have said considerably more, but Branden took him forcibly under the arm, spun him against the outside brick wall of the bank, jabbed two stiff fingers into Dobrowski’s chest and barked, “You’ll not speak about Britta that way.”
Dobrowski tried to force Branden’s arm away as he squirmed against the hot bricks.
Branden stiffened his arm and took hold of Dobrowski’s shirt. Coldly, he said, “If I hear you talking like that about Britta Sommers, I’m going to land on you like a pile driver, Arden. You understand? I’ve done it before, and under the circumstances, I’ll do it again.”
Dobrowski took Branden’s fist, pulled it away from his chest, and stepped sideways. “She’s my ex, thanks to you, and I’ll talk about her any way I please.”
Branden said, “You’ve been warned,” and felt pressure in his temples as he remembered why he would never tolerate such comments from Dobrowski. He took a combative step forward and glared with animosity at Dobrowski in the bright light on the bank’s front lawn, his eyes ablaze with the heat of ugly memories and utter disgust. Dobrowski stomped angrily out into the parking lot, rubbing at his shoulder.
Back in the shade, Branden watched Dobrowski get into a small, rusty car. Dobrowski labored at cranking down the windows on both sides of his car, and started the sputtering engine. When he swung around past the front of the bank, he scowled at Branden and made a vulgar gesture. Then he stopped, checked his rearview mirror, backed into the lot again, took a spot facing the entrance where Branden stood, shut off the engine, and stared at Branden spitefully. Branden laughed, shook his head, and stepped into the cold air of the bank.
Inside, he asked one of the managers to let him into the men’s room in a corner out of view, and there he dried his face and neck again, straightened his shirt, touched up his hair and beard, came out, and took the steps to the second floor, where the trust division had its offices along both sides of a long, carpeted hall. At the door to each office, a secretary worked at a desk in the wide hall.
Britta Sommers’s secretary used her phone to announce the professor and admitted Branden directly. Branden walked into a well-ordered, modern office done in mahogany, black lacquer, and red leather, and found Brittany Sommers crossing the carpet to him, arms outstretched. She was still petite, with short black hair that seemed silky and looked shiny. Her gray business suit hid nothing of the youthful beauty Branden remembered from high school. She came up to him eagerly, reached her arms behind his neck, and pulled him to her aggressively. She kissed him impetuously on the mouth before he could turn away, and with her head tilted back, she said, “Mike. Mike. Mike. Why didn’t I marry you?”
He dropped the leather pouch onto a table beside a floor lamp and chair, reached behind his head with both hands, pulled her hands down, maneuvered them in front of his chest, and took a deep breath as he pushed her back. “Britta,” he said gently, “eighth-grade romances are such sweet affairs. Who would ruin those memories with a marriage?”
She held his blue eyes with her green, smiled dreamily, and sighed, “She calls you Michael, doesn’t she?”
“Caroline?”
“Who else?” she said and pushed closer. “I’m going to call you Michael, too.”
“You’re still a flirt, Britta,” he chided, and stepped free of her grasp. “As I recall, you threw me over for a football player.”
“The captain, Michael,” Britta said in a petulant tone. “Not just a player.” Her eyes sparkled mischief, and she whispered, “I’ll just call you Michael when we’re alone.” She stepped back and ran her gaze over his medium frame, assessing the muscles under his T-shirt. Up close again, she ran her fingers through his hair at the temples and said, “More gray than I remember, Michael.”
The professor blushed and said, “If
Dobrowski tried to force Branden’s arm away as he squirmed against the hot bricks.
Branden stiffened his arm and took hold of Dobrowski’s shirt. Coldly, he said, “If I hear you talking like that about Britta Sommers, I’m going to land on you like a pile driver, Arden. You understand? I’ve done it before, and under the circumstances, I’ll do it again.”
Dobrowski took Branden’s fist, pulled it away from his chest, and stepped sideways. “She’s my ex, thanks to you, and I’ll talk about her any way I please.”
Branden said, “You’ve been warned,” and felt pressure in his temples as he remembered why he would never tolerate such comments from Dobrowski. He took a combative step forward and glared with animosity at Dobrowski in the bright light on the bank’s front lawn, his eyes ablaze with the heat of ugly memories and utter disgust. Dobrowski stomped angrily out into the parking lot, rubbing at his shoulder.
Back in the shade, Branden watched Dobrowski get into a small, rusty car. Dobrowski labored at cranking down the windows on both sides of his car, and started the sputtering engine. When he swung around past the front of the bank, he scowled at Branden and made a vulgar gesture. Then he stopped, checked his rearview mirror, backed into the lot again, took a spot facing the entrance where Branden stood, shut off the engine, and stared at Branden spitefully. Branden laughed, shook his head, and stepped into the cold air of the bank.
Inside, he asked one of the managers to let him into the men’s room in a corner out of view, and there he dried his face and neck again, straightened his shirt, touched up his hair and beard, came out, and took the steps to the second floor, where the trust division had its offices along both sides of a long, carpeted hall. At the door to each office, a secretary worked at a desk in the wide hall.
Britta Sommers’s secretary used her phone to announce the professor and admitted Branden directly. Branden walked into a well-ordered, modern office done in mahogany, black lacquer, and red leather, and found Brittany Sommers crossing the carpet to him, arms outstretched. She was still petite, with short black hair that seemed silky and looked shiny. Her gray business suit hid nothing of the youthful beauty Branden remembered from high school. She came up to him eagerly, reached her arms behind his neck, and pulled him to her aggressively. She kissed him impetuously on the mouth before he could turn away, and with her head tilted back, she said, “Mike. Mike. Mike. Why didn’t I marry you?”
He dropped the leather pouch onto a table beside a floor lamp and chair, reached behind his head with both hands, pulled her hands down, maneuvered them in front of his chest, and took a deep breath as he pushed her back. “Britta,” he said gently, “eighth-grade romances are such sweet affairs. Who would ruin those memories with a marriage?”
She held his blue eyes with her green, smiled dreamily, and sighed, “She calls you Michael, doesn’t she?”
“Caroline?”
“Who else?” she said and pushed closer. “I’m going to call you Michael, too.”
“You’re still a flirt, Britta,” he chided, and stepped free of her grasp. “As I recall, you threw me over for a football player.”
“The captain, Michael,” Britta said in a petulant tone. “Not just a player.” Her eyes sparkled mischief, and she whispered, “I’ll just call you Michael when we’re alone.” She stepped back and ran her gaze over his medium frame, assessing the muscles under his T-shirt. Up close again, she ran her fingers through his hair at the temples and said, “More gray than I remember, Michael.”
The professor blushed and said, “If
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