Page 15 of Engineering a Love Story

“Historic things, mostly,” I say. “A lot of it seems a little shellacked.” I explain how almost anywhere in downtown Boston, if you look down, there will be a red line painted on the sidewalk indicating you’re on The Freedom Trail. “That guy was drunk, I think.”

The car climbs the hill to what Seth tells me is Coit Tower. When we reach the top, there’s nowhere to park, and we leave the car in front of a hydrant and dash to stand at a railing.

“It sometimes still surprises me I get to live here,” Seth says, peering at the twinkling bay, bridges soaring on two sides. In the past few years at Aurelian, he explains, he’s been all over the US and to a number of European cities as well. “I’m in the process of putting together a trip to Asia later this summer,” he adds, clearly excited by this, though I’m a little startled. I know Aurelian to be operating domestically, with only a handful of early customers in Europe. It has no business yet, as far as I know, in Asia.

Seth shouldn’t be telling me his travel plans, not if they reveal details about Aurelian’s customers or strategy that aren’t yet public. This must occur to him too, as he says, “Maybe we should stay away from work talk.”

I tilt my head. “Though we’ve sworn off politics. And personal questions. Not sure what that leaves us.”

Seth makes a contemplative sound. “Travel stories? Where’s your favorite place?”

I look at the view that stuns and sweeps toward us, somehow shocked that this city has always existed while I was unaware in my woodsy home. “Maybe right here?” I confess that before joining Gilroy, I’d been almost nowhere. We didn’t travel when I was growing up, and I’d been surprised, as I got to know the Kelseys, to find they didn’t travel much either. They were content at the lake or to maybe go to Bretton Woods to ski.

I tell Seth I went to London on a Gilroy assignment earlier this year and that had been only my second time leaving the country; the first had been a high school trip to Quebec. “I don’t even remember why I was on that trip. I took Spanish in high school,” I add.

“You don’t speak French? What about all those French-Canadians?”

I shake my head. “My grandmother used to call me and my cousins, all of us always running around her kitchen, crasseux cochons. She claimed it meant dirty pigs. She said it almost affectionately.” Seth laughs. “That’s the only French I know.”

“Okay, well.” He leans closer and I catch a musky, possibly spicy scent. “I’m not sure that will come in all that handy.” Cold air blows at us on our high perch, and I fight the urge to press against the heat of him.

By the time we return to the car, I’m dizzy, inhaling his smell. Is it cinnamon? I’m aware of his arms moving in his suit, only inches from me, as he turns the wheel and we maneuver down the narrow drive.

Soon, Seth parks again and we walk across a lot toward some kind of structure, a rotunda maybe, that is lit from within. In the swirling fog, it looks straight out of a princess movie.

“Where are we?”

“This is the Palace of Fine Arts.” Seth explains it was built for a world’s fair or something. “I’m not sure it’s ever served a practical purpose.” He points at the whorls of creamy white and blue on the ceiling. We tip our heads back. “It makes me happy that it’s remained here just because it’s beautiful.”

I tilt my head slightly, shifting my gaze to Seth, still trying to figure out his odd mix of thoughtfulness and charisma. I wonder if his unusual handsomeness weighs on him, pushes him into situations he doesn’t care for. Or, no. There’s a practiced air about him. With hands now shoved casually into his pockets, he’s comfortable with the role into which he’s been cast. I sense that being here with a woman—maybe even in this very place—isn’t unusual for him. Hasn’t he just finished telling me about all his travels? I imagine him having similar encounters with women, who are left startled and a little gaping.

Back in the car, I contemplate whether or not any of that matters. Maybe he’s some kind of a player, but so what? I’ve never had a one-night stand in my life, at least not intentionally. I’d had a boyfriend back in high school, Kevin, but we dated for two years. And there were two incidents with guys who came after Kevin, but they don’t count either—I’d known them both since I was a child. And I’d thought (both times!) they would be boyfriends after I slept with them. I misjudged (twice!) and earned only a nasty hazing: flat as a board and easy to screw. In the end, I heard even Kevin said this about me.

There’d been a few incomplete and uninspired encounters in college. And then I met Ash.

Now, I wonder if there’s some way I can have this. Do this? After all those years I tried so hard to be good, this could be a treat, finally, just for the sake of it. I don’t have to care what this guy does and doesn’t do, or how frequently, not when he works at Aurelian and lives a continent away. I could simply get this out of my system and then settle down, avoid future inappropriate Walter-like distractions, and do the hard work of untangling my life from Ash’s. I know it’s not exactly the straight-and-narrow I’m intending, but no one would know.

“Fisherman’s Wharf?” Seth says. “Next stop?”

And I agree, feeling foolish. Contemplating the feasibility of a one-night stand that isn’t on offer. There isn’t any practical way to keep him with me. Seth no doubt is convinced he’s completed the tasks Manish assigned him: dinner, a ride, this tour. I need to get a grip. It won’t do if in my addled, emotional state, I make some kind of desperate move that Seth later tells Manish about. They might laugh about it. About me. And I’d think of it whenever I speak with Manish, which I have to do any time Aurelian releases a product or announces news. I turn my head to the window. No, that won’t do at all.

Yet when we arrive back on the crowded, narrow streets near my hotel, Seth doesn’t pull haphazardly to the curb as Manish had earlier. He circles the neighborhood until he finds a spot to park and gets out of the car at the same time I do. We stand together on the sidewalk.

“We could get a drink?” He bends his head toward the wharf two blocks to our south. Looking into his face, I attempt to gauge his intentions, but as Seth smiles down at me, I can read nothing in the warmth of his eyes.

I agree with a tingling along my thighs.

“But wait, take this.” Seth peels the suit coat from his arms.

I try to protest, but the wind coming at us from the wharf seems colder than downtown Boston in February. He rests the jacket on my shoulders and I stop arguing, pulling the coat more closely around me, his musky scent enveloping me and sending a streak of heat past my knees.

We begin walking. Seth asks if I have siblings.

“That sounds like a personal question.” I tilt my face up, my arms crossing to hold the lapels of his coat.

“True enough. Are siblings off limits?”

I say families are probably a safe topic. I hope he doesn’t ask about my parents, but I’m happy to tell him about my brother Wade. “He lives in Charlotte,” I say.