On Friday, I found myself standing outside of The Martin, one of the nicest restaurants in Boston. Built on top of a dock overlooking Boston Harbor, it was the kind of place that had complimentary valet parking and a carpeted sidewalk leading to a pair of big brass doors. The waiters all dressed like the penguins in Mary Poppins, and the staff included not one but three sommeliers.
Through the glass panes in the doors twinkled chandeliers hanging from high-beamed ceilings. The prismatic light seemed to reflect off the equally bright array of restaurant patrons. This was the kind of place where the wealthy went to show off their goods while they wined and dined their peers, other equally wealthy customers. Senators and congressional representatives ate here, right along with college presidents and CEOs. Old money mixed with new, all of it in the interest of making more.
So what was I doing here?
A doorman ushered me inside, and I held my breath until I was all the way across the threshold. I had known it would be like this: formal and slightly overwhelming. There had been complete radio silence from Brandon all week, but I had received two more polite phone calls from his assistant, Margie, on Wednesday and Thursday to confirm the date. We were playing a telephonic game of Owl, and neither of us had blinked first.
So, I had dressed for battle, the kind that required the tiny diamond studs in my ears and the expensive silver bracelet Brandon had given me, easily the nicest thing I owned. I had dressed simply in good fabric and clean lines: a floaty, black silk dress that tied at my waist but flashed a bit of leg when I walked and my favorite black Manolo Blahnik pumps that had taken me six months to save for. My bright red hair was pinned up, with just a few tendrils having escaped en route to the restaurant. After lining my eyes with black and taking extra effort to use the oxblood lipstick I only wore on special occasions, I had thought I'd looked good when I'd left the apartment. Eric's begrudging praise had only made me feel more confident.
But standing in this restaurant, surrounded by men in three-thousand-dollar suits and women with jewelry that flashed from across the room, I felt very, very plain.
"Can I help you?"
A maître d' dressed in an all-black suit looked at me lazily from his desk. His glance took in my appearance, resting a moment at my neck, which, unlike the rest of his female customers', was completely bare.
"Um, yes," I said, stumbling slightly as I approached. I had arrived early, hoping to have time to find my bearings before dealing with Brandon. "Reservation under Sterling."
The maître d's eyes opened wide at the name; whether in surprise or recognition, I couldn't tell.
"Of course, miss," he said, now obedient and eager to please. "Your party has been waiting for you."
Shit. Apparently Brandon had had the same idea.
The maître 'd hustled around, eager to escort me to a table in the back of the crowded restaurant. Somewhat reluctantly, I followed him. Were the restaurant patrons actually glancing at me, wondering what I was doing there? Or was I imagining it? I desperately hoped for the latter.
Brandon sat at a table in the far corner like a king presiding over his court. It was clearly the best spot in the place, a table for two slightly secluded in a small alcove away from the masses of people all chattering over their dinners. He was clearly still recognized, however. As I approached, several nearby customers watched from over their plates of steak and lobster, leaning over to whisper once they knew where I was headed. This time I was certain I wasn't imagining the curious looks.
Brandon sat with his back to the corner, watching intently as I approached. It really wasn't fair, I thought, that the man looked progressively better every time I saw him. He wore a sapphire-blue suit and cognac-colored oxfords that would have looked a bit gaudy on anyone else, but somehow just looked sophisticated on Brandon. A crisp white shirt only emphasized his tanned, chiseled features, shaved but for a light five o'clock shadow. His hair, always a bit unruly, was now combed back into soft waves that framed his face like a golden corona. His blue eyes somehow managed to flash, even in the dim lighting of the restaurant.
He stood as I reached the table. Yeah, that suit looked even better when I got the full body view.
"Skylar," he said as he looked at me with poorly masked appreciation. "You look...great."
I looked down at my simple outfit, then back up. "It's just a black dress."
A broad hand clasped my waist as Brandon leaned in to kiss my cheek. My knees buckled, but he held me up. The rasp of his stubble sent goosebumps up and down my arms, and the familiar scent of almonds, soap, and Brandon made my heart thump. It really wasn't fair the way he could do that.
"You'd stop traffic in a trash bag," he said as he leaned away and, to my irritating regret, dropped his hand. "Shall we?"
I accepted the seat the maître 'd pulled out for me, unaccountably nervous with the formality. I knew that years in a very wealthy, corporate world would have trained him well when it came to social niceties, but this wasn't the Brandon I really knew. The Brandon I knew was happier with pizza than ossobuco. The Brandon I knew preferred jeans to a three-piece suit. The Brandon I knew was just a local boy from South Boston, not this pristine man buried in pomp and circumstance.
