At Mr. Cartwright's Command (21 page)

He holds his hands out in front of him, as if to stop me and cut me off.  “Again, it's just Owen now.  And I have work to do, so if you'd please excuse me,” he says as he marches back towards the warehouse door.

I swallow the lump in my throat.  “Owen,” I say with emphasis. He stops in the doorway.  “I'm sorry I hurt you.  And I mean it. That's all I wanted to say.”

“Hurt me?” he says with fire in his eyes. “You think you hurt me?” he continues, with a laugh that sounds almost maniacal. He begins to shake his head wildly.  “No, no, Tamara, you didn't
hurt
me.  You destroyed me. You nearly obliterated me. I told you that I loved you and you walked away from me.”

“You already know why I had to leave,” I reply, my voice shaking.

He closes his eyes tight, pausing a beat.  “I know,” he says, his voice calmer than before.  “I don't blame you for leaving. But it still hurt like hell when you did.”

He sighs and stretches his hand towards me, hesitating for a moment before brushing a long stray curl away from my face. My breath grows shallow and heavy just from him being so close to me again.  His fingers graze my cheek, light enough to send shivers down my spine. I can't help but flinch away from him, not because I don't want him to touch me, but because of the unexpected intensity of his touch.

His shoulders slump and he withdraws his hand.

“I did not treat you the way you deserve to be treated.  Not once from the start. And for that I'm sorry,” he says.  

I'm taken aback and at a loss for words.  The last thing I expected from him was an apology.

“I'll respect your wishes and not pursue you.  And if you want me to leave I will.”

I'm stunned. I shake my head and say, “No. You don't have to do that.”

He nods and looks down.  He opens his mouth to speak again but before he can I close the gap between us, holding him by the waist and resting my head against his chest.  He doesn't respond or even move at first, but then he pulls me in closer, cradling my head with his hand.  I feel his lips press against the crown of my head.

“I meant it when I said I loved you, Tamara,” he whispers to me. “And I still do.” The tears I tried so hard to hold back flood my eyes and spill on to my cheeks.

He pulls back and thumbs away my tears.  “I'm not worth crying over and you know that,” he says.

If only that were true.

He smiles down at me with regret in his eyes and pulls away.  “I should be getting back.”

I nod, wiping what's left of my tears from my cheeks.  “Okay.”

He looks back at me from the doorway and says, “Maybe one day we can be friends.”

Seriously? “Friends?” I reply with a snort.  I shake my head slowly.  “You and I can't be friends.  You know that.”

He shrugs and says,  “I could really use one.”

So could I. 

“Or maybe...we could start over. From the beginning.”

I wait and watch him for what feels like a life time. His eyes trail downward as he considers the proposition. Maybe, at this point, we're both too broken to make this work. Maybe I've hurt him too much for him to even want to try.

He steps forward, letting the door shut behind him.  “Only if you'll have me,” he says.

I nod wildly, my heart filled with so much joy it could burst.  “From the beginning,” I say, extending a hand towards him. “I'm Tamara,” I say.

He glances at my hand and back up at me.  Then he takes my hand and pulls me in close, our lips colliding and mingling in the middle.  I cradle his face as he holds me tight, and I willingly lose myself in him. 

When he breaks the kiss I still feel connected to him—by our hearts, and by our souls.

“I meant to say, I'm Owen.”

I can't help but giggle.  “I liked that more, actually.”  

“You were right,” I mumble against him as he holds me.

“Hmm,” he responds, breathing in my scent.

I lean back and look up into those beautiful green eyes of his.  Those eyes that were once full of so much pain and sadness, now replaced only by love.

I touch his cheek softly and say, “I always have been and always will be yours.

Epilogue

OWEN

             
M
y father always said I looked good in a suit.  That's one, and quite likely the only, positive thing the man has to say about me.   And I never thought to disagree; a suit was like my second skin.  Or perhaps, it was more akin to a mask. Because in his eyes, I'd always be a failure. But if my suit was expensive enough, at least only he would know that.

