donation into a project, I expect things will get done correctly. And leaving contrails through cyberspace is not my idea of efficient.”
Ian shifted his weight from the right foot to the left. Nodding slowly, he stared at the floor between his polished black biker boots. Hands pocketed, he lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Stan, c’mon. Be reasonable. Even you have to admit this whole in-person planning idea was kinda last minute. Give us a day to shift things around on our calendars at least. Can we get back to you?”
He met Maleah’s eyes. “Don’t mean to be presumptuous. In your position as Assistant VP of...” Grinning—but only barely—he said, “Sorry, but I forget the rest of your title.”
It stunned her to learn he knew anything about what she did for a living. Stan must have filled him in...
“Point being,” Ian continued, “you have other department heads to deal with. Autistic kids’ parents. The kids themselves. And since I don’t have that problem over at the bistro, how about if you call me when you find a hole in your calendar, we’ll discuss a convenient time to get together.”
Thanks a bunch, Stan. If she said yes, Maleah had to meet with Ian. And if she said no, Stan might get the impression she wasn’t up to the job. And it galled her that, either way, it was a win for Ian.
“Might as well get it over with.”
Instantly, she regretted her choice of words.
“That didn’t come out quite the way I intended it.” A nervous giggle punctuated her sentence. “What I meant was...it seems both Mr. Sylvestry and I have time, right now. So if you’re amenable, I’ll meet you at your restaurant in—”
The switch flipped again, and Stan’s boisterous laughter all but drowned out the drone of yet another broadcast.
“What’s with all this Mr. and Ms. Stuff? You’re going to be working together. Closely. For at least the next three weeks, minimum. Read my lips and repeat after me: Mah-lee-ah. Eee-yen.” When they didn’t respond, he grabbed their jaws and repeated his instructions.
“Okay, all right,” Ian said, taking a step back from Stan. He met Maleah’s eyes. “I’ll head over to the bistro and wait for you... Maleah.”
He’d said something eerily similar on the night he presented the little silver band...
If Stan hadn’t been there, waiting and watching, she might have suddenly remembered an important appointment.
“I have a few things to finish up in my office, and then I’ll be right over.”
“See? Now was that so hard?” Stan smirked. “Do I know how to make things happen, or do I know how to make things happen!”
If only she could hold him accountable if things went sideways—and they probably would—and she ended up firing Ian?
“IT’S A LOVELY old building,” Maleah said, leaning into the deck rail. “And the view, well, it’s priceless.”
He’d half expected her to berate him for agreeing with Stan. And for every awful thing that might have happened to her since the guards carted him off that day. During the drive from the Institute to the bistro, he’d made up his mind to take it on the chin. She had a right to vent some frustration. God knows he’d done his share during his ten years at Lincoln. Her polite behavior seemed too good to be true...
He nodded toward the Constellation. “Ever done a tour of her?”
“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but no.”
She smiled. Not the big loving smile that he’d seen in his dreams. But close enough.
Considering.
“It’s on my bucket list, though. Along with the Science Center. The National Aquarium. Poe’s house, and Babe Ruth’s, too. The B&O Railroad Museum...” She faced the water again. “Not sure why it seems like I never have time for things like that. I have friends—married with kids—who’ve seen all of Charm City’s sights.”
Married. With kids. If he hadn’t screwed up, she’d be married with kids. His kids. Eyes shut tight, Ian lowered his head, hoping what he’d done to her wasn’t the reason she’d remained single.
From the corner of his eye, he could see her, watching as a sailboat floated silently by, its navigation lights reflected by the dark Inner Harbor waters. If not for the motorcycle, roaring by on Thames Street below, she could have heard the quiet clank of rigging lines hitting the mast, too.
Arms crossed and shoulders hunched, Maleah shivered.
“Let’s go inside,” he said. “I’ll make us some coffee and we can get our Stan talk out of the way.”
Nodding, she followed him. A lifetime ago, she would have reached for his hand, given it a loving squeeze as they walked down the wide-planked hall. Lord, how he missed things like that. Missed her. It hadn’t been easy, picking up the Sunday Sun and reading about her involvement in one fund-raiser or another, or turning on the evening news and seeing her respond to reporters’ questions about improvements to Washburne. It hurt like crazy, knowing she was literally minutes from him, yet completely out of his reach. That seemed fair punishment for what he’d put her through, but he didn’t have to like it.
She’d stopped to admire sketches of the building as it had looked a century ago, and photographs of the changes it had undergone through the decades. Hands pocketed, he stood beside her.
“Looks like the former owners took great pains to preserve the historical integrity of the place.”
“It was a mess when my aunt bought the place.” He pointed to the collage of snapshots, showing each phase of construction. “She has a good eye.”
She stepped up to a more recent collection of pictures. “Who’s responsible for these?”
“I am.”
Even looking apprehensive, she was gorgeous. If he’d known how hard it would be, standing this close to her, Ian never would have suggested a one-on-one meeting. Not even for Stan, his dad’s boss.
“Feel free to wander around while I get the coffee started.”
Yet again she followed, this time to the kitchen.
“Wow. Nice setup.” She turned slowly, taking in polished stainless appliances, countertops, and shelving lined with pots, pans and kettles that shone under the fluorescent lights. “I know a few people who own restaurants who’d turn green with envy if they saw this place.”
Pleasant as all this small talk sounded, Ian tensed, wondering when the proverbial other boot would drop. He hid the uneasiness by stepping into the cooler.
“How many chefs do you have?” she called out.
“Two, right now.” Ian emerged carrying two slices of cheesecake. “Of all the things I used to do around here,” he said, kicking the big door shut, “I miss that most.”
