The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club) (21 page)

I cleaned it out: tossed the pots and the spade, dusted the shelves, wiped the corners free of cobwebs, washed the windows, swept the floor. I even got down on my knees and scrubbed the floorboards. And when all of that was done, when the shed smelled like a daisy and gleamed like fresh snow, I hauled in my favorite and most comfortable armchair. Then I brought up two boxes of books that I had ordered from Amazon, and arranged them neatly on the shelves. Regan seemed to read widely and indiscriminately, so I bought the entirety of several end-of-year “best books” lists.

By the time I had everything cleaned and organized to my liking, I was sweating and had shed my coat altogether. The work had been worth it: the shed looked cozy and inviting. I still planned to have an electrician wire the shed and install lighting and some type of radiant heat, but for now, it was good enough.

I hoped that Regan would like it.

There was nothing left to do but contact her, and hope.

I
spent several days dithering over the best way to get in touch with Regan. Showing up at her apartment was utterly out of the question, of course, and even a phone call seemed too intrusive. Text messaging was far too casual. Eventually, I settled on email as the best medium, and then agonized over the wording, drafting and redrafting until I finally got fed up with myself and hit send.

Regan would reply, or she wouldn’t. That I had used
eager
instead of
excited
wouldn’t make a difference.

After I sent the message, I spent fifteen excruciating minutes sitting at my computer refreshing my inbox, until I finally gave up on the possibility of getting any further work accomplished that afternoon. I changed in my office and went for a run down to Battery Park and then home along the Esplanade and the Greenway. It was one of those unseasonably warm March days, with fat white clouds scudding across the sky, and it seemed that half of New York was out enjoying the sunshine. I dodged parents with strollers, happy dogs, and darting children, and knew, for the first time since Regan broke up with me, that everything would turn out for the best. Even if Regan never replied to my email, I would have joy in my life again.

But I hoped Regan would share in that joy with me.

When I arrived at home, I forced myself not to check my computer immediately. Instead, I showered, and went outside to sit on the terrace with a glass of green juice and the latest issue of The Economist, which I never had enough time to read cover-to-cover the way I would like. I stayed out there until I got cold, and then I went in and finally checked my email.

Regan had replied to me.

Heart in my mouth, I clicked on the message.

It took me a few moments to process what I was seeing. It was a short email, only a few lines, but the words it contained would transform my life irrevocably, for good or for ill.

I took a breath, and read.

Dear Carter,

It’s really nice to hear from you. I agree that there are some things we should probably talk about. I work in the Financial District now. Maybe we could meet somewhere for lunch? Any weekday is okay with me.

Regan

I pushed the computer away from me and leaned my head into my hands, overcome. I hadn’t let myself spend much time considering the possibility that Regan would refuse to see me, but the relief I felt now, a buoyant lifting in my chest, told me how much I had feared that happening.

Regan would see me. She
wanted
to see me.

The thought occurred to me: Did I truly want to see her?

I fixed dinner, my thoughts churning. I had been so caught up in Sadie’s scheming that I didn’t take the time to work through how I really felt about the whole situation. Lunch with Regan wasn’t a guarantee that she was interested in dating me again, and even if she was, how did I know she wouldn’t leave me once more? There had been no warning the first time: everything was going swimmingly, and then she ended it, a bolt from the blue. I had little desire to put myself through that again.

Ultimately, I was facing a leap of faith. I couldn’t predict the future, and I certainly couldn’t predict Regan’s actions. Renewing my relationship with her was a risk. She could leave me again, as easily as she had before, and I would be left to piece myself back together.

Love was inherently risky.

That four-letter word. Not a subject I was willing to consider yet. I steered my thoughts away.

The decision, then: to take the chance, or to retreat now and always wonder.

It was hardly a choice.

I replied to Regan’s email while my dinner cooled to an edible temperature. I suggested a place—my favorite hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop, for an inexpensive meal and, if necessary, a quick getaway—and a time—Friday at noon. She wrote back later that evening to confirm.