              Now, staring down at the gray pieces of cloth, laid out on the edge of my empty bed with care, everything about it seems completely foreign.  I stand over it, observing it for much longer than I should. I'm not admiring the fine textiles or the made to measure tailoring that was designed for only me.  What was once a symbol of success is now a remnant of my past.

              I make my way across the empty room and retrieve a pair of jeans from the closet instead.  And I find out soon enough that my newly adopted casual style of dress comes with it's own disguising properties.  When I arrive at the agency, I receive plenty of curious glances from the throngs of potential models lined up out front, but not a single one seems to realize I own the place.

              Well, co-own.

              I slip easily past the crowd and step inside.  The interior of the London branch of the Cartwright Modeling Agency is almost an exact replica of the New York branch, down to it's wide open lobby, shiny wood floors, and modern furnishings.  My office is all the way at the back, with two more offices on the second level, right above it.  There's a plush waiting area, and the walls are lined with empty frames, just waiting to be filled with head shots of our impending A-list roster.  And on the right sits an L-shaped wooden desk, complete with a beautiful girl seated behind it.

              “The open call doesn't start for another 30 minutes,” she says in a rather stern voice, not bothering to look up over the screen of her sleek silver computer.  “I'm going to have to ask you to step back outside and wait in line like everyone else.”

              I turn towards her and hold her in my gaze until she eventually cracks a smile.  Finally, she looks up at me with those beautiful brown eyes of hers.   With a smirk she adds, “Plus, I think you're too old anyways.”

              I can't help but crack a bit of a smile myself.  “Good morning, Tamara.”

              “Good morning, Mr. Cartwright.”

              Indeed it is. “Pretty good turnout so far,” I say, not taking my eyes off her as I remove my coat and place it on the rack behind me.

              She leans back casually in her high backed office chair, nodding slowly as she not-so-subtly resists the temptation to let her eyes wander.  “So good that your first appointment is already in there,” she says, pointing towards my office with the tip of her ball point pen.

              I raise an eyebrow at her, glancing up at the clock to make sure I didn't have the time wrong after all.  “We don't officially open until 10.”

              “True, but he insisted.”

              “He? We're not repping any men.”

              “Trust me you're going to like what you see,” she says with a sheepish grin and a twinkle in her eye.  Perplexed, I open my mouth to speak but she cuts me off.  “That's all, Mr. Cartwright.”

              Only she can speak to me like that. Only her.

              My curiosity piqued.  I turn back towards her when I reach my office door and say, “Oh, and Tamara—”

              “Yes?”  she replies, complete with that seductive half smile that makes me want to do all kind of unspeakable things to her.

              My lids lower and my voice grows deep.  “Don't call me Mr. Cartwright.”

              She knows better than to protest.  Instead, she nods innocently before I slip inside my office.  Was this a good idea?  God, how are the two of us ever going to get any work done around here?

              I close the door tight, almost completely forgetting about my surprise early appointment.  But I'm quickly reminded the second I hear the door click.

              “I surely do hope you have room on your roster for a weathered old chap like me,” says a deep, accented voice.  A familiar, warm and friendly voice I would know anywhere.  And the very last one I expected to hear when I walked into this room.

              “Ronald?” I whisper, my voice jumping at least ten octaves.

              He rises from his chair and steps towards me, looking positively the same as he did the last time I saw him, on his last day of service to me.   Here he is, with that same comforting smile that told me everything would be alright, when everything was indeed falling apart.

              “It's very good to see you again, Master Cartwright,” he says to me softly, extending his hand.

              I hesitate, but ultimately take it.  On the outside, he remains cool and collected, as always, and so do I.    There's a silent, resigned understanding between the two of us, and nothing more than that is needed.  Some people know how much they mean to you, even without saying it.

              “Don't call me that, please,” I say to him as I let go of his withered hand.

              He lets out a laugh as he takes his seat.  “As you wish.” His eyes travel down me and he asks, “Rather casual, are we?”

              I shrug as I make my way around to the other side of the desk.

              “Well I like it.  Clothes don't make the man, regardless of what some may say.”

              I can't disagree with that.

