The Right Road - Michael/Sara - Chapter Three
Title: The Right Road (3/?)
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Frank Tancredi, various original characters
Rating: PG-15
Genre: AU, Non-Epilogue-Compliant, Alternate Reality
Length: 5,873 words
Summary: One single decision can sometimes change the world. Lincoln didn't go into that garage, and he didn't end up on Death Row. Michael didn't rob that bank, and he never stepped foot inside Fox River. Sara never fell in love with an inmate, and she locked the infirmary door every single night. If everything was different, would anything stay the same?
Author's Note:This story has evolved from an old plotbunny involving a chance meeting in the most ordinary of places, and was inspired by THESE WORDS OF WISDOM from some guy called Wentworth Miller. Many thanks to scribblecat for the read-through. You can read the beginning of this story HERE. Oh, and I've used a few bits and pieces of (slightly adapted) canon conversation in this chapter. *g*
~*~
Okay, Michael thinks as he watches the Cadillac sweep out of the church driveway, so that hadn’t gone as well as he might have liked. The point is that it could have been worse.
He knows now that her eyes are hazel, and she blushes very prettily. He also knows that she cries at weddings (possibly only at some weddings, not all of them) and seems to be a friend of the bride, rather than the groom. Now all he needs to find out is if he’s going to be beaten up by the Governor’s bodyguard if he tries to speak to her at the reception. He could ask around, but he really doesn’t want to start more conversations on the subject than necessary. There is someone, he decides, who would be able to tell him quickly and quietly exactly how much of his time he’d be wasting, but getting that person alone might prove difficult.
“Michael, we’re going to have a few drinks in the bar at the hotel before the reception starts.” It’s John and his friends, obviously eager to be on their way. “You in?”
“Uh, sure.” He quickly glances around the scattered guests, scanning for his quarry. “I’ll meet you there.”
A few minutes later, he makes a mental note to tell Lincoln his timing today hasn’t been so bad after all. Because, miracle of miracles, the bride is standing apart from the lingering group of family, and as much as he hates to ruin her moment of privacy, he isn’t going to let this chance slip through his fingers.
“Rebecca?” She turns, and he offers her his hand. “Congratulations to you and Mark,” he tells her. “Thanks very much for inviting me.” It was her new father-in-law who would have insisted on including a group of his favoured employees on the guest list and they both know it, but the new bride smiles graciously nevertheless.
“Thank you for coming.” She blinks then, as if seeing him properly for the first time. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“It’s Michael.”
“Michael.” Her brow furrows in a frown at odds with her smiling eyes. “You work for Robert, don’t you? Mark’s father?”
“That’s right.”
Rebecca looks him up and down, then seems to come to some kind of decision. “You’re coming to the reception, aren’t you?”
He hesitates, suddenly worried he’d misread his invitation. “Uh, I hope so.”
“In that case, a friend of mine asked about you after the service.” She gives him a smile that holds more than a hint of mischief. “But don’t tell her I told you so.”
“Really?” He hopes his casual smile manages to mask the fact that he feels like punching the air with a triumphant fist, but he’s not entirely sure. “My lips are sealed, I promise.”
She looks pleased, and he feels as though he’s just passed some kind of unknown test, then she smiles at someone over his shoulder and he knows his private audience is over. She glances at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, I need to-”
He’s amazed she’s given him as much time as she has, considering the demands on her attention on this particular day. Perhaps, he thinks as he watches the bride and groom reunite with a lingering kiss, she has a soft spot for her friend, or is simply glowing with the romance of the day. Either way, he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have said anything if her friend was the Governor’s date, and his heart does an odd little jig at the thought.
“Oh, and Michael?” It’s Rebecca again, sailing regally past, her hand entwined with Mark’s as they make their way to the wedding cars waiting in the driveway. “Her name’s Sara.”
This time, he doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin. “Thank you.”
As the newlyweds pass him by, he hears the rest of their murmured conversation, and his grin widens. “She’s going to kill you,” Mark says teasingly, only to be refuted firmly by his new wife.
“She won’t, trust me.”
He watches the bridal party laughingly find their places in the right cars, then takes a deep breath, trying out the newly learned name in his head. Sara. Sara, who had been with Governor Tancredi.
He stares at the line of cream-colored limousines as they slowly move out of the driveway, one by one merging into the late afternoon traffic, but he barely sees them. Instead, he’s thinking of a tumble of auburn hair and a wide, breathtakingly beautiful smile that he’d last seen on a newspaper clipping that had been sent to him via email by a long ago mailing list.
Holy shit.
Sara Tancredi.
If there had been a chair handy, he would have dropped into it. He’s been involved with the shelter long enough to know something about the charity community in Chicago, and he wonders now how on earth he’d missed the connection. Sara Tancredi, daughter of the Governor of Illinois and recipient of the Howard R Swearer Student Humanitarian for her work in the orphanages of Kolkata. Perhaps that’s why he’d felt so drawn to her. Maybe his subconscious had recognised her, plucking her face from his memory with an ease that had escaped him. Then again, he thinks as he remembers those endless legs and the way he’d sat inside a place of worship trying not to think of how his hands had itched to mould themselves to the shape of her delicately bare shoulder blades, maybe it was something a lot more primordial.
Either way, he has at least five hours to find out if he imagined the way she’d blushed when he’d smiled at her.
Pulling his car keys from his pocket, he takes a final look at the church behind him, letting his eyes linger on its breathtakingly simple lines and hollows, and knows he’s made more than one unexpected discovery today.
~*~
Thanks to several urgent messages on her father’s cell phone and a subsequent ‘quick’ visit to his office, they barely arrive at the Ritz-Carlton before the bridal party are due to make their entrance into the ballroom. “Sorry, sweetheart, but you know I just can’t ignore these things.”
“It’s fine, Dad.” She does her best to sound unconcerned, but God, how she hates this. She’s thirty years old, and they’re still locked in the same damned emotional tussle that almost consumed her when she was a child. “I’m sure everything was urgent,” she says, glancing at him as the Ritz Carlton doorman performs his duties with a flourish. “I’m used to chatting with Bruce while you’re working,” she adds mildly, unable to resist the temptation to put a small sting into the conversation.
Her father has the good grace to look faintly discomforted, perhaps thinking of all the times his daughter has been forced to rely on the company of his right-hand man over the years. “Well, I got you here before the bride and groom arrived, though, right?”
As though she was a parcel to be delivered, she thinks darkly, then snaps a mental hand down on the thought. Every single NA sponsor she’s ever had has told her that her unresolved anger towards her father can only shoulder some of the blame for her addiction. There were times when she didn’t believe them, but she learned long ago that the only way forward was to keep putting one foot steadily in front of the other. She takes a deep breath, then smiles at him. “You did.”
The other guests have already been seated by the time they reach the ballroom, and they’re quickly shown to their table by an extremely polite waiter. She can feel several dozen pairs of eyes watching them as they make their way to their table, the usual side effect of attending a social gathering with her father, and she keeps her gaze trained carefully on the back of the waiter’s head.
