Page 3 of Second Time Around
Will waved at the unexpected bounty. “To make up for the inconvenience of having to wait.” He held up the take-out bag. “And some extra apology for later.”
“Really, it wasn’t that big a deal,” she protested.
“I disagree.” His tone was sharp.
She picked up the wrap and bit into it, leaning over abruptly as a glob of avocado-yogurt spread gushed from the open end of the tortilla and plopped onto the plate.
Will’s jaw tightened and his eyes turned the frigid green of a winter ocean. Kyra felt another pang of sympathy for the café’s unlucky, albeit incompetent, manager.
“That is unacceptable,” he said, his fingers drumming an irritated beat on the tabletop.
“It’s very generous,” she said, trying to tilt the rolled-up tortilla so it didn’t ooze spread from every crevice.
“Too much is as bad as too little. The balance of ingredients is crucial,” he snapped. He flattened his palm on the table so his fingers were still. “Sorry. It’s not your fault they can’t get it right.”
“Don’t be too hard on whoever you’re going to ream out. It’s got to be nerve-racking to have the CEO inspect your place, so he or she may have overreacted.”
“He wouldn’t have anything to worry about if he hadn’t shortchanged a customer on an expensive ingredient. That’s not how Ceres generates profits.”
“‘You make money the old-fashioned way. You earn it.’” She imitated a plummy British accent.
His fine blond brows drew down in thought. “If that’s a quote, I can’t place it.”
“It’s from an old commercial that my father used to repeat all the time. For some brokerage firm that doesn’t exist anymore.”
His scary CEO look eased. “I like to think that’s true about Ceres.” He leaned back in the chair. “So tell me what you’re doing instead of editing.”
She pointed to her mouth to indicate she was chewing.
“Sorry. It’s not fair to ask you questions while you’re eating.” Something about his apologetic tone made her able to see past the CEO to the student she used to know.
“I took too big a bite because I have to go soon,” she said. “My night job is bartending at Stratus, and I need to change into my work clothes.”
A fleeting look of surprise and perhaps disappointment crossed his face. “Stratus is very high-end. You must be an excellent bartender.”
“Have you ever been there?”
He shook his head.
“Well, if you decide to visit, your first drink is on me,” she said. “My day job is cooking for about fifty kids at an after-school care center in South Harlem. It’s a great gig.” Especially since it came with arent-free apartment on the top floor of a townhouse owned by one of the center’s board members. In lieu of a salary, of course.
“So you went into the food business, too.” He smiled. “You used to whip up amazing dishes in that tiny kitchen in your suite.”
She’d always cooked after her mother’s phone calls. The meditative repetition of chopping and stirring and scrubbing the pots afterward offered an escape from the guilt and stress. The more complicated the dish, the more relaxing she found it.
“You had a knack for dropping by just as the food came out of the oven,” she said.
“‘After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.’”
She had to think about that one. “Oscar Wilde?”
“You’ve still got it,” he said.
“Don’t ever doubt it.” But she doubted it herself. As time rolled on and she still hadn’t found a way to return to college, the knowledge she’d worked so hard to acquire seemed to leach away. She met his intense gaze squarely. “I’m afraid I need to say good-bye.”
For good. He brought back too many yearnings that had no place in her life now.
But Will reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pen and a business card, and scrawled something on the back of it. “This is my personal cell number. Give me a call the next time you crave a lamb wrap. I’ll make sure you get a good one.”
She zipped the card into a pocket in her backpack and stood, holding out her hand. “Great to see you, Will.”
He stood as well. Instead of taking her hand, he walked around the table. “A handshake is too formal between old college friends.” He cupped his hands over her shoulders and bent to brush his lips against her cheek.
Warm, firm lips. A whiff of something clean and woodsy from his aftershave. A tickle at her temple as his hair whispered against her skin.She was back at Brunell, longing for him to put his arms around her and pull her in so her breasts would be crushed against that well-muscled chest, her thighs intertwined with his, her fingers buried in the golden spill of his hair.
And he had, just that once.
She stepped away and swung her backpack over her shoulder. “Rah, Brunell!”
Then she walked out of his restaurant—and his life—one more time.