              I take my seat and peer at him for a long moment.  “Why are you here, Ronald?” I ask.

              He crosses his legs and replies, “Good to know you're happy to see me.”

              “You know what I mean.”

              “I need a job.”

              “You're supposed to be enjoying your retirement.”

              “Yes, and the absurdly generous severance package you gave me has made it most enjoyable.  However, idle minds are dangerous minds,” he says, pushing his CV across the table towards me. 

              I look down at it and shake my head.  “I'm not going to hire you.”

              “Not enough work experience?” he jests.  “I assure you I can provide a top notch reference.”

              “You've wasted far too many years working for me.”

              His brows arch. “Working for you, is that what you think I'll be doing?  Well, from the way I see it, this is a huge under taking and where would you two kids be without me?  You need me.”

              I lean my chair back, chuckling to myself.  That pretty much goes without saying.

              “So when can I start?” he asks with a devious smile.

              I press my hands together in front of my face as I pretend to think.  “I'll hire you on one condition.”

              “And what's that?”

              “I need your opinion on something. Right here and right now”

              He looks slightly taken aback.  “Anything mas—“He cuts himself off right in time.

              I breathe out nervously before fishing my hand into my pocket and pulling out the small box. His eyes light up, and a smile creeps across his face when he sees the contents.

              “She'll love it,” he says.  He looks back up at me and adds, “She will.”

              I nod slowly as I eye it myself for a moment.  “And what if she doesn't,” I mutter.

              “You probably know her better than anyone.  And she knows you, well, almost better than anyone,” he says.  “You'll know when it's the right time.”

              “So I have to trust my gut,” I say as I close the box shut.

              “No, you have to trust your heart.”

*

              It's ten past the hour when I emerge from my office to see Tamara standing by the door, clearly hesitating.  “Everything alright?” I ask with concern.

              She takes in a deep breath, and for the first time I see a look of worry in her eye.  Not even worry—it looks more like dread. I'd never admit it but it scares me.  Despite expressing her nerves on multiple occasions, I never thought she actually
felt
nervous.

              “What's wrong?”

              I notice her throat bobbing and she says,  “I'm nervous.”

              “About?”

              She looks at me like I'm a mad man.  “I mean...what if this....”

              I shake my head and quickly put a finger on her lips, silencing her.  “Don't.”

              Her shoulders slump as she lets out a breath.  “You aren't nervous at all?”

              “I don't get nervous.  It's a waste of time,” I reply.  It's half true, at least.

              “Bullshit,” she says with a laugh, rolling her eyes.  “Everyone gets nervous sometimes.”

              “Nerves are a choice.” And right now, I have bigger things to be nervous about than a bunch of giggling models.  Making this agency work?  Piece of cake.

              She turns to me and her eyes narrow.  “No, how you
react
to nerves is a choice.  Being nervous is healthy.”

              “Touche,” I reply as I twist my mouth, pondering her words for a moment.  “This is why I love you.”

              She smirks.  “I know you do,” she says as she tries to slip past me.

              “Tamara,” I say, taking her by the hand and stopping her. I notice her breathing deepen when I touch her.  I pull her close, until she's tuck tight against my chest. “Saying how you feel is also healthy,” I whisper, leaning in close enough for my breath to tickle her skin.

              Her lips tremble.  She looks up at me with wide watery eyes.  “You know I do.”

              I don't let her go.  “Then say it.”

              She pulls back slightly with fear in her eyes.  I'm afraid she's going to pull away and my heart beats faster.  Every second goes by like an hour, as her lips part but nothing comes out.  Mending our relationship over the past year hasn't been easy, and the last thing I want to do is push her to the point of slipping away.   And right now, I can feel her slipping away...

              But then, she says to me in her small and broken voice,  “I love you too.”  She lets out a breath like the world has finally been removed from her shoulders, and her formerly weary face turns into one filled with joy.

              I've never considered myself to be a fragile man, not by any stretch of the word.  As I stand here holding her for far too long, I realize just how easily this woman could break me if she wanted to.  But she's more than worth the risk.

THE END