An Unforgivable Love Story Read online

  “Elyse Keener, the one and only. To what do I owe the pleasure?” The smile in his voice is infectious and I feel myself turning into a total girl.

  Damn it, Elyse! Pull yourself together. “I, uh … I just wanted to say thank you.”

  “For?”

  “The flowers. They’re beautiful, Simon.” I lean over and inhale deeply, the sweet smell of peonies tickling my nose.

  “Oh? And here I thought you were calling to thank me for a night of fiery passion and making sure you couldn’t walk for the past two days.”

  Well, that too.

  My eyes go wide and I’m grateful that Olivia isn’t within earshot. She would have a field day with this conversation.

  “But you are most welcome for the flowers and other things.”

  I softly laugh. “So how are you?”

  “I’m well. Though I can’t seem to shake the thoughts of a certain blonde I met this weekend. It’s become very distracting and I can hardly focus at work.”

  I blush at his words, loving the affect I have on him.

  We make pleasantries but I receive a notification on my computer, alerting me to a client meeting starting in five minutes.

  “Before we go, I need to ask … How did you know where I worked?”

  “Your number.”

  “I gave you my cell phone.”

  “No, the paper you wrote your phone number on. The bottom of the page said Brainspin Boutique with an address. When I looked it up, I discovered it was a small advertising agency. And when I Googled your name, I found your LinkedIn profile and confirmed my hunch. I have to admit, I’m quite impressed. Aren’t you a little young to be one of the head copywriters?”

  We haven’t discussed ages yet, not that it matters. I know he’s a few years senior to twenty-seven. But age is just a number and I’ve never been one to let it define me.

  “Not at all. Talent knows no age. And I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am.” I hope I sound confident, throwing the last part in so he doesn’t think I was handed my career on a silver platter. It’s been a tough road proving myself, and it’s not the first time someone has insinuated that I’m too young to be one of the top writers, but there’s a reason our blue chip clients ask specifically for me on their projects.

  “Touché.”

  “Well, I’m about to step into a client meeting. But thank you — so much — for the flowers. You’ve made my morning.”

  “And you made my week.”

  I bite my lower lip, fighting this silly perma-grin.

  “Elyse … Before you go …”

  “Yes?”

  “Does Thursday night work for you? I need to see you again.”

  He needs to? I like his forwardness. His transparency. I like that neither of us has it in ourselves to play games.

  “So you need to see me?”

  “Yes. Our last kiss left me with this insatiable desire to hold onto your mouth with mine for as long as humanly possible.”

  His words are perfection. I close my eyes and melt, remembering how our tongues and limbs intertwined so perfectly. “I … I think I can make that work. Yes. Thursday. Thursday works for me,” I say, instantly hating how juvenile I sound.

  “Great. I’ll pick you up from work at six. Oh, and Elyse?”

  “Yes, Simon?”

  “This time, by the time I’m done with you, you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

  I choke on my own words, bumbling softly to myself in disbelief. Simon releases a breathy laugh and already I find myself weak in the knees.

  “See you on Thursday,” he whispers.

  Even though he can’t see me, I nod. “See you Thursday.”

  The line goes dead and I look down at my watch. It’s not even eleven, making it the longest Monday morning in the history of Monday mornings.

  Thursday can’t get here fast enough.

  Four

  Confessions

  I look down at my watch, surprised to see it’s pushing ten o’clock. It feels like we just sat down to eat ten minutes ago. We’ve been sitting here for hours talking about everything and nothing. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation where the guy was genuinely interested in learning the little things about me. I know I’ve talked way too much because I’m tired of the sound of my own voice.

  “This has been a lot of fun,” Simon admits as he folds his napkin and places it on the table.

  “Yeah, I agree. And thank you for putting me right at ease. I was honestly a little nervous for tonight.”

  Simon tilts his head inquisitively. “Oh? Why’s that? There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just me.” The way he talks makes me feel like we’ve known each other for years, not days. And he says it like he’s the easiest person in the world to be around.

  And in some ways, he is.

  But that revelation alone is enough to make me even more nervous because it means, in a very short period of time, we’ve connected on a level that I was never expecting. Granted, it’s not an exceptionally deep level, but it’s far more than anyone else has gotten in quite some time. It’s not like I’m going to be moving in with him anytime soon, but still…

  Because he’s so easy to talk to, I answer openly, honestly. “Admittedly I haven’t done much traditional dating these days.”

  His eyebrows raise curiously but it doesn’t bother me. I find nothing wrong with wanting a lover that I don’t actually have to love. Love burned me in the past and I learned not to play with fire.

  “Ah. I think I know what you mean by that. And for what it’s worth, I haven’t done much of it either.” Though his version and my version of haven’t done much of it likely have two very different meanings. For me, it’s been meaningless hookups. But I can’t believe the same about Simon. He’s just too … kind? Genuine? I’m not sure what it is. I just know he’s too good for that kind of tomfoolery.

  “Why not?” I can’t help but ask. I know so little about this man, but perhaps he’s just as wounded as I am and the fates have pulled us together.

