Capture

“Technically I just press the buttons.” I was having difficulty relaxing beneath his gaze, so I fidgeted with my tea cup and spoon.

“Parker, just take the compliment and say thank you.”

“I won’t. I won’t take it because I don’t deserve it. The machines make good coffee, as do the bean growers and bean roasters.”

His face told me he thought I was being ridiculous. “Fine, then you’re an excellent button pusher.”

“Thank you. I accept the compliment and acknowledge that I excel at pushing buttons.”

“Especially my buttons.” He paired this with a smirk and an eyebrow lift.

I huffed, irritated I’d walked right into that verbal trap, and yet reluctantly amused by the word play. “Very funny, Sandeke.”

His smirk became a smile. Then he laughed and my heart gave a little leap.

Suddenly, it was nine months ago and we were on a plane headed for the island. I was faced with the heady sight of a happy Martin. It was a reminder that happiness on Martin was a revelation of beauty and physical perfection married to excellent and infectious good-mood vibes.

But this time I didn’t laugh. My heart felt tender and wary of this Martin, because he was so easy to like. So I crossed my arms over my chest, protecting myself from the onslaught of his magnetic charisma, and waited for his laughter to recede.

When he saw I wasn’t charmed, his smile faded and he straightened in his seat, clearing his throat as though he were about to speak.

I spoke first, wanting to get right to the point. “Why are you here? What do you want to talk about?”

He must’ve read something in my expression, perhaps a hardness in my eyes that told him I was low on patience, because when he spoke next, everything about his demeanor changed.

His eyes grew sharp, the set of his jaw rigid, and his shoulders leaned back in the chair, making him appear taller, more imposing, and yet relaxed at the same time. Based on this body language and what I knew about power dynamics from watching my mother, I surmised we were about to enter into a negotiation.

I was quickly proven correct.

“I want to discuss the terms of our friendship.”

I stared at him, careful to keep my face devoid of expression, even though I wanted to yell, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

Instead I said, “What friendship?”

“The one you promised would always be mine if I ever wanted it, no matter what happened between us.”

This made me blink several times, succeeded in cracking my calm exterior, but I managed to say in a steady voice, “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. I’m completely serious. You promised I would always have a safe place with you, and now I want that safe place.”

This was the Martin I remembered. This was the unyielding, demanding, blunt boy that had stolen then broken my heart.

I gritted my teeth and willed the rising tide of so many different emotions to stay buried. Obviously anger was the first, the strongest to swell in my chest and try to choke me. Again, he must’ve seen something shift or build in my expression because, and to my astonishment, he leaned forward and his austere business façade yielded, his eyes turned beseeching.

“Listen, I’m not here to take more than you’re willing to offer. Obviously you can tell me to go fuck myself. All I’m asking for is a chance to be your friend. Because, even though things between us didn’t end well, I still trust and respect you more than anyone I’ve ever met. You are,” he paused, gathered a deep breath, his gaze searching as it skated over my face, “Kaitlyn, you are incredibly honorable, and reasonable, and good. I could really use your advice. I could really use some honorable and good in my life.”

“But not reason?” I questioned, stalling, not sure what to make of this impassioned speech.

“No. I have plenty of reason. But without honor and goodness, reason isn’t worth much.”

My lips parted in surprise and I felt my mask of indifference slip at his shockingly wise words. He looked earnest and focused and I knew I was already teetering on the edge of acceptance.

But the acrid taste of past heartbreak and the bitterness of his previous betrayal held me back, keeping my altruistic instincts from taking over.

And something else, something petty and entirely based on vanity.

When we had this conversation in the past, at the cottage on the island, he’d told me at the time that he could never be indifferent enough to be my friend. That he would always want me too fiercely to settle for just friendship.

If he wanted to be friends now, that could only mean he’d become indifferent to me. He didn’t want me anymore. And that made my vain, selfish heart hurt. This realization stung, because I couldn’t imagine being able to achieve the same indifference toward him.

“You don’t have to answer me now.” His gaze and tone were steady, sensible.

I wanted to tell him he’d hurt me too deeply, that this newfound indifference toward me that allowed him to ask for friendship was hurting me now. But I couldn’t. Because that would be giving him the knowledge he still had power over my feelings.

Instead I opted to make the decision his and, by doing so, I hoped it would push him away. “Let’s say I only agree to be your friend if you tell the world your father is an evil asshole and that our families were never close, that he never had influence over my mother. What would you do?”

I didn’t expect Martin to grin, but that’s what he did as he quickly replied, “Parker, I already did that. I did that, like, two months ago.”

Again I felt my mask slip and I blinked at him in astonishment. “You did?”

“Yes. The interview was in the Washington Post. Haven’t you read any of the interviews I’ve given?”

I shook my head and answered honestly, “No. I haven’t. I’ve been avoiding them.”

“None of them?” Something like dawning realization cast a shadow over his features.

Again I shook my head. “No. I didn’t…” I took a deep breath and forced myself to continue the thought, “I didn’t want to know about you. I didn’t want to know what you were doing.”

This was mostly because given how well and unaffected he’d looked the last time I saw him, and how wretched and heartbroken I’d been, I assumed he’d quickly moved on with his life, maybe even dated other women. In fact, given the fact he had a date last week at my show, I was now certain he’d dated other women.

I didn’t need to see magazine spreads and page sixes of Martin Sandeke, the most eligible bachelor of the universe, hitting the town with his legion of admirers.

Meanwhile I hadn’t been able to move on.

He stared at me for a long moment, his grin waning into a pensive frown.

“Are you going to read them?”

I shrugged, tried to look unaffected. “Probably not.”

Martin’s open gaze morphed into an irritated glare at my statement.

Abruptly he said, “I searched everywhere trying to find out about you, what you were doing, how you were. That’s how I found your band.”

“My band? Wait, what?”

“I hired your band to play that party last week. Well, my PA did. It was for a group of startups focused on rural technology education initiatives. It’s a new project of mine.”

I didn’t hear anything after, I hired your band to play that party last week.

“Why would you do that?”

“For the same reason I’m sitting here right now.” Martin sounded like he was on the border of exasperated and angry.

My gaze drifted to the table between us as I tried to sort through this mountain of surprising information. He hired my band? Why? To have the opportunity to talk to me? But then he brought a date to the event? What the what?

But before I made it very far, he stood, drawing my attention and focus back to him. He’d pulled out his wallet.

“Listen, you take some time. You think about it. Here’s my number.”

I accepted his card without looking at it as I was too busy staring at him with muddled incredulity.

Dumbly I said, “You have a card?”

“Yes. It has my personal cell phone number. If I don’t hear from you I’ll stop by again next week.”

“So…you what? Have other business cards that have a different number on them? Ones without your personal cell phone number?” Leave it to me to be caught up in the details.

His frown intensified, as though I’d asked a trick question, then he eventually responded, “Yes. My other cards have the number of my PA. So what?”

“You realize you’re a twenty-one-year-old with two different business cards, right? And a PA. And likely a corner office someplace.” This was all coming out of my mouth stream of consciousness, as I was thinking and speaking at the same time.

He blinked at me, shook his head like he didn’t understand my meaning, like of course he had a corner office.

“That makes you both impressive and ridiculous. Please tell me your towels aren’t monogrammed.”

Martin set his jaw as he recognized my meaning, but I could see the reluctant smile in his eyes as he peered down at me.

“They are monogrammed, aren’t they? And you’ve probably taken to calling them ‘linens.’”