way working with his hands always had. “I guess. And you?”
She nodded. “I have my own studio.”
“Still boycott Christmas?”
She glanced down at her costume. “As much as I possibly can, which isn’t easy in my line of work. You still a sappy kid about it?”
He nodded, unashamed. “Absolutely.” Even if, for the past five holiday seasons, he’d spent a lot more time wondering about Lucy—where she’d gone, if she’d stayed in Europe, become a famous photographer—than he had worrying about what present to get for which sister, niece or nephew.
As if they’d both run out of small talk for the moment, they returned to staring. Ross couldn’t deny it, the years had been good to her; Lucy was beautiful. No perky little elf hat complete with feather could take away from that. Nor could the short dress, striped tights—oh, God, those tights, did they ever bring back memories—and pointytipped shoes.
She should look cute and adorable. Instead she looked hot and sexy, bringing wild, intense memories to his mind of the last time he’d seen her wearing that very same outfit.
He was suddenly—forcibly—reminded of how long it had been since he’d had sex.
Good sex? Even longer.
Fabulous, never-forget-it, once-in-a-lifetime sex?
Six years. No doubt about it.
He swallowed as memories flooded over him, having to shift a little. Lucy had always affected him physically. Damned if he wanted anyone to notice that now, though. The CEO wasn’t supposed to sport wood at the corporate holiday party.
“I’m impressed that you can still fit into that,” he admitted against his own better judgment. “But not too surprised. You haven’t changed a bit.”
She flushed. “Maybe not physically. But I’m not the same sweet, wide-eyed kid anymore.”
He barked a laugh. “Sweet kid? Aren’t you the same person who was planning to dismember her ex-boyfriend when we met?”
“I didn’t actually do it.”
No, she hadn’t. As he recalled, Ross had enjoyed the pleasure of taking her ex apart. And it had felt damn good, too.
“That’s good—I’d hate to think you’ve spent the last six years in jail.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t stopped calling, you’d know where I spent the last six years,” she replied, ever-so-sweetly.
Direct hit. He winced. “Look, Lucy…”
She waved a hand, obviously angry at herself for having said anything. “Forget it. Water under the bridge.”
“You know what I was going through—why I left New York.” Of course she knew, she’d been there when he’d gotten the call that brought him back home.
“I know,” she said. “I understood…I understand.”
Maybe. But that not-staying-in-touch thing obviously still rankled.
He’d probably asked himself a dozen times over the years why he hadn’t at least tried to get back in touch with her once his life had returned to something resembling normal. Maybe a hundred times. It always came back to the same thing: he was stuck. His life was here. Hers was…anywhere she wanted it to be. And she’d wanted it to be in another country, and a completely different reality from his, which was filled with contracts and workers-comp issues and the cost of lumber.
She’d been off to capture the world one still image at a time. He’d been boxed in, chained to the past, owing too much to other people to just go and live his life the way he had wanted to.
Not that it had turned out badly. He actually loved running the business and had done a damn fine job of it. He was glad to live in Chicago. He liked the vibe of this city, the people and the culture. So no, he didn’t regret coming back here. He had only one regret. Her.
“And now here you are,” he murmured, though he hadn’t intended to say it out loud.
“Don’t make a big thing of it,” she insisted. “I had no idea you worked here.”
“And if you had known? Would you have taken the job today, risked bumping into me?”
She didn’t reply. Which was answer enough.
Lucy really was mad at him. Well, that made two of them; he was mad at himself. Plenty of room for regrets, with six years of what-ifs under his belt. But at the time it had seemed like he was doing the right thing—the best thing—for both of them.
Of course, he’d questioned that just about every day since.
“Excuse me, Ross?”
He glanced away from Lucy, seeing Stella, his administrative assistant, who he’d inherited from his father. Who’d inherited her from his father. Older than dirt didn’t describe her. She had dirt beat—you’d have to go back to the rocks that had been worn down into the dirt to describe her.
You wouldn’t know it to look at her. From the bottled black dye job to the floral-print dress, she could pass for fifty. But Ross knew she’d passed that milestone at least two decades ago. He dreaded the day she was no longer around to keep him organized.
Or to matchmake? He was going to have to have a talk with Stella about that. He knew his assistant thought he was stressed and lonely and spent too much time in the office. Plus, Stella knew about Lucy—she was one of the few people who did, having gotten Ross to reveal the story after one long, stressful day. But would she have gone to that much trouble—tracking Lucy down and getting her here? It seemed crazy.
If it was true, he would have to decide whether to give her hell for meddling in his private affairs…or thank her.
The way Lucy wasn’t bothering to hide her dislike made him suspect the former.
The thought that he might be able to get her to change her mind? Definitely the latter.
He didn’t deny he was still interested. Still attracted. Judging by the absence of a ring on her left hand, he suspected she was available—at least technically. So maybe it was time to take his shot. See if he could make up for six wasted years. See if there was any way she could forgive him for walking—no, running—away before they ever really had a chance to get started.
“Ross?” Stella prompted again. “Mr. Whitaker is about to leave, and he’d like to see you before he goes.”
Whitaker—a client who’d sent a lot of work their way over the past several years. He wasn’t somebody Ross could ignore.
“Okay,” he said, before turning his attention back to Lucy. “Wait for me.” It wasn’t a request.
“No, I really have to go. It was nice to see you.”
Said like she’d say it was nice to see an elementary school bully she’d loathed for decades. Damn. He’d screwed this up so badly. Six years ago, and today.
“Lucy, please…”
“Uh, Miss Fleming? If you’d step into the office, I can get you your payment right away,” Stella interjected. “I’m sure you’d prefer not to have to wait until after the holidays.”
Her lush bottom lip snagged between her teeth, Lucy looked torn. Ross glanced at Stella, wondering if she was intentionally using some stalling tactics to keep Lucy around. Then again, if she’d been trying to set them up, she probably wouldn’t have interrupted about Whitaker, no matter how important a client he was. So maybe this whole thing had just been luck. Good luck. Incredibly good luck.
And maybe it meant he was going to have another chance with the woman he’d so foolishly let slip away.
HMM. MONEY OR DIGNITY? Go with the bossy assistant, or run like hell? Decisions, decisions.