It’s a relief to sit down and gratefully accept the offer of chilled water from the waiter, telling herself it’s simply embarrassment and the lingering afternoon heat that’s warming her face, rather than the thought of perhaps being observed by the same man who’d made her blush like a schoolgirl earlier that afternoon. Looking down at her lap, she realises she’s clutching her small purse so tightly her fingernails are digging into the fabric. Giving herself a mental shake, she places it on the table beside her beautifully inscribed nameplate, and tells herself to relax.
Her father appears to know the other guests sharing their table, and he introduces her with his usual aplomb, easing her into the circle of conversation in a way she knows she’ll never learn to duplicate. Thankfully, the arrival of the bride and groom excuse her from having to make any kind of small talk beyond the pleased to meet you variety. Smiling, Sara watches as her friend sweeps into the ballroom, her hand entwined with that of her new husband, looking for all the world as though she’s simply strolling through the mall.
The MC takes the microphone and begins to speak, and Sara plasters an attentive smile on her face. She hasn’t been in Rebecca’s social circle for several years, and she’s quite sure most of the private jokes and asides today are going to go right over her head. It would be nice, she thinks, to attend the wedding of someone close, to already know every private joke by heart.
Like Frank Tancredi, Rebecca had always been comfortable in any situation, able to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, every time. Maybe, Sara muses as she watches Mark make a show of pulling out his new wife’s chair for her at the bridal table, that’s why they’d been firm friends all through high school. Even when things at home were beyond bad, Sara never once felt as though she had to tip toe around them whenever she spent time with Rebecca.
Sitting back in her chair, Sara eyes the tray of sparkling champagne flutes being borne aloft by a passing waiter, and sighs. Sometimes she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to having to deal with these bouts of introspection completely sober. These days she prefers listening to other people’s problems; they always seem much easier to contemplate than her own.
As the MC talks on and on, Sara finally lets herself do what she’s been itching to do ever since she’d sat down. Taking a casual sip from her water glass, she casts an even more casual glance around the ballroom, looking for that unmistakable profile. There seems to be literally hundreds of young men wearing dark suits in attendance at this wedding, though, and she is suddenly afraid she resembles a meerkat (albeit one wearing evening dress) desperately trying to spot its target across the Kalahari. Shaking her head, she reaches for her water glass once again. When you’re having such thoughts while you’re sober, she thinks wryly, maybe it’s time to pay attention to the reason you’re actually here?
She does her best to focus on the proceedings, but she finds it impossible to resist the urge to continue her discreet search. Finally, her patience is rewarded. Halfway through the father of the bride’s speech, she finds the man whose face and smile seem to have taken up permanent residence in her thoughts over the last few hours. He’s sitting at a table to her left, towards the middle of the ballroom, his hands resting on the table in front of him, his gaze angled downward as though he’s listening intently.
Her mouth runs dry, her stomach seeming to take a swift dive straight down to her toes, as though she’s strapped into a rollercoaster that’s plummeted down a dramatic dip. Her face feels hot again, but this time she knows it’s not caused by embarrassment or the heat of the day outside this air-conditioned ballroom.
Damn it.
She takes yet another sip of water, allowing herself the luxury of studying him while his gaze is averted. It takes her a moment to realise he’s actually paying even less attention to the father of the bride’s speech than she is, if that’s possible. She watches, fascinated, as he fidgets with his heavily starched white napkin, his hands twisting and patting, his long fingers tucking and folding. She has no idea what he’s doing, if indeed he’s doing anything more than toying with a napkin, but she can’t bring herself to look away.
A moment later, he sits back in his chair, revealing a small structure sitting on the table in front of him, something that looks like an origami pine tree, listing badly to one side. As she watches, he puts his chin in his hand, his elbow resting on the table. He studies the lopsided tree for a moment, frowning as he appears to consider it from every angle. Then he narrows his gaze, lifts his other hand and flicks the soft sculpture over with a disdainful snap of his fingers.
The laughter bubbles up in her throat before she can stop it. To her horror, her timing couldn’t have been worse. The father of the bride has chosen this exact moment to finally wrap up his speech, and Sara’s soft laughter spills into the quiet, turning heads and earning her a disapproving glance from her father.
A wave of polite applause for the bride's father speech drifts through the room as the dark-haired man lifts his head, his gaze quickly finding Sara amidst the crowd with a heart-stopping accuracy. It seems she wasn’t the only one intent on locating the other in the crush of the ballroom, and the same flush of heat that warmed her face earlier shimmers across her skin. Again, she knows it has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the fact that this man, whoever the hell he is, makes her feel as though the air pressing against her skin is literally crackling with sexual energy, something she hasn’t felt in a very long time. He’s still watching her intently, and she frantically tries to kick start her reflexes into action. Do something, you idiot.
Only vaguely aware of the loud buzz of conversation now filling the room, she smiles at him. His face lights up - there’s no other way to describe it - then he shoots her a wide grin across the ballroom, and Sara feels her stomach turn a triple somersault before plunging down to her toes. It’s been almost a year since she’s been on a date, even longer since she’s slept with anyone, and she suddenly feels painfully out of practice when it comes to this sort of thing. This guy is beyond gorgeous, and if he turns out to be (a) interested and (b) more than just a pretty face, she’s not sure she’s going to be able to string together a coherent sentence, let alone an entire conversation.
Feeling her father’s hand on her arm, she turns her head, almost grateful for the excuse to break eye contact with the dark-haired man. Unfortunately, it’s a feeling that only lasts a few seconds.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Beneath the polite mask of his words, she hears her father’s irritation, the old familiar fear that she’s going to embarrass him in front of company. Just like her mother used to embarrass him, she thinks, and she suddenly feels the need to be somewhere else.
“I’m fine.” She gives him her brightest smile, ignoring the curious glances of the other guests at their table. “I just need to freshen up,” she whispers in reply, using the failsafe excuse guaranteed to give her a free pass as far as her father is concerned. As she expected, he immediately drops the inquisitorial attitude, resting his hand on the back of her chair.
“Uh, of course. Sure.”
Scooping up her purse from the table, she lets her father pull back her chair then rises to her feet, smiling in the vague direction of the other inhabitants of their table. “Excuse me, won’t you?” She’s sure she won’t miss anything earth-shattering conversation while she’s gone. The other four couples are all in the ‘old friends of the bride’s family’ category, and no doubt are already comparing the achievements of their respective offspring. She has confidence her father will have no trouble feigning enthusiasm while discussing her current career choice. God know, he’s had enough practice. Too bad he never bothers to feign enthusiasm when he’s talking to her about it.
She makes her way out of the ballroom, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but there’s an itch dancing across her bare shoulders and up the back of her neck, and she suspects she’s being watched. Of course, it could be any number of people curious as to where the Governor’s daughter might be going, but she doesn’t think so. She takes a deep breath and quickens her step, because right now she needs a moment to knock some sense into herself and she needs to find a quiet place in which to do it.
