I have absolutely no idea how to handle this situation. Should I greet him, too? Should I pretend I've never met him before? What is the etiquette for unexpectedly and out of context greeting the man with whom you shared the most passionate night of your life, then walked away, rejecting his offer to join him for a hedonistic week in a Hawaiian paradise?
I'm pondering that basic, philosophical question when Jackson takes the responsibility from me. "Good to see you, too, Penny. This is Blake Thorton. We're heading to lunch with Damien."
"Of course." I smile at Blake, but he only inclines his head.
I clear my throat. "Right. Just a moment." I pick up the phone, announce them, then push the button to open Mr. Stark's door.
They enter--and without a second look or word from Blake, the door swings shut behind them.
For a moment, I sit there, not sure if I'm relieved, disappointed, or simply stunned.
But honestly, if Blake isn't going to acknowledge me, then I'm not going to worry about him either. It's not as if I don't have better things to do. Correspondence to review, calls to make, calendars to update.
To prove my point, I turn my attention to my desk. But work doesn't come easy, and when Mr. Stark's door opens ten minutes later and the men file out, I'm still staring blindly at my desk calendar, wondering how to interpret the unfamiliar hieroglyphics that represent people and places and dates.
"Text me if anything urgent comes up," Mr. Stark says.
"Of course, sir." I glance at Jackson, who smiles at me, and then at Blake. He meets my eyes this time, but doesn't react at all. A slow burn of anger starts to grow in my belly. Maybe earlier I'd chalked up his silence to indifference or stoicism. But now I'm thinking he doesn't recognize me.
But how the hell is that possible after the night we shared?
I'd been on my way to Los Angeles when he and I were seated next to each other on that plane. I had a callback for a television pilot in Los Angeles, and I was moving across the country with the hope of getting that job and maybe, finally, establishing myself as an actress.
When I'd moved to New York after graduating at twenty-one, I'd given myself five years to pursue my passion of acting. Because even though I love being on the stage, I love eating more. I'd grown up with a single mom who spent her entire life in debt, worked a series of dead-end jobs she hated, and slept with a stream of men, each and every one the love of her life. At least until he left or she kicked him out.
I truly adore my mom, but the possibility of that kind of life terrified me. I wanted a job I loved. I wanted a bank account with money in it. And I wanted to be damn sure about a man before I unlocked my heart.
Since I love to act--and since I'm not only good at it, but pretty enough to get roles--I jumped in with both feet. Succeed on stage or in Hollywood and I could have passion and security in my work. But I'm realistic, too, and I wasn't going to spend twenty years chasing a dream that wasn't happening only to then realize that after so much time, I wasn't qualified for any other decent job.
Thus my five-year plan. Pursue acting with all my heart and soul. And if I hadn't nailed it by the time I was twenty-six, I'd quit and figure out exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I'd been on a grand adventure that night, and the fact that Blake was my seatmate had seemed fated. We'd talked throughout the flight, but we hadn't touched until I'd grabbed his hand when the plane had hit that air pocket and seemed to fall from the sky.
That moment changed everything, and the awareness that had been bubbling under the surface of our casual conversation suddenly boiled over, turning into a hot, steamy, demanding need.
When the plane had been grounded, there'd been no question. No discussion. We'd gone to the airport hotel together, and I'd given myself to him, body and soul. I'd surrendered to his every whim, and I'd lost myself in the process.
And in the losing, I'd found part of myself, too.
That was a night I've remembered--and a morning after that I've regretted--for almost two years.
And now here he is again, standing right in front of my desk. And the son of a bitch doesn't even remember me?
I'm sorry, but that is seriously screwed up, and I'm tempted to say so, just so that I can get a rise out of him.
But that might piss off Mr. Stark, and I don't want to lose this job that not only pays well enough for me to afford a cute--albeit tiny--apartment in Venice Beach, but is also putting me through business school with an employee tuition program. I'm on the post-five-year part of my plan now, and I'm happy. I love working here, and I'm learning so much. And I'm excited about diving fully into the business world once I graduate. Plus, this life has the added perk of not requiring new headshots every few months.
So I stay quiet, my efficient smile plastered across my face as the men step onto the elevator. But I watch Blake, and the last thing I see as the doors shut, is the smallest hint of a smile on his face.
Unless, of course, I'm only seeing a shadow.
MY PULSE POUNDS IN my ears, my heart beating so hard it feels like I've run a marathon.
I want to race after him and shake him. Why did he smile? Did he smile?
Does he remember me?
How can he not remember me?