Page 3 of It Happened Again

I stepped back a second too quickly. Still smiling, but internally recalibrating.

“Looks like it,” I said lightly. Professional. Keep it professional. There was a time onboard the ship when I was infatuated, but then came to my senses.

“You’ll be such an asset to my team. Let’s go introduce you to them now,” he gestured and held the door open for me. Yes, once again, I’d be working for him, but this time it was for the Orion-freaking-Mind Institute. Oh my God, this was really happening.

After meeting his team and getting a brief tour of his department on the third floor, he walked me down the hall andback to the elevators. He stayed with me, continuing to chat, bringing up a few funny memories from our time on the ship as we crossed the main lobby. I couldn’t go through an experience like that and not feel at least a deep friendship with the man.

“Oh,” I said, slowing as we walked by an exhibit. “I think nerves got the better of me. I hadn’t noticed this here earlier when I passed by.”

At the center of the brightly lit space was a sleek, glass-encased architectural model of the Orion building. Modern. Fluid. Organic lines with a metallic twist. It looked like something out of an award-winning design show. But there was an extra wing added on.

“They just installed it last week,” Julian said. “We broke ground on the Horizon Wing. It’s the new neuroscience annex. Soon my entire department and others will move into these lavish new spaces.”

I stepped closer, eyes drawn to the brushed-metal placard that read:

Model of the new Horizon Wing, Orion Mind Institute. Designed by Bellamy Design Group. Funded by the Buchanan Family.

And then, the photo.

I didn’t have to look twice.

My breath caught. My stomach did a swirly somersault, landing somewhere near my knees.

Brooks Bellamy stood near the center, the most handsome one of the bunch, in my opinion.

Standing beside him in the photo was Archer, his twin, and beside them, Rex and Richard Buchanan, plus several of the top brass at Orion.

But it was Brooks that drew me in—with that stormy look in his eyes, the quiet intensity in his jaw, the impossible-to-forget curve of his lips.

Of all the architects. Of all the buildings. Of all the places in Manhattan…

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked, noticing I’d stopped breathing.

“Nothing,” I said too quickly, stepping back.

He gave me a look. One I dodged like a champ, and extended my hand.

“I should get going. I’ve taken up a lot of your time today. But thank you for everything, Julian.”

He wrapped both hands around mine with a wink, and said, “My pleasure. See you bright and early Monday.”

My fingers tightened around the strap of my purse as I exited the building, the sunlight hitting me along with the city noise.

In my hand was a job offer that should’ve been the best news of my career, but it wasn’t the job that had my heart racing.

It was my past with Brooks Bellamy—the man I’d never forget.

2

HANDMADE REGRETS

BROOKS BELLAMY

The cold airbit at my cheek as I opened the door of my loft to leave. Spring hadn’t quite hit New York, and I was running late—typical—but something made me pause and find my scarf to bundle in. The morning news reported a chilly outlook for the day, a little back and forth with Mother Nature.

A quick search and my usual wool plaid wasn’t around, but… hanging there between my peacoat and a ball cap I hadn’t worn in months was a knitted scarf. Handmade in stormy blues to soft grays, it hung slightly uneven at the ends; the yarn puckering wheresomeonehad fumbled while knitting it.

Maisy’s scarf. She had made it and given it to me our first Christmas a few years ago. She’d been so proud of her first knitting attempt, she snapped a photo of me wearing it and then we laughed at how ugly it truly was.

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