“Let me guess. He let you stay.”
James nods and we share a smile. I finally take a bite of my pasta, holding back groan because it’s so delicious, and I appreciate it even more as I listen to James’ voice while he continues with his story.
“Antony kept letting me work whenever I showed up, and I tried to do the best work I could so that I would always be welcome back. He finally got me to admit that I was homeless, and he let me move in with him, sleep on his couch. He trained me in construction, and I finally started to get my own jobs when I showed people the solutions I’d found for using less expensive material.”
“He sounds like an amazing person,” I said.
“He was. And when Antony died, he left me his house.”
“Wow,” I say. We take a moment to eat, and James feeds me a bite of his fettucine, which is without a doubt the best I’ve ever had.
“I owe everything to him,” he goes on, “and I knew that if I screwed up he would come back and kick my ass. So I changed my name—I never knew my mom’s and I always used the name of my foster family. London, California was the place where that house with the big yard was, and it was the last place I felt truly happy. That became my last name. Then I started my own one-man company with the jobs I already had, and slowly started to get more. I would work every possible odd job on the side until I could support myself. I swore that I would never be homeless again.” He takes another bite of his dinner. I watch as each chew softens the expression on his face. “But to answer your original question, I don’t know if I have siblings. Maybe. I’ll probably never know for sure.”
I can’t think of anything to say. What is the response to that? My own life has been so different that the contrast is shocking, and I’m immediately embarrassed by the ridiculous wealth that he sees every day at our house. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I say, hoping that it’s the right thing, or at least not the wrong thing. “And so young. You’re so strong. I wish…it had been different.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I don’t. Tough as it was, it made me who I am. And I can’t go back and change any of it, so staying angry or sad about it, or holding onto what hurt, doesn’t help anyone.”
“That’s a really great view.”
“Antony also sent me to therapy,” James says, chuckling. “But it’s true. I’m not sad about it. It led me to where I am. And I’m very happy where I am.” He squeezes my hand and I feel it in my gut. A deep and expansive feeling I’m not familiar with.
I drop my gaze into my pasta to avoid his eyes, both hoping and fearing I’ll see that same emotion clearly displayed on his face.
He squeezes my hand again. “Do I get questions too?”
“You already know a lot about me.”
“I don’t know why you want to build houses for poor people.”
After his story, I feel like the way I stumbled upon the concept pales in comparison. He has real life experience, and he knows what it’s like to have nothing. I’ve never wanted for anything in my life. “It’s going to seem silly.”
James sighs. “Vera, it’s not your fault you were born wealthy, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’d never resent you for it. We both have things to learn from the other, and both experiences are valid.”
“I was in Peru,” I say, finally. “Family trip, and we were sight-seeing. It was the first time that I had seen something like that, these people who lived in these patched-together structures, and barely had a roof over their heads. I didn’t understand why their houses looked like that. I was young, I’d only ever seen L.A., or Paris, or cities. My father’s buildings. I realized that that was all they had, and I never forgot it.”
“That doesn’t sound silly at all.” His gaze pierces into me, warm and supportive, and I feel the tightness in my chest start to loosen.
“My father pushed me to go into architecture. I knew it was because he wanted me to work for him. I told him from the start that I didn’t want to do that, that I wanted to do something better. He didn’t listen, and now…here we are.”
He smiles, and I take the time to drink him in. I like every curve and angle of his face. I like where the light is captured, and the shadows form. I could lose myself in his eyes, dark as they are. I could spend a very long time looking at him. I’ve never been good at artistic drawing, but his face—oh god, his body—makes me want to try. He’s spent his entire adult life building houses, and now I know exactly where that body came from.
“You’re going to get the job,” he says. “You’re more than qualified, and you’re perfect for it. There’s no reason for you not to.”
“Thanks. I kind of have to get it, though. My week is up tomorrow.”
There’s something hanging in the air, and I can’t put a name to what it is. It’s unformed and hovering, waiting for either of us to make it real.
He’s braver than I am. “I like you, Vera. A lot.”
My stomach drops into a free fall, the kind of exhilarating sensation you get from going over the top of a roller coaster. He likes me. A lot. And I like him, so much more than a lot. I clear my throat and take a sip of wine. “You’re okay,” I say, winking.
