The Beginning of Always (13 page)

“Lemonade,” I said as I pretended to enjoy the view.

While Alistair spoke to the waiter, I peeked at his profile. He was clean-shaven and his defined jawline moved with his words. A tendon strained down his neck. The wind rustled his hair lightly and as he spoke to the waiter, he absentmindedly reached up to loosen his shirt collar. My attention lingered over his casual gestures.

After the waiter left, Alistair sat back with one arm slung over the top of his chair. He was entirely comfortable and at ease with where we were and what we were doing. In contrast, my back was too straight and my body was entirely too rigid.

He studied me for a moment and I toughened my expression in preparation for a challenge.

“So are you going to continue to pretend to everyone around here that you don’t know me?” Alistair said.

Here it was, the elephant in the room. I always did appreciate Alistair’s candor, and we did have to get this out of the way sooner or later. Still, my back tightened substantially (if that was even possible) and I answered slowly.

“I don’t know you, Alistair. That was all a long time ago.” I paused, and then continued, “As for before, I don’t think it’s anyone’s business. The past is the past. I’m here on behalf of the
Journal
. I’m just doing my job.”

Alistair was amused at my answer. He raised the glass of water to his lips. “Starting fresh?”

“I guess you could say so.”

“I read some of your stuff. It’s good. You were always a great writer.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say. Instead, I sighed and rubbed my right temple with a finger, letting up on the tension and leaning back into the seat.

“Don’t look so grim, Florence. This is a good thing for you.”

I blinked, a bit confused. My finger dangled forgotten in midair. “For me?”

Alistair said matter-of-factly, “Lots of publicity for this profile. Your name will be out there when it’s published.”

I bristled. The ego on this guy! “Don’t do me any favors. I can get along just as well on my own.” My voice was hard.

Alistair shook his head. “I wasn’t insinuating anything. Besides, the
Journal
assigned you. I’m just pointing out the obvious.”

My mouth moved with my ire before my brain caught up with any idea of boundaries. “Well, the obvious states that I’ve interviewed presidents, kings, prisoners of war, political prisoners. A businessman is hardly breaking new ground. You’re the same as any random Russian oligarch I have had the misfortune of spending a day with. Except with you, it’s damn near a month.”

Despite my acidic tone, Alistair was pleased with my response. “True. I’m the one who should say it’s an honor for me.”

“You’re just one of many, Alistair. I’ll do this article and move on, just like any other job.” I inhaled a deep breath to center myself. Yes, that was the perfect plan. The only plan.

Alistair inclined his head slightly and readjusted his casually slung arm that was dangling off the back of his chair. He slowly began thumping a closed fist against the back of the seat.

Silence stretched. That clawing discomfort stirred and I willed it to disappear.

“Just like any other job,” Alistair repeated my last phrase. It was laced with an edge of sarcasm. The lightness present in him when we’d first sat down was gone. It had been replaced with a potent, intense swirl of dark emotion.

Tensions climbed between us.

“Yes.” I licked my lips despite myself. Did I imagine his gaze following the path my tongue made? “Any other job. You’re just like any other man.”

His mouth tightened. “I see.”

I had to put up that wall; brick by brick it was going up.

But … his eyes. They raged with emotion. I struggled to read them, to read him.

My words didn’t … please him.

Not that I should care. It was fact. It was truth. There was no other alternative for him to be anything but a job.

But as his features hardened, I slipped a single foot out behind my defensive barrier, daring to say what was on my mind. “I do want to say this.” I swallowed a deep breath for fortitude and propped my elbows on the table, resting my chin on an open palm. I tried to smile. Some insane side of me still wanted to soothe that harsh mouth and those angry eyes.

I didn’t want anger. Coldness I could deal with, even welcome. But anger dug claws into my soul, forcing words and sentiments long buried up to the surface. “This is all very impressive. You’ve built something incredibly magnificent. Congratulations,” I said softly.

Alistair’s expression didn’t thaw but his fist slowed, then stilled. He considered me in that familiar quiet way of his, then turned and looked out over the view.

