for a newspaper, and I couldn’t turn it down. Not because of a few sub-zero temperatures and a complete abhorrence for the city.

Thus, here I am, bundled in my quilted coat, ear muffs, and scarf, trying to find a way to my lunch meeting with one Vincent Malone, sports editor for the newspaper. And hoping I don’t throw up.

I’m not stronger since Silas left. I think about him every minute of every day. Sometimes I will see a guy that looks nothing like him while waiting tables at Billys, and get a thrill that it might be him. I’m always disappointed. Just like he never tried to climb into my window after we fought at his senior prom, once he left for his surgery, he never returned to the Bend.

He made a triumphant return to the Steelers last week. They had a freaking parade for him, it was that big a deal. I know as much, because I saw the whole thing while working the lunch shift. Luckily, their record wasn’t totally in the toilet, so they’d made the playoffs as a wild card and managed to win their first playoff game against the Ravens. Though he was favoring his good leg and I could tell he was playing it cautious, I watched him throw a perfect game, one of the best of his career. They beat the Browns 28 to nothing, to become AFC Champions and make it to the Super Bowl for the second year in a row.

Not that it’s any surprise, with Silas.

I say a silent prayer of thanks when I see the restaurant the editor and I agreed to meet at, Morton’s Steakhouse, across the street. This time, I wait to make sure a group of people are crossing before I cross, too. My black heels are low and sensible, but I find my ankles wobbling in them, anyway, since I never wear shoes like this. I check my phone as I hustle inside. Noon, exactly. I just made it.

My cheeks burn as they’re greeted by the indoor heat. I look around, and a thick man, bald, in a suit, strides over to me. He looks very metropolitan, and all business. “Genevieve?” he asks.

I smile, trying to remember, warm, firm handshake. I get at least half of that right, since my hands are ice. “Yes, hello. Mr. Malone?”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says. I uncoil the scarf from around my neck as he leads me to the back of the restaurant. By the time I pull off my muffs and coat and I sit down, I realize he already has my resume in front of him. “Where is Bradys Bend?”

“It’s an hour north of here, sir. It’s a small town.”

He nods. Then I realize he has a few of the articles I’d written, in front of him, stacked in a pile, over his menu. “I noticed you wrote a lot about it. Would you plan on moving to the city, or commuting, if you got this job?”

I swallow. “Probably commuting, at first.”

He slides his menu out as the waiter approaches us. “Let’s not talk about that right now. Let’s get our orders in!”

I nod. I have absolutely no appetite. Ordinarily, I’d order a steak, medium rare, and a draft beer, but because this is an interview, I order a glass of water, and a salad.

Vincent orders a draft beer, and a steak, medium rare. Dammit.

When the waiter takes our menus, Vincent stares at me, as if trying to unravel my secrets. It’s so unnerving that I think I might have something in my teeth, or mascara somewhere it shouldn’t be. I never wear make-up, so there’s a damn good chance of that. Then he says, “Writing about your hometown is all well and good. But do you care anything about sports?”

I open my mouth to speak the standard answer, about how I know the ins and outs of football pretty well, even though I’ve never written about it. But then I look in the mirrored glass on the wall and see someone sitting at a booth, near the wall.

I blink. It can’t be. It’s just my mind, playing tricks on me, the way it had when I was working the lunch shift at Billy’s.

But the blink only brings him into better focus.

Silas.

Of course he’s here. He lives here. But in this town of millions, what are the chances? And he’d just been in Cleveland, yesterday. I didn’t expect him to be . . .

I blink again. It really is him. Despite the fact that everyone else here’s dressed in suits, he’s in jeans and a sweatshirt, and yet he fits in perfectly. He’s with another couple of men, big ones, built like linebackers. Duh, they must be linebackers. They must be his teammates.

I swallow. Then swallow again.

Then I look across the table and realize I’ve been sitting with my mouth open, mute, while my interviewer stares at me, for at least a minute. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Could you repeat the question?”

