The smart thing would be to cancel tomorrow night. Text her some excuse about urgent business, suggest we handle the financial review over email or in Ronan's office with him present as a buffer. Keep things professional, keep my distance, keep my focus where it belongs.
I know, as I sit in the realtor’s office going over properties for potential purchase, that I’m not going to do that. That I’m going to go to dinner with Annie—somewhere nice but not too intimate. We'll discuss business and finances and profit margins. We'll keep things strictly professional. And then I'll take her home and try to forget about the way her eyes light up when she smiles.
If I can pull that off.I’ve known for a long time that seeing Annie again would be trouble for me. It’s why I didn’t go to Ronan’s wedding to Siobhan Connelly. I was invited, of course, as a former part of the family that was as close to the O’Malleys as a sibling. Ronan had sent a formal invitation to Chicago, along with a handwritten note saying he hoped I could make it back for the ceremony. It would have been the perfect opportunity to return to Boston with my head held high, to show everyone—including Annie—what I'd become. That was less than two years ago—I’d risen high in the ranks in Chicago by then, not quite a capo, but close. A second to one, which was no small thing.
But I’d known that I’d see Annie, and one of two things would be true. Either she’d be married, with it somehow having escaped my hearing or invitation, or she wouldn’t be. And if she wasn’t, I was afraid of the temptation that would present itself.Afraid that I’d do something, say something, that would give away the fact that no matter how hard I tried to lock the feelings away, I never really stopped loving her.
Instead, I'd sent an expensive wedding gift and made excuses about business obligations that couldn't be postponed. Ronan had been understanding, or at least he'd pretended to be. But the truth was both simpler and more complicated than any business obligation.
The truth was that I couldn't bear the thought of seeing Annie all grown up, beautiful and poised and probably on the arm of some other man, even if she wasn’t married. I couldn't stand the idea of watching her from across a crowded room, making polite conversation while my heart broke all over again. I wasn't ready then—wasn't strong enough, wasn't successful enough, wasn'tenough.
The only reason I came back now was because I couldn’t turn down what Ronan was offering. I’d hoped that I was finally enough. That the man I am now—the man who can sit across from Ronan O'Malley as an equal, the man who can take over a failing operation and turn it around in a matter of weeks, the man who can afford to take Annie O'Malley to the finest restaurant in Boston, would no longer feel like he's pretending to be something he's not.
Whether that man is strong enough now to resist Annie O'Malley herself remains to be seen.
Right now, I’m not feeling all that optimistic about it.
My phone buzzes a moment later; a text from Annie. I open it quicker than I should, all things considered.
Just confirmedour reservation for tomorrow. Deuxave, 8:30. Hope you like French food.
Well,shit.I’d wondered what her choice would be, and she picked one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. I can’t help but wonder what she was thinking—if she’s testing me to see if I can match their lifestyle now, if she’s trying to impress me, or if it’s just her preference.
It’s not as if she has any need to impress me, really. Her brother has all the power over me he could possibly need, and as far as I know, I’m nothing to Annie any longer.
I type back a simple response:Perfect. See you at eight-thirty.
There’s no response, and I try not to think about the flash of disappointment that I feel. Instead, I focus on the property listings spread out in front of me again, trying to focus on where I want to live now that this city is my home again.
One dinner. Strictly business.
I'm already in trouble, and I know it.
I push one of the property listings toward the realtor, and she brightens up, her expression nearing beatific as she heads off to run numbers. I’ve made her commission for the entire year once this deal is finished.
By the time I’ve signed the preliminary papers and headed back to my hotel, however, the last thing on my mind is my new home. Instead, all I can think about is Annie, and our upcoming date.
Despite all my reservations, despite all the logical reasons why this is a bad idea, I find myself looking forward to tomorrow night more than I've looked forward to anything in a very long time.
Even if I know that nothing can come of this. And that, more than likely, I’m asking to once again open every scar that Annie left me with, eleven years ago.
5
ANNIE
Itry not to think too hard about why it takes me twice as long to settle on an outfit to wear to my business meeting with Elio than for my date with Desmond. Half the outfits I try on, I discard for being too formal, the other half, too sexy. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea, but at the same time, I can’t help but want to look attractive. After all these years, I can’t shake the desire for Elio to look at me and want me.
Finally, I settle on a sweaterdress in a smoky blue color with a wrap front and a shawl collar, low enough to show off my collarbones and the smallest hint of the space between my breasts—it can’t really be called cleavage. I add a pearl drop necklace and a pair of pearl earrings topped with small diamond studs, a pearl tennis bracelet, and the delicate, thin stacks of golden rings I wear every day. I curl the ends of my hair, fluffing it out, swipe on a bit of champagne eyeshadow and rose-tinted lipstick, and slip on knee-high dark brown leather boots.
Brushing off the urge to linger in front of the mirror and fuss with my appearance, I grab a blue embroidered leather clutch, my brown suede trenchcoat, and head out to where the car is waiting.
Leon is driving, with three other security in the Mercedes SUV with me. I watch the view outside roll by as we drive, trying to smother the feeling of anticipation in my chest. This is a business meeting and nothing more—I have my large leather tote next to me filled with files and spreadsheets for Elio to look at—but the butterflies in my stomach feel like the nerves before a date.
It’s not that. That’s not why I asked.I bite my lip, forcing myself to run through the list of items I wrote down for us to go over, all of which are important and thepoint of this meeting. I just wanted a more pleasant atmosphere than my or Ronan’s office.
The last week has felt like torture. I’ve played it off well, I think, making sure that neither Elio nor Ronan catches on to the way my heart flutters every time he’s near or the way my breath catches when I catch a whiff of his cologne. I swear I can smell the warmth of his skin under it every time we’re close to each other, smelling of sunwarmed grass and the outside breeze.
There have to be boundaries between us. Lines that neither of us can cross. Elio hasn’t crossed a single one, and I know that by asking him out to dinner, he might think that I’m trying to do just that. But I’m not.