~*~
His brother has told him, on more than one occasion, that he is a ‘really freaking weird combination of genius and clueless’. Michael always bristles at the teasing accusation but as he checks his watch for the tenth time, he suspects Lincoln might just have a point. Sara Tancredi and her father have yet to appear in the Ritz Carlton ballroom, and if the frantic preparations of the wait staff at the bridal table are any indication, the wedding party is due any moment. He can’t imagine that a social stalwart like Frank Tancredi would make such a basic faux pas in etiquette by arriving after the bride and groom, and that means anyone who passed up the chance to talk to the Governor’s daughter at the church is a complete and utter idiot.
“Hey, did you hear about Richard’s latest coup?” John’s voice drags him back to the mundane reality of small talk. “He landed the Brosnan tender on Friday.”
“I heard,” Michael says with a distracted smile, his gaze still pinned to the entrance of the ballroom. “It’ll be a huge job if he pulls it off.”
“He’ll do it,” John shoots back, not without a touch of bitterness. “Everything that bastard touches turns to gold.”
Michael makes a vague sound of agreement, no longer caring about Richard the bastard and his enviable overloaded client base because the Governor and his daughter are now being ushered towards their table by one of the waiters. Sitting up a little straighter in his seat, Michael watches Sara Tancredi walk across the ballroom to one of the tables close to the bridal party. Her body language is outwardly relaxed and graceful, but he sees the stiffness in her spine, the way she looks neither left nor right as she passes the other tables.
She’s embarrassed, he thinks. Her father, on the other hand, seems all too happy to dole out the occasional smile and nod as he encounters familiar faces, as though unaware they’ve arrived incredibly late. The contrast between father and daughter is startling, and Michael has to admit it pleases him. He’s never been a fan of the Governor’s political views or his public persona, and the thought that his daughter might not follow her father’s lead in either arena is something of a relief.
He sits back in his chair, his thoughts racing ahead, darting through the rigid timetable that awaits them this evening. His first chance to speak to Sara Tancredi will be between the end of the first round of speeches and the dinner service, and he has no intention of letting the chance slip through his fingers a second time.
A few minutes later, the bridal party arrives to much fanfare, interrupting the pleasant pastime of watching Sara Tancredi smile and make small talk of her own. Shortly after the dreaded sound of a spoon tapping a wine glass pierces the hum of conversation, and Michael readies himself for the first round of speeches. Normally, when trapped in a social situation such as this, he finds it easy to switch off and think of the outside world. Today, however, his thoughts remain firmly within the Ritz Carlton ballroom. More specifically, with the third table on the right, just under ten feet from the center point of the bridal table. Falling into the comforting habit of napkin construction (something else his brother likes to point out as being freaky), his brain takes up a two-sided stance inside his head.
What if she’s already seeing someone? If she was, she probably would have brought him as her date to the wedding, rather than her father.
He unfolds the starched napkin just enough to use it as a base, careful not to ruin its crisp edges.
What if she’s a spoiled brat whose only redeeming qualities are those amazing legs and that smile? Ah, but she turned her back on her father’s money and relied on fundraising for the money to establish an orphanage in India.
His fingers tuck and fold and slide, the familiar movements doing nothing to soothe the bout of nerves jangling in the pit of his belly.
If she’s single and unspoiled and all those things you’re hoping she might be, what the hell has someone like you got to offer a woman like that? I have no idea. All I need is the chance to find out.
He sits back in his chair. His napkin Christmas tree is finished, but it seems to be feeling the July heat. It’s already listing to one side, and it will only be a matter of time before it collapses completely. Time to call a halt on this project, he decides. Lifting his hand, he flicks a point halfway up the tree he knows will send it flying onto his plate. The napkin flutters downward just as the father of the bride makes his closing remarks, but before any polite applause can begin, a lilting female laugh curls through the room. It’s a sound of surprised appreciation, and suddenly Michael knows. He’s never even heard her speak, but he knows.
He lifts his head and looks towards Sara Tancredi’s table, and his heart does a jerking little dance against his ribs because she is staring straight at him, her laughter still dancing across her face. She looks at him for a moment, her dark eyes suddenly somber, almost wary, then she smiles at him.
God. All she’s done is smile at him, and he suddenly feels as though he’s got pins and needles from his scalp to his toenails and every single place in between. He presses his hands flat against the snowy white table cloth, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to come up with an opening line to talk to this woman when her smile alone makes him feel as though he’s fourteen years old and doing his best to contain his body’s callow reaction to a pretty face.
He grins at her - there’s precious little else he can do at this point - and he’s amused to see her smile take on a vaguely bashful quality. For a well-heeled Chicago princess with a trust fund, she certainly embarrasses easily, he thinks, then tells himself he’s being unfair. As he watches, her father touches her on the arm, drawing her attention away. Her bright head dips as she murmurs something in her father’s ear, then she’s rising to her feet - God, that dress really is something - and smiling at the other people at her table and turning on her heel and walking away. A momentary panic flashes through him, then he realises she’s walking in the direction of the bathrooms.
Michael checks his watch, then eyes the bridal table. The speeches are over for the moment and the bride and groom are circulating, which means he has at least twenty minutes up his sleeve. After neatly refolding his napkin, he pushes back his chair.
What are you doing? a voice in his head that sounds remarkably like his brother’s voice demands. You’re not going to hit on her in the bathroom? That’s clueless, even for you.
Of course I’m not going to hit on her in the bathroom, Michael informs the irritating voice of reason in his head. He gets to his feet, slowly buttoning his suit jacket with fingers that don’t seem as deft as they usually are. I’m going to hit on her at the bar.
~*~
Unfortunately, the ladies’ bathroom isn’t the quiet haven she'd been hoping to find. There are three women she doesn’t know loitering in front of the mirrors, reapplying their lipstick and checking their hair. They give her a cursory once-over as she walks into the opulent marble room, then go back to discussing the bridesmaids’ dresses and just how much the wedding must have cost the bride’s parents. A moment later, Sara feels a flicker of anger as she hears them openly debate whether the bride’s nose and breasts are natural, then pushes it aside. These women mean nothing to her, and she suspects they wouldn’t mean all that much to Rebecca either. When she emerges from the cubicle to wash her hands, they’re vanishing through the door, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume and a bad taste in Sara’s mouth.
Doing her best to dismiss the gossiping guests, she studies her reflection. Her hair has held up pretty well in the heat of the afternoon, and all it needs is a quick smoothing into place. Her face is flushed in a way completely unrelated to the blush she’d so carefully applied in her own bathroom a few hours earlier, her eyes glittering behind the discreet layers of mascara and eyeliner. So that’s what being completely out of my depth looks like, she thinks wryly as she pats her hands dry. Interesting.