He looks at me like I have three heads. “Are you a fan of sports?” he asks.

I nod. “Oh. Yes.” Nothing else comes to me, so I leave it at that. I can’t stop looking in the mirror, at Silas. He’s intent in conversation with the other men in the booth, and I’m facing away from him, so he can’t possibly notice me. A waitress arrives at his table, blocking him from my view, and I end up craning my neck to see as he hands her his credit card.

“Excuse me.” The man across from me clears his throat. I fail to remember his name. Or even why I’m here. I’m wondering if there’s any way to get out of this restaurant without Silas seeing me. “Did you hear me?”

I shake my head. “Oh. No. I’m sorry. I just . . .” I wave a hand in front of my face. “It’s a little hot in here, isn’t it?”

“No,” he says, his tone of voice changed. It used to be pleasant, and now, it’s tinged with annoyance. “I asked what your career aspirations are? You attended college for a semester and you’ve been working as a waitress since? What makes you think you’d be a good reporter?”

“Oh, I—” I had an answer to this all planned. That I hoped to go back to school, part-time, while I was working in the city. That I’d had to drop out due to a family emergency but it really was my dream to write for a major newspaper. That I’d been writing a column for the Brady Times for the past couple months, but I wanted to expand my readership. Instead, I fumble with, “I like to write. And I’m good at it.”

Our drinks arrive. I suck the water down through the straw like I’ve spent the last few days on a desert island. I draw in a breath as I watch Silas sign the tab. He places the pen down on the table, and stands up. God, despite probably being up all night celebrating crushing the Browns the night before, he looks even hotter than I remembered.

He’ll walk away, soon, and I might never see him, in person, again. Of course, I’ll see him on the screen. Again and again, because that’s where stars belong. But it won’t be the same.

“Do you know Pittsburgh football?” Vincent grins at me suddenly, coming to life. “Hey, St. Clair!”

Oh, god. They know each other?

Of course they know each other. Vincent Malone is none other than the man who called Silas “almost inhuman in his precision” in the Post last year. He’s completely up Silas’ butt.

And I am completely mortified. I can hear my heartbeat bouncing around in my ears.

Silas’s head shoots up, and he changes direction suddenly and starts to stride down the row, toward us. And he really comes into view; the face I kissed silly, the body I’d spent so many nights wrapped up in, the boy I’d chased away a thousand years ago.

“Hey, Malone,” he calls as he walks, in his friendly, easy-going way. “How’s it going?”

“Nice game, kid,” the editor says, holding out a hand in a high five. Silas approaches the table, ready to thank him, his hand extended to slap, as Vincent explains to me, rather needlessly, “One of the greatest quarterbacks ever to play the game.”

Then Silas turns his face to me.

His smile falls. The slap he’d intended to give to the editor just hangs there, caught in mid-air. Whatever thanks he’d had on the tip of his tongue just slides away. Instead, he breathes, “Well, holy fuck.”

I manage a smile. “Hi, Silas.”

Vincent clears his throat. “You two know each other?”

“What are you doing here, Genevieve?” he says, ignoring the man.

“I have a job interview, actually. For the paper,” I say, voice small.

“What about your father, and . . .” He stops, at a loss for words.

Vincent says, “Hey. So you guys do know each other?”

I look at him and nod sheepishly. He gives an understanding nod, like, Here is probably one of the millions of women playboy Silas St. Clair has entangled himself with, the sly dog.

Silas turns to him and seems to suddenly realize he’s sitting there. “Yeah. And man, you can’t hire a better writer, or a more reliable one. She knows football inside and out. She taught me everything she knows.”

I’m blushing. What utter bullshit.

But I guess anything coming from Silas is worth its weight in gold, because Vincent seems surprised to hear it. I suppose if I were just an ordinary one of Silas’s fucks, he wouldn’t have given me such a glowing recommendation. Vincent smiles at me, then claps his hands together. “Well, I don’t think I could possibly get a better recommendation than that. When can you start?”