He laughs, a huge belly laugh that draws looks from others in the restaurant. “Maybe we should keep our date for tomorrow night.”
“I think I’d like that.”
He settles the check and reaches for my hand. “Drive you home?” he asks.
“Not to your place?”
“And take you to bed on a first date?” He returns my wink. “What kind of gentleman would I be?”
12
James
Vera is quiet on the way back to her house, and I’d do anything to know what she’s thinking. But at the same time I think she might need some space. I’m sure that my story is a lot of information to absorb in a short amount of time. I know that I’d need some space if someone dropped that kind of personal history on me. But I’m glad it’s out in the open now, glad she knows the real me. I reach over and take her hand, and she weaves her fingers through mine.
The pit of my stomach warms up at the action, the heat spreads, and I feel it again. Something was in the air while we finished dinner. It’s strange, and I think she felt it too. I feel impossibly close to this girl even though we’ve known each other such a short time. I haven’t told anyone my history, not even Mike. But I wanted to tell her. I want to tell her more. I want to tell her absolutely everything about me.
I stop myself. Wow.
The air in the car grows close and I find it hard to breathe as the realization hits me like a freight train: my feelings for Vera are far deeper than I thought they were, and those feelings are far deeper than they have any right to be. The rest of the ride flies by as I grapple with whether or not I am falling for—screw it—I am falling for her. I’ve never felt anything this deep or this fast. I’ve never really gotten to know any woman well enough for it to even be a possibility.
What would Vera say?
She’d probably think you were crazy. That’s what. For sure, now is not the time to bring it up with everything on her mind about her dad and her career. Everything in me hopes that she gets the job. Not only would she be doing what she loved, but she could work with me. There is something warm at the thought of us working together. A hazy vision forms in my mind of all the things we could accomplish together with her brilliant designs and my practical skills.
I park down the block from her house, not wanting to alert her parents. They’ll find out eventually I imagine, but that’s her call until then. In the meantime I’ll push her boundaries as far as she’ll let me, but I’ll never cross them. I turn to her, and with our linked hands I lift the back of hers to my mouth and press a kiss to her skin. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, and I can see her blush in the dark. “Sorry I’ve been so quiet. I’m still anxious about how the interview went.”
“You’re going to get it,” I say. Please g
od, let her get it.
She laughs, but it has no heart. “It’s out of my hands, right?”
“That’s right.” I pull her close to me, wanting to feel her in my arms as much as possible in the small space. I kiss her, and it’s a whole new world. In this moment, the softness of her lips are the only thing in existence that I could ever want. I want her. I want all of her. She kisses me back, and when her tongue runs along my lips I feel my cock wake up. I pull away gently, and I place one final chaste kiss on her lips.
“Unless you want to ride me in this car,” I say, “we have to stop here.”
“That’s an idea,” she replies with a twinkle in her eye.
“As much as I”—and my cock—“love that idea, I think you need sleep tonight.”
There it is in the air again as she leans against me, kissing my lips, my jaw, my neck.
“James,” she says softly, and it sounds so much like a moan I have to force myself not to take her right here. “I like you, too.”
Before I can think of a reply, she gets out of the car and slams the door. I watch her walk away, putting the car back in drive after she waves from the gate. As I head home I can only think one thing: I’m still in so much trouble, but this is the kind of trouble I want.
13
Vera
When I wake up, I find I have an email from Rebecca asking me to call her at my earliest convenience. It’s only nine, and she sent the email a half-hour ago. Such fast news must be good, right? It has to be. I shake myself awake and grab my cell. I dial her number and wait for an answer. Butterflies are in my stomach. This is it. I can feel it tingling in my toes.
The receptionist. “The Harrison Foundation. How may I direct your call?”
“Good morning,” I say, “this is Vera Caldwell calling for Rebecca Harrison.”
“One moment, please.”
I wait on the edge of my seat as chirpy hold-music plays in my ear. It doesn’t even take a minute. “Rebecca Harrison.”
“Hello, Rebecca. It’s Vera Caldwell.”
“Vera,” she says, sounding happy, “I’m so glad you called.”