As she walks back into the ballroom, she passes yet another waiter carrying yet another tray filled with brimming champagne flutes and wine glasses. Her mouth suddenly dry, she takes a quick detour and heads towards the bar area where several guests have already congregated, cradling tumblers of harder stuff than the waiters are circulating. She manages to slip between two suited linebackers - or so it seems by the width of their shoulders - to order a club soda with lime, then waits, tapping her newly manicured fingernails on the top of the polished wooden bar.
Ten seconds later, the voice in her ear makes her jump and gives her goosebumps in the same heartbeat, and she knows without a doubt to whom the voice belongs. “You know what Shakespeare once said about wedding speeches?”
Sara curls her fingers around the drink the bartender has just placed in front of her, hoping it’s just her imagination that her hand is trembling. A face like a fallen angel and a voice like molten silk, she thinks. It doesn’t seem fair, somehow. “No, but I have the feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“Brevity is the soul of wit.”
Oh, God. A quirky sense of humour, too. That's just great. She grips her glass a little harder, then turns around to face him. She falters briefly at the pure physical impact of finally being so close to him, but she can’t let such a deliberate misuse of literature pass her by. She lifts her chin, trying to ignore the fact that his gaze instantly drops to her lips. “And all this time I thought that was lifted from a rambling speech about Hamlet’s alleged madness.”
He grins, his bright eyes - greenish blue and thoroughly disconcerting - crinkling at the corners as he clicks his fingers in a drats gesture. “Damn. I knew I should have gone with the Grisham quote.”
“Maybe.” Her breathless laugh fights its way to the surface through a suddenly tight throat. Perhaps she should take a sip of her drink, but she finds it impossible to snag her gaze away from his. She can smell his aftershave, something light and spicy, but she doesn’t think that’s the reason for the lightheaded sensation she’s currently experiencing. “But I read his stuff, too.”
He holds out his hand. “I’m Michael, by the way.”
She hesitates (observing a moment’s silence for her vanquished sense of self-preservation, perhaps) then puts her hand in his. His palm fits warmly against hers, his long fingers wrapping around her knuckles, his thumb pressing gently down on her skin. She swallows hard, shakes his hand once quickly, then abruptly tugs her hand from his grasp. He looks mildly taken aback, but how can she possibly explain that she feels as though her whole arm is tingling from that simple contact? “Sara.”
“Tancredi, right?”
She blinks. “Yes.” The thought he might turn out to be another political enthusiast makes her heart sink. “Tancredi like the Governor.”
To her surprise, he waves away the mention of her father with a faintly apologetic hand. “No, it’s not that.” His smile is a self-conscious one, and she finds herself hastily revising the tag she’d been ready to slap on him. “You were behind the establishment of that orphanage in Kolkata a few years ago.”
“That’s right.” She’d blink a second time, but she’s too busy staring at him. “How on earth do you know that?”
He smiles warmly, as if to reassure her that he’s not a stalker who’s made it his life’s work to research her life. “I’ve done some charity work with the local shelters here in Chicago.” He quirks one well-shaped eyebrow, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “It’s a small community. Word gets around.”
He does charity work, she repeats to herself. Good grief. Forget losing the battle, she thinks as her knees decide to indulge in a quick bout of trembling. She’s already lost this particular war and they’ve barely exchanged more than a few sentences. “Is that right?”
They study each other for a long moment, just long enough for her to start feeling awkward, then he motions to the drink in her hand. “I don’t want to keep you from your table-" he begins, but she shakes her head.
“I’m in no rush to get back there, believe me,” she tells him with a smile, then fights the urge to clap her hand over her mouth. She never discusses her relationship with her father with outsiders, but two minutes of talking to this man seems to have loosened her tongue. If only she could blame the champagne. “Uh, can you forget I said that?”
He grins. “Only if you’ll stay and talk some more.” He hesitates, and once again she’s struck by his self-conscious air. “If that’s okay with you, of course.”
Tucking her purse under one arm, she cradles her drink in both hands, more to keep said hands occupied than anything else. It’s either that or reach out and run them up his arms to explore the lean muscles she suspects are lurking beneath the Armani suit. Maybe she’d be better off tipping the cold liquid over her head, but she stopped making those kinds of scenes four years ago. “How do you know Mark and Rebecca?” she asks, trying to look as though she doesn’t already know the answer to the question.
Michael smiles. “I work with Mark’s father.”
She hates sounding as though she’s going through his resume, but she’s genuinely curious. “Doing what?”
If he minds her asking, it doesn’t show. “I’m a structural engineer.”
She takes a sip of her drink, watching him over the edge of her glass. She knows damn well there's nothing more than club soda and lime in it, but she feels as though she's inhaling pure 100% proof spirit. “And what does a structural engineer do?”
His smile widens. “We make sure the buildings our company designs don’t fall down.”
She chuckles quietly. Definitely a quirky sense of humor. “I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that, but I get the idea.”
“What about you?” He slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers, as casually as though he was wearing jeans rather than a tailored suit. “You studied medicine, didn’t you?”
Maybe it should feel odd that this man seems to know so much about her, but it doesn’t. “That’s right. I went to Northwestern.”
He does that little eyebrow quirk again, and it’s just as charming as it was the first time. “I was at Loyola.”
Chicago might be a huge city, but there are many times when it feels like a small country town. “We were practically neighbors for years, then.”
Again, there's that smile that makes her stomach curl up around the edges. “Looks like it.”
There’s another pause, a silence filled with an anticipation that makes her feel oddly restless. “Is there a last name to go with the Michael?” She knows it would be more polite to return the gesture and tell him where she works, but she doesn't want to talk about Fox River. Not yet. For the moment, she just wants to be Sara who studied medicine, rather than the Governor's daughter who works in a prison.
“Scofield.”
“Tell me, Mr Scofield,” she says in what she hopes is a lightly teasing tone. She feels so out of practice, it’s hard to tell. “Do you normally approach strangers at weddings with butchered Shakespearian quotations?”
“Before today?” A slow smile curves his mouth. “Never.”
“Ah.” Her pulse rate seems to be trying to tell her something. She assumes it’s the same message the rest of her body has been desperately broadcasting ever since this man first smiled at her. “Should I take that a compliment?”
His startlingly vivid eyes never leave her face. “Definitely.”
She exhales a long breath that seems to hum in her throat. Funny, she hadn’t realised she’d been holding it. She feels as though they’re the only two people in the room, which is ridiculous, considering the crowd. She also feels as though she wants to sit down with this man and tell him everything about her life and discover every single thing about his, which should be ridiculous as well, seeing as they've known each other for precisely two minutes.
She takes a deep breath, and again his light aftershave teases her nose. She has spent far too many years ignoring her better instincts. Since she's been clean, it's been an uphill battle learning to trust her own judgment again. She has no idea if she believes in fate or even karma anymore, but she knows she didn't want to come to this wedding and now she's very glad she did. She opens her mouth to tell him that she’ll be very happy to spend more time talking after the formal dinner service is over, but something completely different comes out. “Would you like to meet my father?”
Oh, my God. For the second time in as many minutes, she has the idiotic urge to clap her hand over her mouth. Michael, however, doesn’t bat an eyelid.