“Thank you,” he said to the skyline.

Silence stretched for an uncomfortable couple of minutes, and just when I thought I’d better start with the interview, the waiter arrived with our drinks.

Thank God. I exhaled a breath I didn’t even know I was holding in.

But when the waiter placed the lemonade in front of me, I was a surprised to find a domed plate following close by. I hadn’t even read a menu and lunch was here.

I gave a slight raise of an eyebrow. “You ordered for me?”

Alistair didn’t answer, which irked me, all my magnanimity evaporating into the noon sun. The waiter removed the plate covers with swift efficiency and left after Alistair thanked him.

My lunch was a side salad with a main course of deep-fried chicken tenders.

Emotion kicked in my throat.

He was playing me; he wanted to see my reaction at this obvious emotional bait. A mix of annoyance, sadness, and reminiscence churned inside me.

Sandra always made me chicken tenders when I went to their house.

I frowned at my plate while Alistair picked up his napkin and put it on his lap. He had ordered a burger and french fries.

“Eat, before it gets cold.” Alistair gave a slight wave in the direction of my plate. He was so dismissive and cool. He knew what he was doing, his own recent low-simmering rage now gone as if it had never existed.

“I don’t eat chicken tenders anymore,” I said stiffly. It was somewhat true. When I was overseas, I had eaten whatever the local cuisine was. The only places you could get crispy chicken tenders were the international outposts of McDonald’s or Burger King, and I didn’t exactly go out of my way to patronize those places.

“Vegetarian now?”

“No,” I said. “I just don’t eat these things anymore.”

Alistair considered me as he picked up a fry from my plate and chewed it. “So get something else. I’ll call the waiter up.”

“Forget it,” I snapped. The tenders did look good, perfectly crispy and golden. I was going to hate myself for falling in this emotional trap he’d set up, but I was hungry. This setup was basically him laying out a plate of delicious morsels underneath a cardboard box propped up with a forked piece of wood, then just waiting for me to lunge for it so he could trap me like a hapless rabbit.

Alistair said, “That’s a good girl.”

Set. Game. Box over rabbit.

I glared at him and his lips curled at one corner, a bare crack in his expression.

We ate in silence.

The food was delicious.

Damn him.

I stabbed the pile of greens with my fork, imagining it was his face. “Do you eat on your rooftop often?”

“Only when a worthwhile situation calls for it.”

“Worthwhile? Well, shouldn’t I be flattered?”

Alistair gave me a mockingly exasperated look, then wiped his hands on his napkin and sat back.

“How’s your chicken?”

“I’ve had better,” I muttered.

Alistair chuckled as if what I’d said was the funniest thing he’d heard all day.

“Alright, so let’s get started with your questions for this article.”

Good, now we could get back on track. Reset. Zero. I took a deep breath to center myself, then put down my fork and dug around my bag for my notepad and pen. I quickly reviewed the questions I had drafted last night and this morning and flipped the pad to a fresh sheet.

“May I record this?”

Alistair gave me a short nod of his head. I pulled out my phone and turned on voice memos. I placed it on the middle of the table.

“Well, first of all, I just want to thank you for opening up your life and company to the
Journal
. We are all very excited about the profile, and I expect it’ll meet your expectations.”

My standard spiel skipped off my tongue easily, and my anxiety simmered down to low. That wall was put up with reinforcements now, one with clearly defined boundaries and order. Professional walls. Alistair-proof walls. Emotional cement. Perfect. Brick by brick.

“Pleasure is all mine. I expect nothing less from the
Journal
,” Alistair said with equal banality.

We were good. We knew our roles and we marched along with quiet efficiency. This was typical, easy, normal, part of the lie that society drew for the two of us.

I was grateful for that line in the sand.

My pen hovered over my paper. “What prompted you to initiate a profile? Your disdain for the press is legendary.”

Alistair frowned slightly. “I don’t necessarily disdain the media, I just don’t believe the work of my company should be overshadowed by a personality, that’s all.”