And that was that, except I spent the next two days kicking myself for suggesting Friday. It seemed endlessly distant, a foreign shore I swam toward but would never reach. I found it impossible to focus on work, and was equally restless at home in the evenings, wandering aimlessly around the apartment and cleaning things that my housekeeper kept in pristine condition.

Friday would change everything, one way or another.

On Friday morning, I sequestered myself in my office with a pot of coffee and tore through a pile of paperwork I had been avoiding. I hated paperwork so much that my rage propelled me clear through until lunch, and occupied my attention so thoroughly that I had no time to fret over my impending meeting with Regan. When my phone beeped at a quarter to 12, I emerged from my fugue state with a sense of dim panic, as if I had forgotten something vital. But I hadn’t; I would be on time.

I told Nancy that I would be back in an hour, and walked the few blocks to the sandwich shop. It was a nice day, sunny and not too cold, and I tucked my hands in my pockets and felt—hopeful. Maybe it was premature, and maybe Regan would crush all of my dreams and leave me a miserable wreck of a man, but I was all in. All of my cards were on the table.

Regan was in line at the counter when I walked in, staring up at the menu board. I recognized her even from behind: the long sweep of her hair, her navy coat, the way she cocked her hip to one side as she thought.

My heart rolled over in my chest, just from seeing her.

I walked up behind her and, gently, not wanting to startle her, placed one hand on her shoulder.

She turned and looked at me, and gave me a smile so shy and sweet that I ached to hold her against me. “Hi, Carter,” she said.

“Regan,” I said, and then simply stood there, gazing at her, every word I wanted to say turning to dust in my mouth. I swallowed. “If you need help choosing a sandwich, I can give you a recommendation.”

“I was thinking about the hummus wrap,” she said, tucking her hair behind one ear, and I stared down at her, numb, joyful, and said, “That’s a good choice.”

“What are you getting?” she asked. Such a mundane question, when my universe was in the midst of expanding from a single point of white heat.

I pretended to consider the menu board. I ordered the same thing every time I came here—dull and predictable, maybe, but I knew what I liked. “Oh, maybe the pastrami.”

“Yuck,” Regan said, wrinkling her nose adorably.

Christ. I didn’t stand a chance.

We ordered our sandwiches and took our trays to a table by a window, overlooking the lunchtime foot traffic outside. I watched as Regan shed her coat and arranged it over the back of her chair, along with her purse and scarf. She wore a green blouse in a shade that my mother probably would have described as “emerald,” and silver earrings that dangled toward her shoulders.

She looked beautiful.

I didn’t know where to begin. “So,” I said.

She smiled at me. “This is kind of weird, isn’t it? I feel like I haven’t seen you in a million years, but also like I saw you yesterday. And I have so many things I want to say, but I don’t know where to start.”

“I feel exactly the same way,” I said, grateful that she had expressed the sentiment and spared me the task.

She unwrapped her sandwich, her hair falling in her eyes and concealing her face.  She seemed—calm. Older. Like she had grown up, somehow, in the two months since I had seen her last. “So, um. How have you been?”

She wanted to play this game, then: polite phrases that meant nothing, changed nothing. Maybe lunch had been a mistake. “Fine,” I said. “Staying busy. Business as usual. What about you? Germaine told me that you aren’t working at the club anymore.” Was that a tactical error, admitting that I had spoken to Germaine about her? Surely she expected that I would, or at least considered it as a possibility.

“Yeah, I’m—I got a new job. I’m working as a legal secretary now.” She shrugged, still looking down at her tray. “And I started back at school. I’m taking two night classes this semester. It’s not a lot, but, you know. Baby steps.”

“A legal secretary,” I repeated. “That’s wonderful, Regan.” I was selfishly glad that she hadn’t taken another job that involved men viewing her as a sexual object—even though I had, at one point,
been
one of those men.

She glanced up at me, shy as a wild animal. “I thought about—you know. What you said, about how there had to be something I wanted to do with my life, instead of just working at the club. And I decided that you were right, that I’ve been hiding from—from life, I guess, and so I sent my resume around to a bunch of law offices, and I got a job. Somehow.”