“Definitely.”
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Frank Tancredi, various original characters
Rating: PG-15
Genre: AU, Non-Epilogue-Compliant, Alternate Reality
Length: 5,873 words
Summary: One single decision can sometimes change the world. Lincoln didn't go into that garage, and he didn't end up on Death Row. Michael didn't rob that bank, and he never stepped foot inside Fox River. Sara never fell in love with an inmate, and she locked the infirmary door every single night. If everything was different, would anything stay the same?
Author's Note:This story has evolved from an old plotbunny involving a chance meeting in the most ordinary of places, and was inspired by THESE WORDS OF WISDOM from some guy called Wentworth Miller. Many thanks to scribblecat for the read-through. You can read the beginning of this story HERE. Oh, and I've used a few bits and pieces of (slightly adapted) canon conversation in this chapter. *g*
~*~
Okay, Michael thinks as he watches the Cadillac sweep out of the church driveway, so that hadn’t gone as well as he might have liked. The point is that it could have been worse.
He knows now that her eyes are hazel, and she blushes very prettily. He also knows that she cries at weddings (possibly only at some weddings, not all of them) and seems to be a friend of the bride, rather than the groom. Now all he needs to find out is if he’s going to be beaten up by the Governor’s bodyguard if he tries to speak to her at the reception. He could ask around, but he really doesn’t want to start more conversations on the subject than necessary. There is someone, he decides, who would be able to tell him quickly and quietly exactly how much of his time he’d be wasting, but getting that person alone might prove difficult.
“Michael, we’re going to have a few drinks in the bar at the hotel before the reception starts.” It’s John and his friends, obviously eager to be on their way. “You in?”
“Uh, sure.” He quickly glances around the scattered guests, scanning for his quarry. “I’ll meet you there.”
A few minutes later, he makes a mental note to tell Lincoln his timing today hasn’t been so bad after all. Because, miracle of miracles, the bride is standing apart from the lingering group of family, and as much as he hates to ruin her moment of privacy, he isn’t going to let this chance slip through his fingers.
“Rebecca?” She turns, and he offers her his hand. “Congratulations to you and Mark,” he tells her. “Thanks very much for inviting me.” It was her new father-in-law who would have insisted on including a group of his favoured employees on the guest list and they both know it, but the new bride smiles graciously nevertheless.
“Thank you for coming.” She blinks then, as if seeing him properly for the first time. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“It’s Michael.”
“Michael.” Her brow furrows in a frown at odds with her smiling eyes. “You work for Robert, don’t you? Mark’s father?”
“That’s right.”
Rebecca looks him up and down, then seems to come to some kind of decision. “You’re coming to the reception, aren’t you?”
He hesitates, suddenly worried he’d misread his invitation. “Uh, I hope so.”
“In that case, a friend of mine asked about you after the service.” She gives him a smile that holds more than a hint of mischief. “But don’t tell her I told you so.”
“Really?” He hopes his casual smile manages to mask the fact that he feels like punching the air with a triumphant fist, but he’s not entirely sure. “My lips are sealed, I promise.”
She looks pleased, and he feels as though he’s just passed some kind of unknown test, then she smiles at someone over his shoulder and he knows his private audience is over. She glances at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, I need to-”
He’s amazed she’s given him as much time as she has, considering the demands on her attention on this particular day. Perhaps, he thinks as he watches the bride and groom reunite with a lingering kiss, she has a soft spot for her friend, or is simply glowing with the romance of the day. Either way, he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have said anything if her friend was the Governor’s date, and his heart does an odd little jig at the thought.
“Oh, and Michael?” It’s Rebecca again, sailing regally past, her hand entwined with Mark’s as they make their way to the wedding cars waiting in the driveway. “Her name’s Sara.”
This time, he doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin. “Thank you.”
As the newlyweds pass him by, he hears the rest of their murmured conversation, and his grin widens. “She’s going to kill you,” Mark says teasingly, only to be refuted firmly by his new wife.
“She won’t, trust me.”
He watches the bridal party laughingly find their places in the right cars, then takes a deep breath, trying out the newly learned name in his head. Sara. Sara, who had been with Governor Tancredi.
He stares at the line of cream-colored limousines as they slowly move out of the driveway, one by one merging into the late afternoon traffic, but he barely sees them. Instead, he’s thinking of a tumble of auburn hair and a wide, breathtakingly beautiful smile that he’d last seen on a newspaper clipping that had been sent to him via email by a long ago mailing list.
Holy shit.
Sara Tancredi.
If there had been a chair handy, he would have dropped into it. He’s been involved with the shelter long enough to know something about the charity community in Chicago, and he wonders now how on earth he’d missed the connection. Sara Tancredi, daughter of the Governor of Illinois and recipient of the Howard R Swearer Student Humanitarian for her work in the orphanages of Kolkata. Perhaps that’s why he’d felt so drawn to her. Maybe his subconscious had recognised her, plucking her face from his memory with an ease that had escaped him. Then again, he thinks as he remembers those endless legs and the way he’d sat inside a place of worship trying not to think of how his hands had itched to mould themselves to the shape of her delicately bare shoulder blades, maybe it was something a lot more primordial.
Either way, he has at least five hours to find out if he imagined the way she’d blushed when he’d smiled at her.
Pulling his car keys from his pocket, he takes a final look at the church behind him, letting his eyes linger on its breathtakingly simple lines and hollows, and knows he’s made more than one unexpected discovery today.
~*~
Thanks to several urgent messages on her father’s cell phone and a subsequent ‘quick’ visit to his office, they barely arrive at the Ritz-Carlton before the bridal party are due to make their entrance into the ballroom. “Sorry, sweetheart, but you know I just can’t ignore these things.”
“It’s fine, Dad.” She does her best to sound unconcerned, but God, how she hates this. She’s thirty years old, and they’re still locked in the same damned emotional tussle that almost consumed her when she was a child. “I’m sure everything was urgent,” she says, glancing at him as the Ritz Carlton doorman performs his duties with a flourish. “I’m used to chatting with Bruce while you’re working,” she adds mildly, unable to resist the temptation to put a small sting into the conversation.
Her father has the good grace to look faintly discomforted, perhaps thinking of all the times his daughter has been forced to rely on the company of his right-hand man over the years. “Well, I got you here before the bride and groom arrived, though, right?”
As though she was a parcel to be delivered, she thinks darkly, then snaps a mental hand down on the thought. Every single NA sponsor she’s ever had has told her that her unresolved anger towards her father can only shoulder some of the blame for her addiction. There were times when she didn’t believe them, but she learned long ago that the only way forward was to keep putting one foot steadily in front of the other. She takes a deep breath, then smiles at him. “You did.”
The other guests have already been seated by the time they reach the ballroom, and they’re quickly shown to their table by an extremely polite waiter. She can feel several dozen pairs of eyes watching them as they make their way to their table, the usual side effect of attending a social gathering with her father, and she keeps her gaze trained carefully on the back of the waiter’s head.