“And now …?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Thomas thought it was a good idea. I can’t be bothered with the PR grind. But he had a good point. We need more of a face. People get suspicious when things are too secretive. It was either a magazine profile or I had to do a series of talks at a university.”

I silently cursed him for not taking the university option. “Not a fan of public speaking?” My voice was light, encouraging.

“It’s never as controlled as one would hope.”

“Neither is this.”

“Yeah, but to be honest, my day-to-day is so nauseatingly boring that I expected the journalist to just fall asleep and then check out early. No need for dramatics, not like with needy business students trying to kiss ass for an internship or job offer.”

“You don’t offer internships? Don’t want to mold the next up-and-coming Blair?”

Alistair kicked back and crossed his ankle over a knee. “The company is small and I keep it that way. The biggest ventures are when we acquire the buildings, and I’d rather deal with that myself. The tenants take care of themselves; they have their own vision and I stay out of it. We have no need for some random kid chasing coffee and sucking up. The company is successful because it stays small.”

“So what do you think about your media image? They call you the Dark Prince of New York Real Estate.”

Alistair snorted. “The media always comes up with stupidest monikers.”

“Your Prince Street building was a big deal on the scene,” I said.

Prince Street was located in the SoHo area of Manhattan, a couple blocks south of the NYU campus. In recent years, it had boomed as an alternative, rich, trendy area, and commercial opportunities had exploded. All the major designers now had stores there.

“The Prince Street building was the second deal we landed. Yes, it was a large purchase. No one had heard of my name until then. But it didn’t flare up as anything significant until Chanel moved in down the street and there was a lot of talk about who was moving into my recently vacated space.”

“Well, beyond Prince Street, the dark descriptive is supposed to apply to your cold demeanor.”

Alistair chuckled, picking up another fry and chewing on it while lost in thought.

“As you’re well acquainted with, I’m not a very friendly guy.”

Alistair hadn’t been popular at St. Haven. He wasn’t a troublemaker, but he always made people uncomfortable. It was how aloof and detached he was. He never put in the effort to make friends or create connections, and everyone frowned at that. Small towns were built on friendly ties and close bonds. Alistair was everything but friendly. This was also not considering his sudden and sordidly dramatic arrival. The town loved Bill and Sandra, and many thought he didn’t appreciate them.

That was debatable on a lot of levels. The appreciation argument.

Present-time, big-shot Alistair continued, “Not many people like me, but everyone sure as hell respects me. I keep my word. I’m a man of integrity.” These words were said with an air of utter confidence and detachment.

I didn’t disagree. Alistair had grown into an adult, a powerful man, entirely self-aware and comfortable with who he was, that much was sure.

“There’s some talk about people concerned with the culture of fear and intimidation that Blair Properties develops.”

Alistair’s voice was now annoyed. “We cannot be held responsible for that. The tenants are happy, we’re happy. If other companies can’t compete and feel inferior, that’s none of our concern. Just because we outbid, outbuy, and outrun other firms doesn’t mean we have some nefarious plot. If they can’t handle the competition, then they should reexamine their own practices.”

Alistair braced his forearm against the edge of the table and leaned forward. He made eye contact and I resisted the urge to dart my gaze away.

“You can write this in your article. I don’t give a shit about how I’m perceived. However, Blair Properties is known for our culture of excellence. My employees are at the top at their fields. I’m proud of the work we do. I’ll be damned if our success to boiled down to something less than just hard work and a little luck.”

He tapped a finger against the table. “Kill them with logic. Not kindness. Emotion has no place in this city.”

“Kill them with logic,” I repeated.

Alistair’s lips curled into a wry expression and he gave a short nod. “Businesses trust me because they know I know business. My bedside manner is questionable, but my results cannot be rivaled. Power is having something that people want and need, and withholding it enough so they can give you what you want. It’s irrational to give anything away for free. Everything has a price, and the benefit of power is that you can decide what price is fair.”

“Seems like a motto for personal as well as professional pursuits,” I said.

Something subtle shifted in his expression. “Well, why the hell not?”