Had that all just been an act? The thought was saddening.
Brandon retook his seat with a boyish grin that revealed his dimples, and I couldn't help but smile back. But this was weird. It was weird being this close to one another, this unsure of what to say.
"I––ah––" Brandon cleared his throat awkwardly. "Thanks for coming tonight."
I cocked my head. "Well, you didn't really give me a choice, did you?"
He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, about that. I'm sorry. I just...I really wasn't expecting to see you in that office. And after what had happened the night before, I was still kind of upset."
"Yeah," I said. "Well. It's kind of your thing."
"What's my thing?"
"The railroading." I shrugged, opening up my menu. Everything was written in French.
Brandon's forehead crinkled in confusion. "What?"
"You heard me," I said more calmly than I felt. Good. Focus on what makes you angry. "I give you a limit, and you blatantly disrespect it. Do what you want, and force me along for the ride. It's not...well, we're not seeing each other anymore, but if we were, it would have become a problem. A big one."
Brandon cocked his head as he listened. "I railroad?"
I nodded. "Mm-hmm. Pretty much anytime I do something you don't like."
Brandon scrunched his lips together and tapped a few big fingers on the table. "Well, shit," he said finally. "Then I guess you're not going to like this."
He pulled an envelope from his inner jacket pocket and pushed it across the table. Inside I found a check for the exact same amount that had previously been the balance of my trust, plus the extra cost of liquidating it. It was everything I had sent to begin repaying Brandon's original payment to Victor Messina, the man who had beaten my father within an inch of his life.
"You have got to be kidding." I promptly tore up the check and tossed it into the center of the table. "There is no way you thought I was going to accept that."
Brandon shrugged, but made no move to retrieve the shreds of paper. "True. Which is why I had it deposited into your bank account instead." Before I could open my mouth to ask the obvious question, Brandon shook his head, like I should already know. "HR keeps the files of all of its employees, former and current. I can look up your account information anytime I want."
I gestured angrily at the torn-up check and envelope. "This is exactly what I was talking about. You make these executive decisions about my life even after I explicitly state a desire otherwise. Insane gifts I don't want. Going behind my back to fix problems I never asked you to get involved with in the first place. Keeping shit from me I should have known about from the beginning."
"I accepted your inability to take gifts a while ago, Red, but I'm not taking this one back," Brandon said firmly, but with a sense of humor I found infuriating. It was almost like he was enjoying this, like it was some kind of negotiation. "No matter what you say, I care about you, I care about your family, and I'm probably the only thing stopping those shitheads from showing up while you're gone and taking your dad right back to the track."
"Right," I spat. "Now they're just sending their lackeys to do it instead. Stupid bimbos with giant hair to seduce my dad back to the tables. Seriously, what did you think they were going to do when they realized they could use the guppy to catch the whale?"
I stopped, realizing what had just come out of my mouth. My eyes blinked open, wide with sudden recognition. Corleone. In high school, I had known her younger brother, a kid who used to run errands...for the Messinas. Of course. It wasn't until I uttered the words that I realized just why I didn't like my dad's new "friend" It was so obvious.
Brandon watched me, blue eyes wide as oceans and the tiny crease between his eyebrows becoming more pronounced as he processed my comment. I pressed my face into my hands. I needed to talk to my dad.
"Excuse me," Brandon said abruptly.
He scooted back from the table, and wove his way quickly out of the restaurant. I sat there for a few moments, then pulled out my phone and dialed my dad's number. It went straight to voicemail; he was probably either at the club listening to his band play without him or out with Katie. Quickly I dialed the house line, which also went to the message machine. Bubbe must have been at some temple event tonight too. Damn. Lastly, I called Bubbe's cell, which also went to voicemail.
"Bubbe," I practically barked as quietly as I could manage. "I need to talk to you about Katie. Call me when you can."
"Can I get you something to drink, miss?"
A waiter stood in front of me, hand clasped neatly behind his back while I put my phone away.
"Sure," I said. Might as well. "A glass of your house red, please."
The waiter scurried off just as Brandon returned, oblivious to the way most of the eyes in the restaurant, especially the female ones, followed him with overt interest. I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. At least he had come back.
"Sorry about that," he said curtly as he retook his seat. "I had to take care of something."
"Something related to Victor Messina?"
I hadn't meant it to come out as a snarl, but it did anyway. In response, all I got was a hard look.
Without breaking eye contact, Brandon held a hand up with the obvious awareness that the entire restaurant knew who he was and would cater to his every need. Our waiter appeared almost instantaneously. I snorted.
"What can I get for you, Mr. Sterling?"