It’s a relief to sit down and gratefully accept the offer of chilled water from the waiter, telling herself it’s simply embarrassment and the lingering afternoon heat that’s warming her face, rather than the thought of perhaps being observed by the same man who’d made her blush like a schoolgirl earlier that afternoon. Looking down at her lap, she realises she’s clutching her small purse so tightly her fingernails are digging into the fabric. Giving herself a mental shake, she places it on the table beside her beautifully inscribed nameplate, and tells herself to relax.
Her father appears to know the other guests sharing their table, and he introduces her with his usual aplomb, easing her into the circle of conversation in a way she knows she’ll never learn to duplicate. Thankfully, the arrival of the bride and groom excuse her from having to make any kind of small talk beyond the pleased to meet you variety. Smiling, Sara watches as her friend sweeps into the ballroom, her hand entwined with that of her new husband, looking for all the world as though she’s simply strolling through the mall.
The MC takes the microphone and begins to speak, and Sara plasters an attentive smile on her face. She hasn’t been in Rebecca’s social circle for several years, and she’s quite sure most of the private jokes and asides today are going to go right over her head. It would be nice, she thinks, to attend the wedding of someone close, to already know every private joke by heart.
Like Frank Tancredi, Rebecca had always been comfortable in any situation, able to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, every time. Maybe, Sara muses as she watches Mark make a show of pulling out his new wife’s chair for her at the bridal table, that’s why they’d been firm friends all through high school. Even when things at home were beyond bad, Sara never once felt as though she had to tip toe around them whenever she spent time with Rebecca.
Sitting back in her chair, Sara eyes the tray of sparkling champagne flutes being borne aloft by a passing waiter, and sighs. Sometimes she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to having to deal with these bouts of introspection completely sober. These days she prefers listening to other people’s problems; they always seem much easier to contemplate than her own.
As the MC talks on and on, Sara finally lets herself do what she’s been itching to do ever since she’d sat down. Taking a casual sip from her water glass, she casts an even more casual glance around the ballroom, looking for that unmistakable profile. There seems to be literally hundreds of young men wearing dark suits in attendance at this wedding, though, and she is suddenly afraid she resembles a meerkat (albeit one wearing evening dress) desperately trying to spot its target across the Kalahari. Shaking her head, she reaches for her water glass once again. When you’re having such thoughts while you’re sober, she thinks wryly, maybe it’s time to pay attention to the reason you’re actually here?
She does her best to focus on the proceedings, but she finds it impossible to resist the urge to continue her discreet search. Finally, her patience is rewarded. Halfway through the father of the bride’s speech, she finds the man whose face and smile seem to have taken up permanent residence in her thoughts over the last few hours. He’s sitting at a table to her left, towards the middle of the ballroom, his hands resting on the table in front of him, his gaze angled downward as though he’s listening intently.
Her mouth runs dry, her stomach seeming to take a swift dive straight down to her toes, as though she’s strapped into a rollercoaster that’s plummeted down a dramatic dip. Her face feels hot again, but this time she knows it’s not caused by embarrassment or the heat of the day outside this air-conditioned ballroom.
Damn it.
She takes yet another sip of water, allowing herself the luxury of studying him while his gaze is averted. It takes her a moment to realise he’s actually paying even less attention to the father of the bride’s speech than she is, if that’s possible. She watches, fascinated, as he fidgets with his heavily starched white napkin, his hands twisting and patting, his long fingers tucking and folding. She has no idea what he’s doing, if indeed he’s doing anything more than toying with a napkin, but she can’t bring herself to look away.
A moment later, he sits back in his chair, revealing a small structure sitting on the table in front of him, something that looks like an origami pine tree, listing badly to one side. As she watches, he puts his chin in his hand, his elbow resting on the table. He studies the lopsided tree for a moment, frowning as he appears to consider it from every angle. Then he narrows his gaze, lifts his other hand and flicks the soft sculpture over with a disdainful snap of his fingers.
The laughter bubbles up in her throat before she can stop it. To her horror, her timing couldn’t have been worse. The father of the bride has chosen this exact moment to finally wrap up his speech, and Sara’s soft laughter spills into the quiet, turning heads and earning her a disapproving glance from her father.
A wave of polite applause for the bride's father speech drifts through the room as the dark-haired man lifts his head, his gaze quickly finding Sara amidst the crowd with a heart-stopping accuracy. It seems she wasn’t the only one intent on locating the other in the crush of the ballroom, and the same flush of heat that warmed her face earlier shimmers across her skin. Again, she knows it has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the fact that this man, whoever the hell he is, makes her feel as though the air pressing against her skin is literally crackling with sexual energy, something she hasn’t felt in a very long time. He’s still watching her intently, and she frantically tries to kick start her reflexes into action. Do something, you idiot.
Only vaguely aware of the loud buzz of conversation now filling the room, she smiles at him. His face lights up - there’s no other way to describe it - then he shoots her a wide grin across the ballroom, and Sara feels her stomach turn a triple somersault before plunging down to her toes. It’s been almost a year since she’s been on a date, even longer since she’s slept with anyone, and she suddenly feels painfully out of practice when it comes to this sort of thing. This guy is beyond gorgeous, and if he turns out to be (a) interested and (b) more than just a pretty face, she’s not sure she’s going to be able to string together a coherent sentence, let alone an entire conversation.
Feeling her father’s hand on her arm, she turns her head, almost grateful for the excuse to break eye contact with the dark-haired man. Unfortunately, it’s a feeling that only lasts a few seconds.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Beneath the polite mask of his words, she hears her father’s irritation, the old familiar fear that she’s going to embarrass him in front of company. Just like her mother used to embarrass him, she thinks, and she suddenly feels the need to be somewhere else.
“I’m fine.” She gives him her brightest smile, ignoring the curious glances of the other guests at their table. “I just need to freshen up,” she whispers in reply, using the failsafe excuse guaranteed to give her a free pass as far as her father is concerned. As she expected, he immediately drops the inquisitorial attitude, resting his hand on the back of her chair.
“Uh, of course. Sure.”
Scooping up her purse from the table, she lets her father pull back her chair then rises to her feet, smiling in the vague direction of the other inhabitants of their table. “Excuse me, won’t you?” She’s sure she won’t miss anything earth-shattering conversation while she’s gone. The other four couples are all in the ‘old friends of the bride’s family’ category, and no doubt are already comparing the achievements of their respective offspring. She has confidence her father will have no trouble feigning enthusiasm while discussing her current career choice. God know, he’s had enough practice. Too bad he never bothers to feign enthusiasm when he’s talking to her about it.
She makes her way out of the ballroom, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but there’s an itch dancing across her bare shoulders and up the back of her neck, and she suspects she’s being watched. Of course, it could be any number of people curious as to where the Governor’s daughter might be going, but she doesn’t think so. She takes a deep breath and quickens her step, because right now she needs a moment to knock some sense into herself and she needs to find a quiet place in which to do it.