“What type of law firm?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Finance stuff. They do a lot of things.”

There was no doubt in my mind that Regan knew
exactly
what type of practice she was working for, and could have listed every major client and case. For whatever reason, she always seemed to find it easier to play dumb. I didn’t understand the impulse, and didn’t like it. I didn’t want her to hide her intellect around me. I unwrapped my sandwich and opened my bottle of iced tea. “What sorts of cases are you working on?”

“Well,” she said, and hesitated. “Right now I’m helping with some intellectual property stuff. Just doing some basic research and filing paperwork, basically. It’s not anything very complicated. But I’m—I like the lawyer I’m working for. A woman. She’s nice to me. She told me that—I did good work on the last case, and so she’s going to give me more responsibilities now.”

I was proud of her, and still hurt, and angry that she underestimated her own potential so severely. “Of course she’s going to,” I said. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“I was really afraid I would screw it up,” she said. “I mean, maybe I still will. I hope I won’t. I really like the job.”

“You’ll be running the place within a year,” I said. “And you’re back in school, too?”

She nodded. “I’d like to finish my degree. It’s going to take me a while, but. I think it’s worth it.”

“That’s great,” I said again, and sounded like such a babbling fool, even to myself, that I forced myself to shut up and eat my sandwich for a little while.

We sat in silence, eating our sandwiches. Regan stared out the window, jaw working. I wondered what she was thinking about. I felt too far removed from her to ask. She was only on the other side of the table, but it might as well have been a thousand miles.

Lunch was definitely a mistake. I was glad that Regan was doing well, but I didn’t want to sit here and make awkward small talk with her. This wasn’t what I expected. I wasn’t sure what I
had
expected, though. Closure? Some type of explanation? For her to throw herself at me, sobbing, and beg me to take her back?

Whatever it was, it seemed that it wasn’t going to happen.

But then she turned back to face me and set her sandwich on her tray. She had a set to her chin that I recognized, a stubborn determination that was quintessentially Regan. “I want to say that I’m sorry,” she said. “For how I ended things.” She drew in a deep breath. “It was really—unkind of me, and cowardly, to break up with you over the phone. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

Was
that
what I wanted? Maybe. With her words, I felt something hard and cold inside my chest begin to unravel. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She closed her eyes. “It was just—being home again. Seeing my mom. Seeing all my relatives. Nothing’s changed there. It’s all exactly the same as it was when I left. It was like going back into my past, and I started feeling like maybe I hadn’t ever left. Not really. Some part of me was still there, living in San Bernardino like a ghost. And I didn’t know how to reconcile that part with all the rest of me. So I guess I got scared. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared.” She opened her eyes again and shrugged. “Have you ever been scared like that? Like no matter what you do, you can’t change anything. You’re powerless.”

My whole life, I had been able to do anything I wanted,
get
anything I wanted, simply by being who I was. I could change everything. I had never been powerless.

Maybe I understood, finally, what Sadie meant when she said that Regan thought she wasn’t good enough for me. It wasn’t about inadequacy; it was about the sheer, insurmountable difference in our experiences.

Insurmountable
wasn’t the right word. If I thought that, I wouldn’t be here. I would have given up already.

With absolutely no premeditation whatsoever, I said, “Why didn’t you tell me that you were a virgin?”

Regan moaned and covered her face with both hands. “Oh, God. Did Sadie tell you that? I didn’t think she knew.”

“She deduced,” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to bring that up. It’s probably not something we need to talk about right now.”

“No, it’s okay,” Regan said. Hands still hiding her face, she said, “I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed, and I thought that if I told you, you wouldn’t have sex with me, and I was probably right about that. And I really wanted to have sex with you, so I didn’t say anything.”

“I wish you had told me,” I said. “I would have been—”

“What, gentle?” she asked dryly, finally dropping her hands. “Tender? I don’t think so. I didn’t want you to be.”