  Simon touches his napkin to the corners of his mouth then sits back in his chair, eyeing me seriously. “That is a question I’m not ready to answer just yet.”

  Hmmm…

  “That’s evasive.” I press my lips together.

  “No. That’s the truth. I don’t want to lie to you, Elyse. I could spill some story as to why I haven’t been dating much lately, but you deserve better than that and I’m not at a place where I can be that open. At least not yet.”

  And I get it. I’m not ready to tell him about Jason. Baggage like that could be a deal breaker and I’d rather hold onto the hope of something magnificent on the horizon than crush it before it ever has a chance to grow.

  Oh. “Well, I appreciate that. Perhaps one day we’ll be an open book.”

  “Perhaps. Until then…” Simon grabs his glass of wine and lifts it in the air. “To chemistry and mystery and discovering exactly what this is.”

  I bring my glass to meet his with a delicate clink and then savor the last of the merlot in my hand.

  After walking the city streets with no destination in mind for the past hour, we find ourselves at Cloud Gate, the enormous silver bean in Millennium Park.

  “I often wonder what possesses someone to create something like this and call it art,” I muse as I walk under the oversized arch. From the outside, Cloud Gate is a massive polished silver sculpture giving a mirror reflecting a stunning image of the city lights. Close up, it’s a glorified bean. As I stare at my reflection, Simon comes to stand behind me and I lean against his chest. We look good together.

  “Hmm … Do you not think it’s art?”

  I think it’s weird, but I don’t say those exact words.

  “I mean … what was going through Kapoor’s head? Was he eating lima beans for dinner one night and thought, Hey! Why don’t I make a giant metallic bean and drop it right in the middle of one of the largest cities in America?”

  “Th
at’s awfully haughty coming from an artist.”

  “Pshh … First of all, I’m not an artist.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re a writer. Writers are artists.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s a stretch. I write commercials and jingles and advertisements for big corporate brands. That’s not art. That’s selling out to ‘the man.’”

  “Well, we’re just going to have to disagree on that. But don’t be so quick to judge. Sure it’s a little strange, but it’s beautiful … and cool. Come here.” He pulls me into his arms and looks at the reflection above us. “Look up.”

  And when I do, I see our reflection warped and cascading all around us. And as much as I don’t want to admit it, the sight is truly impressive.

  “Wow.” I’m awe struck. “I’ve been in the city for all these years and this is the first time I’ve actually seen the inside of this thing.”

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I breathe. And in the reflection I can see he’s looking at me. My eyes shift to his and I brace myself for what is destined to be a passionate, toe-curling kiss.

  But it never comes.

  Instead, he presses his lips against mine delicately and quickly pulls away. It’s the kind of kiss an old married couple would give in passing. And it’s endearing as hell.

  The only problem is I want more of it … more of him. He makes me want to believe in committed relationships again. And that should scare me.

  But it doesn’t.

  “Come on … let’s go.” Simon grabs my hand and I love how my hand fits perfectly in his. When we stop at a streetlight, he gives me the same eye crinkling grin that he gave me Saturday night when we met.

  “So, uh … my place is right over there. Do you want to come up for a night cap?” Simon gestures to the swanky high rise building across the street. It doesn’t look like the home of a reporter with a modest income. Maybe he comes from money? I don’t know and frankly, I really don’t care. I learned long ago that money only buys love when it’s superficial. He could have a penny to his name and I would, no doubt, still be attracted to him. Besides, these heels are killing me and I want to get off my feet for a few.

  “Sure,” I say, wondering if he’s in the mood for more than just another drink.

  He pulls me up into his arms and softly kisses my lips, holding my face in his hands.

  “Come on …” he whispers into my mouth.

  We enter the elevator and he presses the button for the twentieth floor, then intertwines his fingers through mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. When I walk into his apartment, it’s pure bachelor. The walls are white with minimal decor and there’s a faint smell of fresh cotton in the air. The focal point of the room is a flat screen TV across from a black leather couch that is far too large for the space.

  I move to the window that overlooks Grant Park and stare at the streetlights sparkling below. Simon moves to a makeshift bar and pulls out a bottle of scotch.

  “What can I get you?” I glance over my shoulder and he holds up the bottle and cocks his eyebrow inquisitively.

  I wish I were the kind of woman who could boldly state exactly what’s on her mind and simply reply ‘you.’ “Umm … I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I say, hoping to come off as easy going.

  Simon grabs a few ice cubes from the freezer and pours the scotch in a low tumbler glass, then brings it over to me.

  “It’s so beautiful up here.” The lights below twinkle as people move swiftly into the night. We are up so high it feels like we’re light years away from the ground below.

  “Yeah … I wish I got to see more of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The other day I mentioned I travel a lot for work. I’m easily gone three weeks of the month. It’s why this place is so sparse. I haven’t been here long enough to decorate.”

  I look around and he’s right. The place is barren and it wasn’t a design choice. It’s empty as a byproduct of his work. As I look around, I can’t help but wonder how I could fit in the bigger picture if this goes anywhere.