~*~
His brother has told him, on more than one occasion, that he is a ‘really freaking weird combination of genius and clueless’. Michael always bristles at the teasing accusation but as he checks his watch for the tenth time, he suspects Lincoln might just have a point. Sara Tancredi and her father have yet to appear in the Ritz Carlton ballroom, and if the frantic preparations of the wait staff at the bridal table are any indication, the wedding party is due any moment. He can’t imagine that a social stalwart like Frank Tancredi would make such a basic faux pas in etiquette by arriving after the bride and groom, and that means anyone who passed up the chance to talk to the Governor’s daughter at the church is a complete and utter idiot.
“Hey, did you hear about Richard’s latest coup?” John’s voice drags him back to the mundane reality of small talk. “He landed the Brosnan tender on Friday.”
“I heard,” Michael says with a distracted smile, his gaze still pinned to the entrance of the ballroom. “It’ll be a huge job if he pulls it off.”
“He’ll do it,” John shoots back, not without a touch of bitterness. “Everything that bastard touches turns to gold.”
Michael makes a vague sound of agreement, no longer caring about Richard the bastard and his enviable overloaded client base because the Governor and his daughter are now being ushered towards their table by one of the waiters. Sitting up a little straighter in his seat, Michael watches Sara Tancredi walk across the ballroom to one of the tables close to the bridal party. Her body language is outwardly relaxed and graceful, but he sees the stiffness in her spine, the way she looks neither left nor right as she passes the other tables.
She’s embarrassed, he thinks. Her father, on the other hand, seems all too happy to dole out the occasional smile and nod as he encounters familiar faces, as though unaware they’ve arrived incredibly late. The contrast between father and daughter is startling, and Michael has to admit it pleases him. He’s never been a fan of the Governor’s political views or his public persona, and the thought that his daughter might not follow her father’s lead in either arena is something of a relief.
He sits back in his chair, his thoughts racing ahead, darting through the rigid timetable that awaits them this evening. His first chance to speak to Sara Tancredi will be between the end of the first round of speeches and the dinner service, and he has no intention of letting the chance slip through his fingers a second time.
A few minutes later, the bridal party arrives to much fanfare, interrupting the pleasant pastime of watching Sara Tancredi smile and make small talk of her own. Shortly after the dreaded sound of a spoon tapping a wine glass pierces the hum of conversation, and Michael readies himself for the first round of speeches. Normally, when trapped in a social situation such as this, he finds it easy to switch off and think of the outside world. Today, however, his thoughts remain firmly within the Ritz Carlton ballroom. More specifically, with the third table on the right, just under ten feet from the center point of the bridal table. Falling into the comforting habit of napkin construction (something else his brother likes to point out as being freaky), his brain takes up a two-sided stance inside his head.
What if she’s already seeing someone? If she was, she probably would have brought him as her date to the wedding, rather than her father.
He unfolds the starched napkin just enough to use it as a base, careful not to ruin its crisp edges.
What if she’s a spoiled brat whose only redeeming qualities are those amazing legs and that smile? Ah, but she turned her back on her father’s money and relied on fundraising for the money to establish an orphanage in India.
His fingers tuck and fold and slide, the familiar movements doing nothing to soothe the bout of nerves jangling in the pit of his belly.
If she’s single and unspoiled and all those things you’re hoping she might be, what the hell has someone like you got to offer a woman like that? I have no idea. All I need is the chance to find out.
He sits back in his chair. His napkin Christmas tree is finished, but it seems to be feeling the July heat. It’s already listing to one side, and it will only be a matter of time before it collapses completely. Time to call a halt on this project, he decides. Lifting his hand, he flicks a point halfway up the tree he knows will send it flying onto his plate. The napkin flutters downward just as the father of the bride makes his closing remarks, but before any polite applause can begin, a lilting female laugh curls through the room. It’s a sound of surprised appreciation, and suddenly Michael knows. He’s never even heard her speak, but he knows.
He lifts his head and looks towards Sara Tancredi’s table, and his heart does a jerking little dance against his ribs because she is staring straight at him, her laughter still dancing across her face. She looks at him for a moment, her dark eyes suddenly somber, almost wary, then she smiles at him.
God. All she’s done is smile at him, and he suddenly feels as though he’s got pins and needles from his scalp to his toenails and every single place in between. He presses his hands flat against the snowy white table cloth, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to come up with an opening line to talk to this woman when her smile alone makes him feel as though he’s fourteen years old and doing his best to contain his body’s callow reaction to a pretty face.
He grins at her - there’s precious little else he can do at this point - and he’s amused to see her smile take on a vaguely bashful quality. For a well-heeled Chicago princess with a trust fund, she certainly embarrasses easily, he thinks, then tells himself he’s being unfair. As he watches, her father touches her on the arm, drawing her attention away. Her bright head dips as she murmurs something in her father’s ear, then she’s rising to her feet - God, that dress really is something - and smiling at the other people at her table and turning on her heel and walking away. A momentary panic flashes through him, then he realises she’s walking in the direction of the bathrooms.
Michael checks his watch, then eyes the bridal table. The speeches are over for the moment and the bride and groom are circulating, which means he has at least twenty minutes up his sleeve. After neatly refolding his napkin, he pushes back his chair.
What are you doing? a voice in his head that sounds remarkably like his brother’s voice demands. You’re not going to hit on her in the bathroom? That’s clueless, even for you.
Of course I’m not going to hit on her in the bathroom, Michael informs the irritating voice of reason in his head. He gets to his feet, slowly buttoning his suit jacket with fingers that don’t seem as deft as they usually are. I’m going to hit on her at the bar.
~*~
Unfortunately, the ladies’ bathroom isn’t the quiet haven she'd been hoping to find. There are three women she doesn’t know loitering in front of the mirrors, reapplying their lipstick and checking their hair. They give her a cursory once-over as she walks into the opulent marble room, then go back to discussing the bridesmaids’ dresses and just how much the wedding must have cost the bride’s parents. A moment later, Sara feels a flicker of anger as she hears them openly debate whether the bride’s nose and breasts are natural, then pushes it aside. These women mean nothing to her, and she suspects they wouldn’t mean all that much to Rebecca either. When she emerges from the cubicle to wash her hands, they’re vanishing through the door, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume and a bad taste in Sara’s mouth.
Doing her best to dismiss the gossiping guests, she studies her reflection. Her hair has held up pretty well in the heat of the afternoon, and all it needs is a quick smoothing into place. Her face is flushed in a way completely unrelated to the blush she’d so carefully applied in her own bathroom a few hours earlier, her eyes glittering behind the discreet layers of mascara and eyeliner. So that’s what being completely out of my depth looks like, she thinks wryly as she pats her hands dry. Interesting.
As she walks back into the ballroom, she passes yet another waiter carrying yet another tray filled with brimming champagne flutes and wine glasses. Her mouth suddenly dry, she takes a quick detour and heads towards the bar area where several guests have already congregated, cradling tumblers of harder stuff than the waiters are circulating. She manages to slip between two suited linebackers - or so it seems by the width of their shoulders - to order a club soda with lime, then waits, tapping her newly manicured fingernails on the top of the polished wooden bar.
