I set up shop in the dining room, with a clear view of the stairs from the loft. Otherwise, I let Sydney rest. I have a million e-mails to respond to, all of them about the impending sale of the company. E-mails I've been neglecting ever since the incident with Sydney. Nothing else seemed to matter after that, and now it's coming back to bite me in the ass.
My phone rings as I'm deleting about half the e-mails in my inbox. I look at the display and see that it's an unfamiliar number. Thinking it might be a client needing some work done, I answer it.
“Jack Bronson,” I say. “What can I help you with?”
“Hey Jack,” a female's voice says. “It's me, Marianne.”
I try to recall the name, and it hits me after a second or two. The girl from the shop. The pretty one who helped me put together some clothes for Sydney.
She continues. “You dropped your business card, and I thought I might give you a call.”
I somehow doubt I dropped a card, which means she found my phone number some other way. Not surprising though. It's probably linked to my credit card or something. “Hey, Marianne,” I say. “What's up?”
“Just wanting to check in with you to see if your friend liked the clothes we picked out,” she says, her tone very light and conversational.
“She did, actually. Thank you again for your help,” I say. “I have the other sizes she didn't use in a bag, ready to be returned when I get the chance.”
“That's totally fine,” she says. “As long as the tags are attached, and they haven't been worn, we should take them back.”
“Great,” I say. “That sounds perfect.”
I scratch my head and wait for her to continue. I have nothing else to say to her, really. Finally, after a long, awkward silence, she clears her throat and continues.
“Listen, so the clothes – they're really for somebody who's just a friend, right?”
“MmmHmm,” I say, knowing where this is going and trying to find a way to shut it down before it even starts.
I think back to what had happened upstairs. Maybe I'm wrong about that, but I have no doubt that once Sydney's memory comes back, things will change. That was probably a one-time deal, and though I ache for more, I'm at least glad I was able to bring her a few moments of peace and pleasure.
“Well, you did mention you were single, and I – well, I'm just going to come out and ask. Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”
“Dinner?” I ask. “As in a date?”
“Yeah, dinner,” she says and laughs nervously, though she doesn't mention the date part. “I can make a mean lasagna. And honestly, it's been so long since I've cooked for anyone it might be nice to get into the kitchen again. I just thought if you weren't seeing anyone, maybe we could – ”
I cut her off right there. “Listen, Marianne. You seem like a sweet girl, so I'm not going to dick you around. You do not want to date me. I'm seriously bad news when it comes to dating. Seriously bad.”
She laughs. “Don't be silly,” she says. “You're such a gentleman, buying all those clothes for an old friend like that.”
“You don't know me. Not really,” I say. “Trust me, that's only a sliver of who I am, and you wouldn't like the rest. Most days, I don't like the rest.”
The phone is silent for a long time, and I think she's hung up on me, but then I hear her sigh.
“I'm guessing that's a no, then?” she says.
She sounds not just mortified, but sad. Like I rejected her and brought her whole world crashing down around her. Shit. I hate making girls sad, but I didn't ask for this.
“I don't date, Marianne. Period. It's nothing wrong with you,” I say. “You're a very attractive woman, you're sweet – I just don't want to get involved with anyone because it never ends well for anybody. I swear that it's nothing personal.”
“Yeah, okay,” she says.
I can tell she doesn't believe a word I'm saying. Of course not. Everything I said was little more than the cliché garbage most men say to avoid making a woman cry while they try to let them down as gently as they possibly can. In this case though, it also happens to be true.
Better Marianne learn that now instead of finding out what a jackass I am months down the line. Not to mention, now that Sydney is back in my life, there’s no room for anyone else.
“Goodbye, Marianne,” I say. “And thanks again. I really appreciate everything.”
The phone clicks before I even finish my sentence. Good for her. She may not believe it, but it's the, smartest decision she could have possibly made for herself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SYDNEY
“Where am I?” I ask.
My voice comes out sounding distant, as if I'm standing in some long, dark tunnel and can hear it echoing away from me. I blink once. Twice. And on the third time, my surroundings finally start coming into focus.
I'm in a jet. Not just any jet though, but a posh, private one. The cabin is gorgeously appointed and has plush, luxury seats that I sink back into. I look down and notice that there's a glass of champagne at my side.
It's then that I notice I'm not alone either.
I turn my head and see that there's a man sitting across the aisle from me. He's handsome and statuesque. His body is chiseled to perfection, and his cheek bones are almost painfully sharp. He looks like he was carved from marble and has the features of a model or a Hollywood leading man. He's beautiful to look at in profile. His good looks though, are only amplified when he looks up from his newspaper and smiles at me.
“Looks who's finally awake,” he says, putting the paper down and walks over to sit beside me, taking his hand in mine. “We're going to be landing in about twenty minutes.”
“Where are we going?” I ask him, a thick fog of confusion enveloping my mind.
The man cocks his head to the side like a curious puppy, seemingly surprised by my question. He looks at me as if I should already know the answer to that.
“I've already told you, Sydney,” he says. “We're going to Aspen. I know how much you love skiing.”
“I do,” I say. “Or rather, I used to. It's been so long.”
It has been too long. I should rectify that.
“We'll take care of that,” he says with a playful wink.
It all feels so real, and yet, I can't remember the man's name. He looks so familiar to me, but I can't put a name to that handsome face. I reach out with my mind, trying to grasp is, but it escapes me. His identity is like the moon passing behind some swift moving clouds – there one moment, gone the next.
Our conversation ebbs and flows, as he talks about work – what does he do again? Oh yeah, he's taking over the family business. Business is obviously going well, considering the private jet, the champagne and the expensive suit he's wearing.
He's obviously a man of tremendous means. But who is he? Perhaps, more importantly, how did I end up with him in this jet on our way to Aspen?
The unknown man leans forward and brushes his lips against mine, but I feel nothing. Nothing at all. No butterflies in my belly, no electric charge that usually accompanies a kiss – there's just no sensation at all.
Probably because this is only a dream. Since it's only a dream, I can ask him this question without fear.
“What's your name?”
The man recoils and looks stunned, almost upset at me, but then he smiles playfully. He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze as he looks into my eyes.
“Oh, that's right. You've lost your memory,” he says. “Don't worry, it'll come back to you. That's what all the doctors say, at least. I certainly hope they're right because I can't imagine what it would be like to go through life not remembering anything.”
He still didn't answer my question.
“Who are you?”
“I'm your boyfriend, Sydney,” he says. “Can't you at least remember your boyfriend? I'd like to think I'm a pretty memorable guy.”
My mind flashes to Jack. I see his ruggedly handsome face and those delicate yet piercing blue eyes. As if he can read my mind, the man's face darkens, and he snaps.
“Not him. He's your ex-boyfriend. Keep it straight,” he growls. “Tell me my name, Sydney. Think. Who am I?”
His eyes turn red and his voice causes the plane to shake. I grip the arm rests on my seat fiercely, my knuckles growing white as the plane vibrates and trembles like we're passing through some major turbulence.
A name flashes in my head. Peter.