As for Cain and I, we seem to have found a way to function that doesn’t involve sniping at each other one minute and ripping each other’s clothes off the next... Although the desire to do the latter is there, simmering under the surface. It’s a constant recognition that all it will take is one moment of weakness and we’ll be re-enacting his first visit to my office and this time there’ll be no stopping.
It’s a dangerous tease that I try not to think about, but I have no power over my dreams, and it seems my mind is happy playing out a multitude of teasing scenarios that often leave me breathless and panting before I wake with a start.
And, as though my dreams aren’t enough, working with Cain does the rest: watching him command a room, discussing ideas, strategy, debating next steps and ultimately coming to an agreement that we are both happy with. I never thought it possible.
Liam and I had a working relationship that stemmed from our love of programming, of software, of building something and having it do what you need.
Cain has never shared that love. He’s always been a sports fanatic, intelligent, but fun-loving. When he was younger he wanted to live a little before getting serious with his career. That had been fine by me—until that fun-loving side had cut him out of the business and sent him running.
He obviously learned some hard lessons fast, because within five years of leaving us behind his start-up hit the headlines. Its record-breaking market capitalisation made sure everyone knew the name Cain O’Connor, but his own family were forced to read about it second-hand.
I shouldn’t be surprised, therefore, that he can command a room, a board, an edgy investor or two. I shouldn’t be surprised at his marketing skill, his seemingly off-the-cuff competitive analysis, his strategic decision-making, his even hand.
But I am.
The Cain of old contends with the Cain of today, and I’m struggling to merge the two, to keep my wits about me and my heart intact. He’s the man who crushed me seven years ago. Who left without a backward glance.
But all I see now is the man he has become—and his charisma isn’t just winning over the people who matter to the business, it’s winning me over. It’s getting under my skin and messing with my head.
And that brings me to this evening: the night of the function he asked Sheila to arrange. His welcome back do.
He’s using it—we’re using it—as an opportunity to present the company’s roadmap and put to bed any remaining doubts over the company’s future. I’m doing most of the talking—at his insistence—and I’m a nervous bundle of energy.
I know I’m up to the task but I argued that people would rather hear it all from him. His response had been a sharp ‘no’ as he insisted that I was the face of the company, the one who’d given it their all for so long and above all, it was what Liam and Robert would want.
He made me feel alive with his words, his faith, his belief. The fact he could say it all, say it all and mean it, without the bitterness Cain-of-old would have possessed is eye opening.
Eye opening and ever more threatening to my heart and head.
So here I am, fluttering. Nervous about what’s at stake—nervous about what to say, how to say it. And most of all I’m nervous about being with him. Standing by his side for a whole evening. Providing a united front that is starting to feel less front and far too real.
I eye my reflection in the hall mirror. Scan my outfit which has taken too long to choose. I’ve gone with a deep purple dress down to the knee. It fits like a second skin, the square neckline not too revealing, the stiletto heels classic black patent. Perfectly professional and one hundred percent feminine. I’m going to rub my gender in their faces whether they like it or not.
And then I spy my unadorned ears. We can’t have that.
I turn to walk down the hall, back towards my bedroom, and my apartment buzzer breaks through the quiet. Shit. I check my watch. Seven-fifty. He’s early.
My heart flutters in my chest—an uncontrollable reaction I’ve come to expect every time he’s near.
I head back towards the door and press the intercom. ‘You’re early, Cain,’ I say, trying to resist the urge to gaze into his face as he looks up at the camera.
It’s too tempting to watch him unobserved, to indulge in the need to enjoy his appearance when I know I need to keep my distance. Our non-verbal agreement to stick to business at work and ‘safe’ topics when in the presence of Marie, is working too well to crush it now.
He grins—and too late I realise I’m looking, feeling, enjoying...
‘So sue me...’ He shrugs, his hands casual in the pockets of his dinner jacket, a move he does a lot around me...and I wonder...is it because he struggles to hold himself back, just as I do. ‘I’m eager to get tonight done and dusted.’
I shake my head, but can’t resist grinning back—which is ridiculous, because he can’t even see me.
‘You want to come up and wait? I’m almost ready.’
‘Sounds great.’
I buzz him in and force my smile to dampen.
Feeling excited about seeing him is one thing.
To let him know it is another.