"I'll have another twenty-year Michter's, neat. And my friend here will have your best scotch with a splash of water."
"I already ordered wine," I cut in saltily.
Brandon pressed his lips together in a thin line and looked up at the waiter, who visibly quaked.
"Where is it?" Brandon demanded.
"It's-it's on its way, sir. Here in a moment with yours too. Right away, sir."
The waiter skittered away like a scared mouse.
I turned to Brandon. "That was kind of mean. Poor guy is just doing his job. It's not really fair of you to pull out the scary billionaire voice."
"I don't really feel like a nice guy tonight," Brandon replied evenly. "So."
"So."
"You have anything to say?"
I frowned. "About what? You demanded this stupid dinner."
Brandon exhaled strongly through his nose. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"Takes one to know one."
"Skylar, I swear to God––" he started just as the waiter reappeared with both of our drinks.
Saved by alcohol, Brandon grabbed his glass and put down half of it in one gulp. Without asking, he reached over and took a sip of my wine.
"Hey!" I protested, but was once again ignored.
"What is this swill?" Brandon asked, wrinkling his nose. He turned to the waiter and gave him back my glass. "Bring her a glass of the eight-two Margaux."
"Sir, we don't typically serve that wine by the glass––"
"A bottle, then," Brandon cut in. "And another scotch for me."
I just watched the waiter leave with the glass of wine that, in my opinion, hadn't been bad. Brandon didn't even have the decency to look halfway contrite.
"Railroading," I said pointedly.
"Whatever," Brandon replied. "It's on me."
I didn't know if he meant the wine or the mess we were in.
"That's a very nice bourbon to be shooting like cheap tequila," I observed after watching him put down another gulp.
"I can afford it," Brandon retorted, and tipped back the rest. "And God knows I'm going to need it for this conversation. So, now that we've established your unwillingness to accept anything from me at all, you want to tell me what the hell the other night was about? And don't say no. You contacted me, Red."
I opened and closed my mouth several times before sighing audibly. I wasn't going to get out of talking about this. But there were things that had happened in the last several weeks I also didn't want Brandon to know, and I was absolutely terrible at hiding things, especially from someone who could read me as well as he could.
Brandon sighed again. His expression slowly turned from irritable to sympathetic and resigned. "All right. Why don't we just start with this: what were you doing at that club?"
"The same thing everyone was doing there. Getting drunk. Hooking up. You know."
The look on his face told me that he did know, and that he wasn't pleased to hear it.
"Is that what you came here to do?" he asked. "Brag about your random hookups? You ice me out months ago, and the first time I hear from you is at two a.m. when you're shitfaced at a nightclub, puking on the side of the road. Come on, Skylar, that's not you!"
"Maybe it is," I said petulantly. "If that's what it takes, then..."
"What it takes to do what?" Brandon demanded. "To do what, Skylar?"
"To forget you!" I exploded.
My hands landed on the table with a thump hard enough to make the silverware shake. I sucked in a long breath. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't. Where was my wine?
"Yeah. Well. I'm familiar with the feeling," Brandon said sadly. "Did it work?"
I bit my lip again, this time hard enough to hurt. "I think you know the answer to that."
Brandon watched me for a moment. He glanced down at my wrist, where I was wearing the bracelet he had given me before my graduation. I hadn't been able to take it off.
"I'm glad you kept that, at least," he said quietly, as he reached out to touch the metal.
I followed his fingers. His hand was so much darker than mine, a ruddy bronze against my fair, freckled skin.
"It's...special," I said quietly.
"So were we. At least I thought so."
We were quiet until the waiter returned with my wine and prepared to take our orders.
"Red?" Brandon asked.
There was that nickname again. Its casual use made my stomach flip in a way that was all too familiar.
"I haven't looked at the menu," I said lamely. "Can you order for me?"
Maybe it was just that I actually was going to let him do something for me, but Brandon's stern features softened. I could feel my own resolve weakening too.
"She'll have the scallops," he said with a short smile. "And the beet salad to start. I'll have the steak, rare."
The waiter nodded and left us alone once more. The restaurant was a busy din, but I couldn't hear anything. I took another long sip of wine. I had to admit, it was much, much better than what I'd originally ordered.
"Red?" Brandon interrupted my distraction. "Skylar."
I set my glass down. "Yeah?"
"I miss you too."
The simple admission was enough to undo me. Almost immediately tears welled up, so I drank again, remembering Bubbe's advice that you can't cry when you're drinking something. Considering how this night was already going, I was going to have to switch to water soon.
"I still don't really understand," Brandon continued. "Was it just because of the divorce? I mean, I get it...it's a lot to take, and I should have told you about Miranda from the start. But after that night at your place, I thought things were going to be okay."
