I choke on my champagne, and do a lousy job trying to disguise it as a cough. I clear my throat and then say in what I hope is a very steady voice, because James seems to be dead serious, "What could I possibly do there?"
"They do have a finance department, you know. I could talk to my dad—"
"That won't be necessary, James," I say. "I prefer to build a career on my own."
"You would be building a career on your own. My father doesn't hire or promote people unless they prove their worth. My introducing you to him wouldn't give you much of an advantage, I assure you. Just keep that option in mind."
"I will." I raise my glass to my lips again, and realize it's full again. The waiter replenished it before I emptied it. That's not good. How will I keep track of how many glasses I drink? As I take another sip, images of James and me in the chocolate factory start playing in my mind, and a hot shudder runs through my whole body as I remember his tongue licking off the chocolate I smeared on my breasts, and the way he made love to me in that office. If he hadn't talked so seriously about it, I would think he brought it up on purpose, to arouse me. To torment me. To make me forget everything that happened between us except that night. Is it really possible that the same images aren't playing in his head right now? His solemn expression as he sips from his glass tells me they aren't.
But then he puts his glass down and leans in slightly over the table, running his tongue over his lips, leaving them wet and oh so appealing. There is a playful twinkle dancing in his eyes that wasn't there before.
"I could come visit you after work," he says. His voice is deep and throaty, and I think the alcohol isn't numbing my senses—it isn't making me immune to him. Quite the contrary. "We could take another… private tour… through the factory. I've developed quite a taste for chocolate after our last trip there."
So he did bring the chocolate factory up on purpose. I take a deep breath, leaning back in my chair, my hands behind my back, pressed between the silky backrest and me. I dig my nails in my palms, and I don't feel anything in the beginning, but as I dig them deeper in the flesh, it hurts. The pain needles me, not as strongly as I'd liked, but it's enough to remind me why I must remain firm.
At the end of indulgence there will be nothing but pain.
"What makes you think I'd go anywhere with you?" I say. My words come out weak and entangled. I decide on the spot not to drink one sip more.
His sits up straight, the twinkle in his eyes vanishing. "All right. Let's do what we are here for. Let's talk."
We lock eyes, and for a few seconds, or perhaps minutes, neither of us says anything. I find that holding his gaze isn't as strenuous as I thought. It's much easier, in fact, than talking.
"Don't be quiet, Serena."
"I don't know…" I take a deep breath. My tongue feels like it's made of iron. "I don't know what you're expecting me to say."
He frowns at the glass in front of me. "Why don't we start with you explaining to me why you ran off that night?"
"What more is there to explain? I don't want to be with you."
"That's not true, is it, Serena? Your body was telling me something completely different that night."
"My body has a habit of ignoring my mind." I bite my lip, looking away. "Especially around you."
"Then we'll just have to do something about your mind, won't we?"
"Do you care about my mind at all?"
"Of course I care," he says, raising his voice slightly. He pulls his chair closer to the table, tilting forward, until his chest presses against its edge. I remain as flattened as ever against my chair. I wish there was a way to put more distance between us. Suddenly, the inexplicable fear that the wooden table between us will melt, chills me. There will be nothing protecting me from him if it does. "You're not just a body to me, Serena. And I hope to God I'm not that for you, either. I know I could have you right now. You want me; your entire body shouts that. Just like I want you. But I don't want only your body. I want your mind, your heart."
"You have those, too. You know that," I whisper, lowering my gaze. One more reason I can add to the list of why I should never drink alcohol. The dizziness it brings seems to come with an acute urge to be honest.
"Look, nothing happened between Natalie and me that day I left from the hospital."
"But you went to her." I bolt upright in my seat, as if an electric current coursed through me. I prop my hands on the table to steady myself, because the brusque movement threw me off balance. I find myself inches away from James, but maybe distance isn't the best defense I can build for myself right now. Confronting him is. Does he truly not understand that regardless of the outcome of that day, that the act of seeking her out is devastating in itself? "Which means you—"
"Which means I made a mistake. I cannot take that back, and I cannot change it. But you know what? That is one mistake I don't regret."
I gasp, a burning sensation I am all too familiar with starting to form behind my eyelids.
James shakes his head, grabbing both my hands in his. "That didn't come out right. What I meant was I do regret, from the bottom of my heart, that I hurt you. But I'm also glad I went to meet her. Because it made me realize that the only person I want to be with is you. I need to be with you."
"What's to say you won't make other mistakes like this? I can't bear the thought that something… unpleasant… might happen between us, and you'll just run to her again."
He shakes his head more vigorously than before. "I'd never do that, Serena. I've learned my lesson. If it puts your mind at ease, I can cut off any contact with her."
"You'd do that?"