I freeze. Is he offering me the job?

Silas finally makes contact with the man’s hand and shakes it, then looks over at me, his eyes lingering on me, like he wants to say more. “Genevieve,” he says. Then he clears his throat and looks at Vincent. “I’ll see you.”

And then he walks away.

I stay there, listening to the man across from me droning on about benefits and salary, as our food arrives. Then I realize, I have an entire hour left of eating, making boring conversation with this man, my new employer, when the only thing I’ve ever really wanted in my life just walked out the door. When it hits me, all blood drains from my face. I grip the edge of my napkin.

“Excuse me,” I say, interrupting him in the middle of a sentence. I start to stand. “Do you mind?”

“No, go right ahead,” he says. He must think I’m going to the restroom, but I’m already rushing down the aisle, before he can give me his permission. I race to the front of the restaurant, but he’s already gone outside.

I push my way outside, and am immediately hit by a cold blast of air that takes my breath away. Without a coat, it’s enough to freeze my skin on contact.

I search up and down the streets, and finally see him in a blue puffer coat, heading down the street, flanked by the two men he’d been dining with. “Silas!” I shout.

He turns.

He walks toward me. “What the fuck are you doing, girl? Where’s your coat?”

I’m hugging myself as the icy wind threatens to blow me over. My hair is going every which way from the smart bun I’d coiled it into earlier this morning, and I can’t feel my cheeks or ears anymore. “Inside. I just . . .”

“Go inside, Genevieve. Get that job. I--” He stops. He looks confused.

“What?”

“I just didn’t think you could leave the Bend. What about your father?”

I shrug. The cold is pulling tears from my eyes. Or maybe that’s being here, with him. “There are nursing homes around here. And Bradys Bend might be another world, but it’s really not that far away.”

He unzips his jacket, pulls it off, and drops it on my shoulders. “It’s what you were born to be, Genevieve. It’ll make you happy.”

I shrug. But as I’m standing there, I know the answer. “Yes, writing is what makes me happy. Much happier than waiting tables in the Bend. I won’t truly be happy unless . . .” I stop. Look away. He left me. Left me for what truly makes him happy. My lips are blue and I’m probably going to freeze here, right on the street. I open my mouth, but just then, another fierce wind blows, taking my voice away.

He takes my arm. “Come with me.”

He leads me into a bright, clean, windowed building with a giant, ornate chandelier, which must be a museum. Whatever, it’s warm. I follow him to an elevator, where we climb to the top floor, in silence. “Where are we going?” I ask him.

“My house,” he says. “I’m going to warm you up.”

I stiffen. “What?”

“Not like that,” he says. “I have some brandy. And a fireplace.”

“Okay, but—” I start, as the elevator doors slide open. This is the penthouse. I walk out into an enormous, amazing living room, with a wall constructed entirely of windows. It’s lovely for the exhibitionist, but it does everything to remind me how far away from the Bend I am. How far Silas is from my life. I hug myself. “I should probably get—”

He takes my hand. “Hell no.”

And he stands in front of the elevator panel, to stop me from pushing any buttons. I scowl at him. “Am I your prisoner?”

“No, but you’re going to hear me out, Genevieve,” he says.

I throw up my hand and walk deeper into the apartment. Oh, my god, he lives here? This is like, a place for a Trump. Or a king. Really? In the living room, there’s a giant stone fireplace that rises at least five stories tall. And a koi pond, with a waterfall, in the kitchen. I walk on pillowy white carpet across the massive room, peeking in at the bathroom, which is bigger than my entire apartment and has a tub that you could probably swim laps in. “Overdoing it much?” I say.

“I don’t know why I even tried to impress you,” he mumbles.

“Oh, this was for me?” I let out a bitter laugh.