I shook my head, toying with my napkin. "It was...ugh...what I saw in your papers. The trust you set up. For...him."
Brandon blinked, his eyebrows furrowing adorably in confusion. "For him...oh." He looked up with sudden clarity. "Oh! For Messina, you mean?"
I nodded.
He ran a hand back through his hair, disturbing its neat coif. "Skylar, I––"
"This is what I mean about the railroading. You promised me you would stay out of it," I said bitterly, all of the anger I had felt bubbling up again. "You promised. And then you went behind my back and did it anyway. Like I said, it wasn't ever going to make them go away. They know they've found a gold mine now."
Brandon looked on sadly. "I was just trying to help. I'd rather be the target than your family. Keeping it from you wasn't my goal."
"Yeah, but now they're even more of a target!" I cried, viciously swiping at the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. "They're targets because you're a target! And because I have to pay them back––"
"You don't have to pay them back, Skylar!" Brandon interrupted. "No matter what happens between you and me, you don't ever have to worry about that!"
"Well, I still have to pay you," I countered.
"Why? You know I would never accept it."
"If I didn't," I insisted, "I wouldn't have taken this job at Kiefer Knightly. I would be able to stay in New York and take care of my family."
"Is that what you want?"
Brandon leaned over and grabbed my hand. I couldn't pull away, locked as I was by his earnest blue gaze.
"Because I can make that happen," he continued. "I can get you a job at whatever firm you want. I would do anything for you, Red, if I knew it would make you happy."
He squeezed my fingers. It felt like he was squeezing my heart. A few more tears fell, and reflexively, I squeezed back. I hated this.
I considered the option. I could let him help in this way. I could take a fancy job in New York, where I could stay close to my dad and keep him out of trouble. Take the New York bar exam instead of the Boston one.
But the truth was, I hadn't only taken the job in Boston just to pay Brandon back or to afford my dad's treatment. These were the excuses I'd used to ignore the real reason: that I was terrified I'd never see Brandon again.
"Do you want to leave Boston, Skylar?" Brandon asked. His eyes, having lost all their fieriness, were wide and searching.
"No," I whispered. The dam broke. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks, and I couldn't stop them. "I miss you so much. Everything hurts. I see you everywhere, even places you're not. And then, when I had to––"
I cut myself off before I admitted my worst secret. I pulled my hand from Brandon's warm grasp and covered my face, wishing more than anything I were not in the middle of a crowded restaurant full of curious onlookers.
When I dropped my hands, I was surprised to find that Brandon had left his seat and was squatting next to my chair. He pulled my head down to his broad shoulder and let me cry into the sleek lines of his suit jacket as he hushed me softly. I grasped at his lapels, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of him, desperate to be close. It felt so good. And yet, it hurt so, so much.
"Shh," Brandon crooned in my ear. "I got you."
God, I was such a basket case. The doctor had told me it would take a while for my hormones to settle down; clearly, she was right. Brandon, to his credit, acted like there was nothing strange about holding me while I bawled in the middle of one of the ritziest restaurants in New England.
"I'm here now," he murmured again, gently stroking my back. "It'll be okay, I promise."
When I finally got control of myself, I pushed reluctantly from his chest and sat up, dabbing at my eyes. With one hand balanced on the back of my chair and the other on the table, Brandon had me effectively caged with his warmth. He flashed a slightly toned-down version of his signature thousand-watt smile, but one that was meant just for me. It was a little bit sad, a little bit hopeful, and a little bit something special. My heart melted even more.
He raised a big hand and pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The hand lingered, and instinctually I pushed my cheek into his palm. Tenderly, his thumb stroked my skin.
"Skylar, I swear to God," Brandon said, his voice cracking slightly. "I never meant to hurt you. Do you believe that?"
Slowly, I nodded.
"I...I can't do anything about the mistakes I've made," he continued. "But...I would do anything––anything––to make you happy. Do you believe that?"
He leaned in and pressed his forehead lightly against mine. I closed my eyes again and took in his clean scent. Then I nodded once more.
"I love you, Skylar. Do you believe that?"
I opened my eyes. Brandon was perfectly still; only the rise and fall of his chest betrayed his calm.
"Do you love me yet, Red?"
Another tear fell down my cheek. Those words, which had been at the bottom of every mea culpa letter he'd sent, tugged at my heart more than anything.
"I do," I whispered. "I'm so angry at you. At myself. But I don't want to fight it anymore, Brandon, because I do love you, so, so much. I never stopped."
Brandon closed his eyes this time as he exhaled. When he opened them again, his eyes were alight.
