I brace myself, sensing an uncomfortable situation coming on. If he recognizes me, what should I say? Do I ask the question that’s running through my head?
Luke, what the hell happened to you?
No, I can’t ask that. And I can’t tell him how good he looks. He probably hates that patronizing shit.
Luke lifts his eyes, and they lock with mine. There isn’t even a glimmer of recognition. He has no clue who I am. And I prefer to keep it that way.
“Eleanor Jensen?” he asks. His voice has changed too. It’s harder, colder. The voice of a ruthless businessman. Someone who’s going to fire us all.
“Hi!” I say in an overly chipper voice.
And then for reasons I don’t entirely understand, I stick out my hand for him to shake.
In general, I don’t enjoy handshakes. About half the men I shake hands with think a handshake is some sort of pissing contest where the goal is for one person to crush the other’s hand in theirs. Luke seems like the sort of man who might get involved in a handshake pissing contest, but when I hold out my hand to him, his eyes darken. After a pause, he takes my hand.
Immediately, I understand why he hesitated. Luke can barely grip my hand at all. It’s not even a weak handshake. It’s a non-handshake. It lasts about one second, and that entire second is incredibly awkward.
“I’m Lucas Thayer,” he says, as if there was any chance I didn’t know who he was. “Please come into my office, Ms. Jensen.”
I watch as he pushes his palms against the wheels of his chair and enters his office. He turns his chair and slides seamlessly behind the desk. There’s no doubt he’s been using a wheelchair for a while. He’s comfortable in it. This is who he is now.
“Please have a seat, Ms. Jensen,” he says, since I’m still standing in the doorway, gawking at him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say in a soft voice as I practically faint into the leather chair in front of his desk.
Our eyes meet again across the desk. Despite everything, he is still incredibly handsome. Now that I’m looking closer, I notice a small pale scar under his right eye and one down along his jawline. The scars mar the perfection of his features, but also give him this sexy rugged look.
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’” he says. He folds his hands together and that’s when I notice they don’t look quite right. There are deep grooves between the tendons on the back of his hands that did not exist in college. No wonder he couldn’t grip my hand. “You can call me Luke.”
“I’m sorry… Luke,” I mumble.
His eyes study my face, and for a moment, I’m certain I see a shadow of recognition. Like he’s trying to place me. He shifts in his wheelchair.
“Thank you for coming down here, Eleanor,” he says. “I’ve been wanting a chance to sit down with all the project leaders. I’d like to talk about the future of this company.”
I nod, my shoulders relaxing. I’d love to talk about my work—that’s solid ground for me. I could convince him of the importance of what we’re doing, and then he could leave us alone, convinced his company is in good hands. He’ll certainly be impressed when I tell him what we’ve been doing. “I’d be happy to.”
“Good.” He looks down at his Cartier watch. “Unfortunately, I’m running late to a meeting downtown.” He sighs. “Why don’t we discuss it over lunch tomorrow?”
“Um…” I looked down at my own watch, but then remember I don’t wear a watch. “Sure, of course. Should I bring my lunch here, to your office?”
He shakes his head. “Come here at noon tomorrow. We’ll go eat out somewhere.”
“So we’ll get a good meal on the company dime,” I joke.
Luke raises an eyebrow. “I own the company.”
My face burns. “No, I just meant—”
“Ms. Jensen, do you make a habit of charging your meals to the company credit card?”
Oh God. “No! I mean, it was just a… you know, a joke.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I see…”
The old Luke, for all his flaws, would have laughed. The new Luke doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. But I guess I can’t blame him. Whatever happened to him must have been pretty bad. It’s turned him into an entirely different person. And not one that I think I like very much.
Chapter 4
At five o’clock, I give up on trying to get any work done and head home. Even though I work in the financial district of Boston, I rented an apartment outside of the city proper so I could have a little more space. I already work in an office the size of a closet, so I refuse to live in one as well. I picked a spacious one-bedroom apartment in Brookline, an urban suburb of Boston that’s just a twenty-five-minute Green Line trip away from work.
I own a car that I only use a few times a month, on the rare occasions I want to go somewhere outside the city. It’s nice not having to deal with traffic, but on days like today, in the dead of the summer, when the T is packed to the brim and I have to stand for the entire ride next to a perspiring overweight businessman who hasn’t heard of deodorant, I miss driving a car to work.
While I’m standing on the T, I look on my phone for more information about Luke Thayer. There’s plenty about him on the internet, but I can’t say any of it is nice. Well, most people admit he’s an incredible businessman and very smart, but heartless. That’s the word people keep using over and over again. Heartless.
It’s after six when I finally get home. I try to be extra quiet as I head down the hallway to get to my apartment. My eighty-something neighbor, Sadie Katz, has taken an extra-special interest in my social life since I moved here. No matter how quiet I am, even if I duck my head down as I walk past her peephole, she always notices when I come home. There must be an invisible tripwire near her door.
Sure enough, the second I pass Sadie’s door, I hear her three locks popping open. I consider making a break for it, but that would be rude. Besides, she’s sweet, if a little annoying.
“Ellie!” she cries out when she sees me, her tiny wrinkled face breaking out in a smile. Her hair is a big white puff surrounding her head, although it’s not as big as my hair used to be.
“Hi, Sadie,” I say, fumbling in my pocket for my keys.
“Any exciting plans for tonight?” Sadie asks.
I shrug, “Just dinner.”
“Dinner with a suitor?” she asks excitedly, clasping her hands together.
Sadie always calls men “suitors” and occasionally “beaus” even though I’m pretty sure nobody has referred to dates that way in the last fifty years. She thinks I should have a minimum of six suitors, so I could have a date every night of the week (and one night to wash my hair).
“No, just dinner by myself,” I tell Sadie.
Her face falls. While it’s sweet Sadie wants me to have a boyfriend (or suitor, whatever), it’s also irritating. I’m the youngest of three girls, and my parents already have seven grandchildren, so they are relatively unconcerned with my decision to remain single for the duration. It’s a great situation, which I blew by moving next door to Sadie.