  My heels click against the marble floor to examine the little decor he does have. I grab a wooden frame from the mantle above the gas burning fireplace and smile down at the two boys smiling back at me. Their arms are draped around each other and they’re proudly holding their catch of the day on the end of a fishing pole. The pair look so happy and carefree, back when life was obviously simpler and drama-free.

  “Who’s this?”

  Simon passes me my drink and admires the photograph. “That’s my older brother Nate. My family used to have a cabin down in the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee. We’d go fishing there every summer.”

  “I grew up outside Nashville in Franklin. I love it there. Where does he live now?”

  “He’s in Georgia. Doesn’t make it back here very often these days.”

  I place the photograph back down on the mantle move onto the next frame. A weathered black and white photo of a doe-eyed couple pressing a knife down into a modest wedding cake.

  “And those are my parents. They would have been married forty-two years this November.”

  “Would have?”

  “They’ve both passed. Nate is all I have left. My mom passed from cancer and my dad... My dad passed from the pain of living without his wife.” He gives me a sad, tight-lipped smile and I instantly understand what he’s trying to say. I feel his hand brush against mine and I flip my palm over, allowing him to lace his fingers between mine tightly. “My folks were great people. From a very young age they instilled the importance of family … The importance of love.”

  And just like that, I melt at his feet.

  As we stand in silence, I have to remind myself to breathe. Practically every time he’s gotten close to me, I forget to breathe. I hate that he has this effect on me. I have to remind myself that I just met him.

  “Okay … enough of the heavy. Sit down and relax.” Simon crosses the room and opens up a cabinet before slipping a vinyl record out from a sleeve. How retro.

  When I hear the moody, opening notes of John Coltrane’s Resolution, I can’t help but smile. My dad used to play this album all the time when I was little. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a jazz fan.”

  “I imagine you won’t peg me for a lot of things.”

  I feel the heat rise in my cheeks and I turn to look around, further exploring my surroundings. Pieces of the puzzle that is Simon begin falling into place. He holds on tightly to the few things that are important to him. He’s a simple man. A man of deliberate words and what feels like noble intention.

  Sure, we met — and subsequently hooked up — under less than conventional circumstances. But that doesn’t mean the odds are stacked against us for something more.

  Something more? What the hell has gotten into me?

  The lights are dim and Simon sits down in the middle of the couch arms outstretched across the back so no matter where I sit, I am kept close to him. I curl up under his left arm and his fingers are instantly playing with my long, blonde curls.

  “So what else about you is unexpected?”

  “Let’s see … Up until I started working for Condé Nast, I was a ‘Big’ with Big Brothers. But my travel schedule simply became too much to give Carlos the time and attention he deserved. I’ve also swam in the Devil’s Pool at Victoria Falls and completed an Ironman triathlon.”

  “No shit?” I say, not sure which of the three impressive accolades I’m shitting.

  “No shit,” he affirms. And suddenly the 5k race I ran last fall feels insignificant. “Growing up my dad would say, ‘if your life were a book, would it be one worth reading?’ He wanted to make sure I lived the kind of life I wouldn’t grow old to regret. I think that’s why I always wanted the kind of job that would afford me to travel and see the world. It doesn’t get much better than being a travel reporter. They give me money to do something I love. It almost feels wrong.”

  “That
seriously sounds like the most amazing job, Simon.”

  He shyly smiles and takes my hand in his. “It’s pretty awesome. But the biggest downside is how lonely it can get on the road.”

  I think about him being on the road seventy-five percent of the time and the sacrifices he makes to live his dream job. It sort of makes me sad. I’m not sure I could do it. While I love my job and work my ass off, it truly is just a paycheck. I’m not curing cancer and I’m not changing lives, but my job allows me to live comfortably and do the things that I want to do.

  “What about you? Tell me something about yourself. Something that nobody else knows,” he asks, breaking the silence between us.

  Hmm … There’s not much that I keep to myself if I’m being entirely honest. I’ve always been an open book. Though there are a few things that would surprise my friends if only they knew.

  “The summer before I left for college, I worked in one of those twenty-four hour photo labs in the grocery store. Do you remember them?”

  “Yeah, before the digital days.”

  I smile fondly in appreciation for those days. “Well, you could say I had a penchant for other people’s photography. The kind of photographs people would turn in for development were absolutely fascinating. It’s not all just family vacations.” I cuddle up under his arm and look out the window. I’m not certain I want to see his face at my confession. “At first, I would make myself extra copies of photos that I thought were beautiful. You know … things like trees, sunsets, landscapes. It was all innocent.”

  Simon hums softly to himself.

  “Then one day, I processed a roll of black and white film with images of this naked woman with long dark curls. Anything indecent we came across we were supposed to report in a log book and destroy the negative. But these photos were so artfully done. She had this … this breathy, sated look on her face and I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I made a second set of photos and kept those to myself along with the negatives.

  “I was working the lab when the gentleman came to pick up his photos. I remember being so embarrassed, but I slid him the images and let him know that I was forced to destroy the negatives. He nodded in silence, probably knowing that I shouldn’t have developed the photos in the first place.