"Thank fucking God," he breathed before he closed his mouth over mine in a kiss that seared every cell in my body.
My arms wrapped instinctually around his neck, pulling him closer. I no longer cared that we were the center of attention in a room that had gone suspiciously quiet. I just wanted close again. I wanted to be where I belonged.
A loud throat-clearing interrupted our reunion all too quickly.
"Um, sir?"
We started apart and looked to where the waiter stood awkwardly, holding our plates of food.
"Your dinner, sir," he mumbled, clearly wishing he were literally anywhere else.
I giggled, swiping again with my napkin at the tear stains that had likely ruined my makeup. Brandon shook his head sheepishly as he stood up.
"I think we'll take it to go," he said with a wry smile. "Charge it to my account, and have it sent up front, will you?"
The waiter nodded, his nervous face darting back and forth between Brandon and me before he left to box up our food. I finished dabbing my face with the napkin, while Brandon watched with a kind, yet guarded expression.
"Sorry," he said. "Do you, ah, want to continue this elsewhere?"
I glanced around the restaurant. People were no longer even trying to hide the fact that they were staring at us.
"Yeah," I admitted. "I definitely think that would be best."
~
We left the restaurant with a veritable picnic basket in hand, as the staff had been kind enough to box up our food and even what remained of the bottle of wine I'd barely drunk, all packed neatly into a silver paper bag.
"That's good stuff," Brandon said when I'd expressed my surprise at the wine-to-go. "You don't want to waste it."
It wasn't until much later that I discovered it was a five-hundred-dollar bottle. Waste not, want not, I suppose.
David pulled up in the Mercedes, but instead of leading us to it, Brandon turned to me with a somewhat shameful expression.
"This is embarrassing," he admitted. "But I have to ask you to take a different car."
I bit my lip. Apparently, this evening hadn't ended the way I thought it had.
"Oh," I said. "Okay, then."
Brandon quickly reached out to grip my hand. "No, no, it's not like that, Red. I-–do you mind if I come over?"
I brightened. "Sure."
He delivered an ear-splitting grin that practically lifted my heart out of my chest.
"Great," he said. Then he shifted uneasily. "But we'll have to travel separately. I already had the concierge here call you a separate town car just after mine. Miranda...well, Kieran thinks there's a good chance she put a P.I. on me. It wouldn't be good for you or me if she saw pictures of us together."
There was an awkward pause at the mention of Brandon's still-pending divorce, a long process that his ex-wife had been stringing out for years, but which was undoubtedly taking even longer now that she had discovered my presence in his life. Part of me didn't completely blame her; Brandon Sterling was a hard man to get rid of once you'd let him in.
I looked back at the restaurant with sudden clarity. The Martin, aside from being expensive and impressive, also had excellent security. No wonder Brandon had wanted to meet here.
"I'd like to say that if it's too much for you, you can leave," Brandon said quietly as he reached out to stroke my hand shyly. "But I'm just too selfish for that, I guess. Or else not strong enough."
I said nothing. I couldn't promise that I would forget everything that had happened between us, or even that I would be okay with the fact that he wasn't yet divorced. But I wasn't going anywhere again.
Brandon pulled me to him and tipped my head up.
"Are you really here?" he asked as he brushed a thumb across the outer edge of my jaw and then toyed with the strand of my hair that kept falling out.
Behind us, the maître 'd studiously turned around.
My mouth quirked. "I am," I said. "But these things...we do have stuff to work out." My stomach clenched. I hated to admit it, but there were things I would have to tell him too.
"We can work it out, Skylar," Brandon said vehemently. The arm around my waist squeezed, like he was afraid I'd bolt.
"I want to," I said softly.
I placed my own hand on his cheek, tracing my fingers across the stubble covering the strong bones of his cheeks and jaw. My thumb brushed over his full mouth, and he bit it lightly before letting go. Something else tightened deep in my belly.
"We will," he stated firmly.
Brandon kissed me again, more softly than before, but no less potent. It was the kind of kiss that tasted of love, not lust, the kind that could last for hours. The kind I could completely lose myself in.
Much to my regret, however, Brandon broke away. "Wait five minutes, then go out to take the next town car that pulls up. I'll see you at your place. Wait in the lobby for me, will you?"
I nodded, and he strode through the doors out to his car. I looked out the window for any signs of a flash or even the reflection of a lens. If there was someone watching Brandon, they did a good job staying invisible.
My heart sunk a little as I watched the Mercedes drive off. We weren't doing anything wrong, and yet...some part of me felt like a dirty secret. Which in a way, I realized with a cringe, I had been all the time.
~