Ten seconds later, the voice in her ear makes her jump and gives her goosebumps in the same heartbeat, and she knows without a doubt to whom the voice belongs. “You know what Shakespeare once said about wedding speeches?”
Sara curls her fingers around the drink the bartender has just placed in front of her, hoping it’s just her imagination that her hand is trembling. A face like a fallen angel and a voice like molten silk, she thinks. It doesn’t seem fair, somehow. “No, but I have the feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“Brevity is the soul of wit.”
Oh, God. A quirky sense of humour, too. That's just great. She grips her glass a little harder, then turns around to face him. She falters briefly at the pure physical impact of finally being so close to him, but she can’t let such a deliberate misuse of literature pass her by. She lifts her chin, trying to ignore the fact that his gaze instantly drops to her lips. “And all this time I thought that was lifted from a rambling speech about Hamlet’s alleged madness.”
He grins, his bright eyes - greenish blue and thoroughly disconcerting - crinkling at the corners as he clicks his fingers in a drats gesture. “Damn. I knew I should have gone with the Grisham quote.”
“Maybe.” Her breathless laugh fights its way to the surface through a suddenly tight throat. Perhaps she should take a sip of her drink, but she finds it impossible to snag her gaze away from his. She can smell his aftershave, something light and spicy, but she doesn’t think that’s the reason for the lightheaded sensation she’s currently experiencing. “But I read his stuff, too.”
He holds out his hand. “I’m Michael, by the way.”
She hesitates (observing a moment’s silence for her vanquished sense of self-preservation, perhaps) then puts her hand in his. His palm fits warmly against hers, his long fingers wrapping around her knuckles, his thumb pressing gently down on her skin. She swallows hard, shakes his hand once quickly, then abruptly tugs her hand from his grasp. He looks mildly taken aback, but how can she possibly explain that she feels as though her whole arm is tingling from that simple contact? “Sara.”
“Tancredi, right?”
She blinks. “Yes.” The thought he might turn out to be another political enthusiast makes her heart sink. “Tancredi like the Governor.”
To her surprise, he waves away the mention of her father with a faintly apologetic hand. “No, it’s not that.” His smile is a self-conscious one, and she finds herself hastily revising the tag she’d been ready to slap on him. “You were behind the establishment of that orphanage in Kolkata a few years ago.”
“That’s right.” She’d blink a second time, but she’s too busy staring at him. “How on earth do you know that?”
He smiles warmly, as if to reassure her that he’s not a stalker who’s made it his life’s work to research her life. “I’ve done some charity work with the local shelters here in Chicago.” He quirks one well-shaped eyebrow, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “It’s a small community. Word gets around.”
He does charity work, she repeats to herself. Good grief. Forget losing the battle, she thinks as her knees decide to indulge in a quick bout of trembling. She’s already lost this particular war and they’ve barely exchanged more than a few sentences. “Is that right?”
They study each other for a long moment, just long enough for her to start feeling awkward, then he motions to the drink in her hand. “I don’t want to keep you from your table-" he begins, but she shakes her head.
“I’m in no rush to get back there, believe me,” she tells him with a smile, then fights the urge to clap her hand over her mouth. She never discusses her relationship with her father with outsiders, but two minutes of talking to this man seems to have loosened her tongue. If only she could blame the champagne. “Uh, can you forget I said that?”
He grins. “Only if you’ll stay and talk some more.” He hesitates, and once again she’s struck by his self-conscious air. “If that’s okay with you, of course.”
Tucking her purse under one arm, she cradles her drink in both hands, more to keep said hands occupied than anything else. It’s either that or reach out and run them up his arms to explore the lean muscles she suspects are lurking beneath the Armani suit. Maybe she’d be better off tipping the cold liquid over her head, but she stopped making those kinds of scenes four years ago. “How do you know Mark and Rebecca?” she asks, trying to look as though she doesn’t already know the answer to the question.
Michael smiles. “I work with Mark’s father.”
She hates sounding as though she’s going through his resume, but she’s genuinely curious. “Doing what?”
If he minds her asking, it doesn’t show. “I’m a structural engineer.”
She takes a sip of her drink, watching him over the edge of her glass. She knows damn well there's nothing more than club soda and lime in it, but she feels as though she's inhaling pure 100% proof spirit. “And what does a structural engineer do?”
His smile widens. “We make sure the buildings our company designs don’t fall down.”
She chuckles quietly. Definitely a quirky sense of humor. “I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that, but I get the idea.”
“What about you?” He slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers, as casually as though he was wearing jeans rather than a tailored suit. “You studied medicine, didn’t you?”
Maybe it should feel odd that this man seems to know so much about her, but it doesn’t. “That’s right. I went to Northwestern.”
He does that little eyebrow quirk again, and it’s just as charming as it was the first time. “I was at Loyola.”
Chicago might be a huge city, but there are many times when it feels like a small country town. “We were practically neighbors for years, then.”
Again, there's that smile that makes her stomach curl up around the edges. “Looks like it.”
There’s another pause, a silence filled with an anticipation that makes her feel oddly restless. “Is there a last name to go with the Michael?” She knows it would be more polite to return the gesture and tell him where she works, but she doesn't want to talk about Fox River. Not yet. For the moment, she just wants to be Sara who studied medicine, rather than the Governor's daughter who works in a prison.
“Scofield.”
“Tell me, Mr Scofield,” she says in what she hopes is a lightly teasing tone. She feels so out of practice, it’s hard to tell. “Do you normally approach strangers at weddings with butchered Shakespearian quotations?”
“Before today?” A slow smile curves his mouth. “Never.”
“Ah.” Her pulse rate seems to be trying to tell her something. She assumes it’s the same message the rest of her body has been desperately broadcasting ever since this man first smiled at her. “Should I take that a compliment?”
His startlingly vivid eyes never leave her face. “Definitely.”
She exhales a long breath that seems to hum in her throat. Funny, she hadn’t realised she’d been holding it. She feels as though they’re the only two people in the room, which is ridiculous, considering the crowd. She also feels as though she wants to sit down with this man and tell him everything about her life and discover every single thing about his, which should be ridiculous as well, seeing as they've known each other for precisely two minutes.
She takes a deep breath, and again his light aftershave teases her nose. She has spent far too many years ignoring her better instincts. Since she's been clean, it's been an uphill battle learning to trust her own judgment again. She has no idea if she believes in fate or even karma anymore, but she knows she didn't want to come to this wedding and now she's very glad she did. She opens her mouth to tell him that she’ll be very happy to spend more time talking after the formal dinner service is over, but something completely different comes out. “Would you like to meet my father?”
Oh, my God. For the second time in as many minutes, she has the idiotic urge to clap her hand over her mouth. Michael, however, doesn’t bat an eyelid.
“Definitely.”
~*~