Rom-Com Collection (Part 2). Kristan HigginsЧитать онлайн книгу.
my window and play Peter Gabriel songs. Didn’t swing outside my window to get a glimpse of me.
But he did say hi, and when you’re a freshman and a high school junior says hi, that’s pretty huge. The next year, he went off to college—and I didn’t date anyone until he did … I was so hoping he’d notice me and wanted to be free just in case. But he didn’t; he left for the University of Chicago after high school. I dated a nice boy or two. Went to college myself. Had a relationship. Even fancied myself in love, sort of, though the feeling lacked that capital L feeling.
After college, I lived in Boston for a few fun and impoverished years, but in the end, it wasn’t for me. My job at a large PR firm was pleasant enough, though the pay was mediocre at best. I had some great friends, we had fun, I dated a bit, but I missed Vermont. Missed my family, especially Bronte and baby Josephine. It was time to go home. Settle down. Find some guy and get married. Find Love with a capital L.
Back to the clean air and rushing rivers of Georgebury I went, back to the funeral home, back to the sweet light of a Vermont summer. Mom and Dad both seemed pleased that I was home. Freddie, whose IQ was in the genius range, was often bored in school and welcomed the chance to torture me. I babysat for my nieces, hung out with Annie and Jack, got a job covering town meetings for the little local paper and waited tables at night, figuring some job opportunity would present itself.
It did. Mark returned from Chicago, where he’d been working, and opened up Green Mountain Media.
It seemed like it was meant to be, didn’t it? I mean, come on! Of course I applied. So did three hundred other people. Jobs like that were rare in our corner of the state, and it was big news in Georgebury. I wore my favorite skirt and sweater ensemble, bought on Beacon Street in Beantown, trying to look creative and funky and professional. Spent even longer on my hair that day, practiced my answers in the mirror.
When I walked into Mark’s office, the old attraction came crashing back. He was better-looking than ever, more manly, broader in the shoulders, and he was as nice as could be. Asked me about college and my job in Boston … most of my work there had been trying to make “oily discharge” sound less horrific on drug warning labels, something I acknowledged honestly, getting a good laugh from Mark. He told me he loved the Back Bay and tried to make at least one Sox game a year, chatted about us both moving back to Georgebury. I, in turn, made sure to ask questions about his company, talked about my creativity and excellent work ethic, and agreed that the Sox were looking great.
“I have to tell you, Callie,” he said, glancing again at my résumé, “you’re one of the most qualified people I’ve had in here. This looks really good.”
“Thanks,” I beamed, my toes curling in my new shoes.
“I can’t say for sure, since I have a few more people to interview, but … well, I think you’ll be hearing from me. By Friday at the latest.”
“Excellent,” I said. “But take your time. It’s an important decision. You want to make sure you have the right mix of people.”
He nodded, pleased. “True enough. Thanks for coming in.”
“My pleasure,” I said.
I made it to the door, quite thrilled with the interview, not to mention the stir Mark’s physical presence still caused, when he spoke again.
“Callie?”
I turned. “Yes?”
“Didn’t we make out in a closet once?”
Bam! My face ignited. “Um … you know, I … don’t …”
He raised an eyebrow and grinned, slowly. “Callie, Callie. You haven’t forgotten your first kiss, have you?”
I gave a mock grimace. “Okay, you caught me. Yes, we kissed in a closet. I wasn’t sure I should bring it up in a job interview.”
He laughed. “I can’t see how it would hurt.” And then he smiled at me, a smile that went straight to my groin, and I held on to the door frame and hoped I didn’t look quite as ruttish as I was suddenly feeling.
“I seem to remember it was quite … nice,” he added.
“I seem to remember that, too,” I said, and my heart knocked around in my chest. “Well. Great seeing you again, Mark.”
“I’ll call you soon.”
And he did call. I got the job, and though I reminded myself that I was no longer fourteen, that I didn’t want to screw up a really great career opportunity and that romance had no place in a new company, I fell right back in love. He was a great boss—energetic, hardworking, appreciative of the efforts of his small staff. I loved the work … because we were so small, I worked on every project at first, and Mark quickly realized he’d hired the right person, something he often said out loud. He flirted occasionally, told me often that I looked pretty, something he also said to Karen and Leila and, later, Fleur. But he never crossed the line, no matter how hard I psychically ordered him to.
Until last year, when we were nominated for a Clio.
We’d landed a job for a children’s hospital, a coup for us, since we were just a few years old, and we wanted to hit a home run. For two days, Mark and I sat in the conference room from morning until well past dinnertime, working through lunches, guzzling coffee, wadding up pieces of paper, talking ourselves blue in the face. What were the advantages of this particular hospital? How we could show people they didn’t have to fly down to Boston to get top-rate care? What did a parent really want in a hospital? Why would they pick this one?
And then, somewhere in the afternoon of the second day, I got it. Mark was blathering about hospital statistics or something, and I held up my hand to silence him. Then I said the line aloud, very slowly. Did a rough sketch on my notepad and looked into Mark’s dark eyes. His mouth fell open and he just stared at me. “That’s it,” he said in a near whisper.
A week later, we did the shoot. I chose the kid, who was an actual patient, and the doctor, scouted out the room where I wanted the picture taken and talked to Jens, the photographer, about what I had in mind, the lighting, the focal point.
The final poster was a close-up of a three-year-old boy in the arms of a doctor. The boy’s head rested on the woman’s shoulder, and he looked straight into the camera. The doctor’s face was turned away, so all you could see was her gray hair and the stethoscope draped around her neck. The boy’s shirt was white with thin red stripes, the doctor wore a white lab coat, and the wall behind them was also white. The focal point of the shot was the boy’s face … his huge, trusting, remarkable green eyes looking straight at the camera, a slight smile curling his lips. The tagline had been simple: … as if he were our own. Beneath that, Northeast Children’s Hospital. And that was it. The chairman of the hospital board got tears in his eyes when he saw it.
When the Clio committee called, we were ecstatic. Of course we’d both be going to the ceremony. It was huge! A three-day festival with the best advertising agencies in the world, and we were one of them. Holy guacamole!
An hour or two into our flight, Mark dozed off. A permeating fog of lust enveloped me, and tenderness, too. What could be more wonderful than watching over the man you love as he catches up on much-needed sleep? Sigh! For once I didn’t mind the fact that the airlines jammed passengers in like packaged herring. For once, I could study him without fear of discovery. His dark hair curled at the neck, his lashes were sooty and long. Even the way his chest rose and fell under his pale blue oxford was a turn-on.
And then, somewhere over the Midwest, the captain’s amiable, Texas-twanged voice came over the PA. “Folks, we’re gonna run into a few bumps here. Please stay in your seats and buckle up tight. Trays up, too. It’s gonna be pretty rough. Flight attendants, take a seat.”
I obeyed, making sure Mark was buckled, putting my laptop back in its case. And then, I was being shaken like a rag doll. The plane lurched and shuddered. People screamed as one, myself included. My seat belt cut into my stomach,