“I still can’t believe how smoothly your break-up went.” She pauses. “Actually, never mind. I can. If I ever divorce Adam, I’m having Craig handle the entire thing.”
She is right. My break-up with Craig couldn’t have been more peaceful. He hadn’t argued or shouted. There had been no tears or debates. He had listened to my fumbling attempt at discussing my feelings, then had moved to the closet and packed his bag. Before stepping out of the hotel room, we’d discussed our relationship going forward (cordial acquaintances), and whether he should contribute to the hotel bill (no). I have no doubt that, in his perfectly-organized home office, there had been an ‘In Case We Break Up’ folder, complete with a list of to-do items. By the time I’d returned to the US, I had a box on my kitchen counter with all of my things from his house, along with a typed list of items he was requesting from me. He had paper-clipped a counselor’s business card to the top of the list, along with signed papers from the bank that removed his name from all of our joint accounts. I’d returned his things the next week, and hadn’t heard from him since.
I lean against the wall. “I’m worried telling Trey will change our relationship.”
She looks at me. “That might not be a bad thing. He’s ridiculously hot … you need a new man…” She shrugs as if my problems are solved.
“It’s not that simple. Maybe if we were just friends—” I rub my eyes. “But the company needs us both. And he knows that. I don’t think he’d even do anything with me, for fear of messing up that.”
“Okay…” she drawls out, nodding at a passerby and moving farther down the aisle. “You’re not making any sense. Do you want to date the guy or not?”
Do I want to date Trey? It isn’t even worth considering. I can’t date Trey. “No,” I manage to say.
“No?” She raises her eyebrows in the knowing way that only a sister can.
“No,” I repeat, and this time the short word is heavy with resolve.
She only laughs in response.
Him
The brunette is a younger version of Kate, her breasts swelling over the top of the balconet bra. I watch as she lounges against the pillows, one knee pulling up, a hip curving. A man in a suit steps forward, stopping before her.
“What do you think?” Kate asks quietly. Bulbs flash and there is a snap of the shutter.
“It’s a gamble.” I shrug. “But I like to gamble.” Like father, like son.
“Think it’ll be too risqué for the stores?” The man kneels before the model, his hand on her thigh.
“I’m not sure. But marketing loves the idea of sexualizing the shoot. They think they can get the photos to go viral.” I pull out my phone and refresh my email.
“Still waiting on the Neiman Marcus order?”
“Yep.” We are already solidly in the black for this season. However, their national order could give us firm footing to launch proper advertising. I lock the phone and slide it into my pocket.
“By the way…” she shifts in her heels, and I look over, something in her delivery giving me pause. “Craig and I broke up.”
It is so unexpected that I take a step back, my heart doing a confused jig—made of elation and dread. I swallow. “Really.”
“Yeah. I just thought you should know.” She looks down at her clipboard, making a mark on the page. “Not that it changes anything. I just—”
“Why did you break up?” She had to have ended it. There was no way that he—that any man—would walk away from her.
“I don’t know.” Her shoulders lift. “I just felt that I might be making a mistake. And our relationship felt…” she pauses, and I feel my entire soul hang on the end of that sentence.
“…like a business relationship,” she finally concludes. I understand what she is saying, the sterile way they had interacted, Craig’s formal planning and execution of every task—but still. The word choice stabs at me.
I force myself to step closer to Kate, to return to our prior positions, my eyes on the models, the man now leaning over the woman, pinning her wrists to the bed. Kate tucks her hair behind her ear, and I catch a whiff of her perfume. She slides a hand down the shooting schedule, and I watch the delicate slide of her fingers across the page. She’s single. My Kate is single. No ring on her finger, no calls on her phone, nothing to stop me from hooking my hand around her waist and pulling her against me. I turn and step away, call out to a photographer’s assistant, and have him walk me through the lighting.
Working with her for the ten months—it has already been a strain on my willpower. Now, with Craig removed from the equation, will I be able to control myself? I glance back at her, my gaze moving up her body, enjoying the feminine curves, the casual slouch, the confident way she calls out to the photographer.