I held my breath and hoped. But Professor Oliver called out someone else’s name for skateboard gal. My heart dropped, and I felt my insides tighten.
“And that means, Ms. Harper, that your business mentor for this semester will be Bryan Leighton. Allow me to officially introduce you two.”
Bryan held out his hand, as if it were the first time he was touching me.
“It’s a pleasure.”
“All mine,” I said, wishing there weren’t some truth to my words.
Chapter Two
One of the reasons I’d wanted to attend New York University’s Stern School of Business was for this class. Today would be our only day in the classroom. The rest of the semester we’d spend time with real businesses, tackling real issues, and gaining insight into how to make our fledgling little ventures better. Ever since a boutique owner in my hometown had stopped me at age nineteen and asked where I’d gotten my unusual and eye-catching charm necklace — I’d made it myself, I proudly told her — I had wanted to learn the ins and outs of building a bigger business. I never told her the genesis of my jewelry line. I never revealed to anyone but my best friend Jill that I’d started it out of rejection. That it was fueled by hurt. The charms were my way of taking something back, taking me back after Bryan’s callous brush-off. If I were a rock star, I’d have Taylor Swifted him and written one of those anthemic I don’t love you anymore songs. Instead, I did the only thing I could do. I turned to my one talent and uttered a quiet screw you, Bryan Leighton with my jewelry.
The boutique owner had started carrying my necklaces and the My Favorite Mistakes style had become a — well — a favorite in her store, and soon at my parent’s shop too, then at others in Manhattan. The trouble was my charms were all handmade. By me. And the grassroots nature was getting a little challenging. I needed practical skills and knowledge to grow, and I was more than ready to get them through this mentorship.
But that wasn’t the only reason I needed this class. My parents had stumbled into hard times when the tough economy hit the tourist town of Mystic, Connecticut where they ran a little gift shop and had for years. They took out a loan to keep inventory stocked, and I hated to see them struggling especially since the store was their nest egg, their third kid, their key to an eventual retirement. They’d worked so hard my whole life, putting my brother and me through college, weathering many storms of the financial and the health variety for years. Now they were within spitting distance of retirement, and I wanted to do all I could to make sure they could enjoy some well-deserved time off. I’d taken out loans to pay for business school, but they weren’t due for several years, so my plan was to ramp up my own business quickly to help pay off theirs.
So, really, was it so much for me to want to learn in a distraction-free fashion? Working alongside the man who’d broken my heart one summer night five years ago wasn’t conducive to focusing. Especially not when he looked even better than he did then. He’d had a sweet boyish face when he was in his early twenties. Now, he was twenty-eight and while the boyish charm was still present in spades, there was also a sophistication to his features, to his style, to his clothes. Five years running a corporation would do that to you. As I sat down next to Bryan, I did my best to put on my bulletproof even though I could tell his arms were even stronger and more toned, and that his forest green eyes could still reel me in with one look.
I gritted my teeth. This was not going to work. Clearly, I’d need a new mentor. I had to graduate, and I had to succeed in this class. I tried to picture my strong and sturdy mom, from the way she’d managed her recovery from a car accident years ago with a tough kind of optimism, to how she could stare down an overdue loan notice by brushing one palm against the other and saying, “Let’s get to work.”
Work. Yes, work. I was laser-focused on work.
“This was my favorite class when I went here,” Bryan said, breaking the silence.
“Oh. It was?”
“Well, I guess it’s not a class, right?” he added, correcting himself, then laughed awkwardly. He must have been nervous. That made me feel the slightest bit vindicated. “What do we call it? A workshop?” I shook my head. “Not an internship,” he continued, and I shook again. “Practicum?”
I wanted to laugh at the word, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I shook my head once more.
But he was agile at playing both parts and picked up the baton of the conversation himself. “That’s kind of an awful word, isn’t it?”