He nods, shoving his hands sheepishly into his pockets. “Yes. I told you. Any time I’ve done anything, it was to impress you. Because I thought maybe one day, I’d be good enough for you. But I will never be, huh?”

I whirl to him. “That’s the furthest thing from true. I’m nobody.”

“You’re everybody, goddammit, Genevieve,” he says, coming up close to me. “Everyone who matters to me. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I knew you wouldn’t want to do the long-distance relationship. And I needed you. Yeah, at first, I was blind and I just wanted your body. But somewhere along the line, I realized how much I need you. All of you.”

I look down at his ring finger. “You’re not wearing the ring.”

He rolls his eyes. “That gaudy bible? I’ll get another one.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes from my lips.

“But Genevieve. I’d give it all up for you. I love you. I loved you then, and I love you now.”

“So,” I start, feeling my cheeks blazing now. “Why didn’t you tell me any of that in the restaurant? You would’ve just let me go?”

He leans against the wall. “I waited four years for you, Genevieve. I’ll wait a little longer, if you need me to.”

“So . . .You’re just waiting for me to put you in play?”

He nods. “Yep. I figure eventually, you’d come back. Few women can resist all this.”

He meant it as a joke, but he’s right. He’s irresistible, as I always knew. And now, he’s mine. All mine. My heart beating a million miles an hour. I put up my hands, to touch him, and before I can, he grabs my wrists. “What are you—”

“I’m bracing for your right hook.”

“I wasn’t going to hit you,” I say, still breathing hard.

“First time for everything.” He takes my wrists in his and lowers his mouth onto mine. He kisses me, and kisses me, our tongues mingling together, the electricity almost too much to stand, and suddenly, I am very, very warm. He reaches a hand behind my head, pulling it from the bun, letting my hair fall loose on my shoulders, as his mouth trails down to my jaw. He pulls my blazer open and says, “Did anyone tell you that you look sexy in a suit?”

A suit. Suddenly, I step back. I cover my mouth with my hand. “Oh, my god. I totally forgot about Vincent.”

He shakes his head. “Forget it. Your new boss is an old friend of mine. He’ll be cool.”

“Okay,” I say, as he leads me to the couch, and we start to make out, just like we were kids. Hands everywhere, moving against bare skin, creating friction and warmth as the fireplace flickers in front of us. I pull off my blazer, and he helps me to remove my skirt. And he kisses me, until my face is rubbed raw, bringing back all those memories of high school, when this was enough.

But now, it isn’t enough. “I think I know what I’d like you to do,” I say, biting on my lower lip.

He studies my face, and his eyes light up. “You’re just fucking with me, now, aren’t you?”

I shake my head. “Do it before I lose my nerve, okay?”

He nods. He sinks on his knees to the soft carpet, then, pulling my face to him, he kisses me. “Just lie back, okay?” he says. “I’ll never hurt you again, Genevieve. I promise. I love you so much.”

I know he won’t.

His hand reaches up, to my thong, rubbing my pussy through the thin fabric. Taking my ankles in each hand, he pulls my legs apart, resting each heel on the frame of the sofa. I’m now spread out, my ass on the very edge of the couch, my shoulders against the backrest. Ordinarily, not a very comfortable position, but I can’t care about my comfort. I’m really going to do this. “Okay?”

I nod.

“You are gorgeous. And you’re mine, Genevieve,” he says, his eyes burning and full of sincerity. “You’re always going to be mine. Are you ready?”

I nod.

His broad frame settles between my legs, gazing at me with tenderness, but also fierce desire. Ever so slowly, he lowers himself down, closer, closer to my skin, and runs a finger up my thigh. I tense, and then, feeling the warm, pleasant sensation of his fingertip against me, let out the breath I’ve been holding.

The next thing I know, I feel a nibble on my abdomen. My body shudders with the sharpest jolt of pleasure, as a thought flutters through my mind.

I think Silas may be right. I’m going to like this.