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Forty-seven
Cari
The buzzer sounds,promptly at eight. As soon as I hear it, I want to throw-up.
Which is stupid.
“It’s Patrick,” I whisper to myself. “It’s just Patrick.”
Because I don’t trust myself not to say it out loud, I buzz him up without pressing the intercom before standing inside the laundry room, listening to him come up the stairs. Asking him to come with me was stupid. I knew Davino’s was fancy, but after checking out their website, I know that fancy is the wrong describer.
Sophisticated. Classy. Elegant.
Completely out of my league.
Even these words don’t accurately describe what I saw online. The prices alone made me sick to my stomach. Patrick is a simple guy. He likes simple things. Benny’s and baseball. Pizza and beer.
He knocks on the door. I stand there, staring at it. I can practically see him on the other side of it. Nice pair of Khakis. The white-button down he wore the first night we...
Oh, god. What if he thinks I expect him to pay?
Maybe I should call Chase and tell him we can’t make it. We can go grab some pizza or try to find that taco truck I’ve been dreaming about ever since—
“Cari...” his voice comes through the door, so close it startles me. “Are you going to open the door?”
Shit. Of course, he knows I’m standing here like an idiot.
Squaring my shoulders, I push a smile onto my face and open the door. “Sorry,” I say, ready to make some sort of lame excuse about why I’m standing in front of the door, staring at it, instead of opening it like a normal person but every word I planned on saying flies away, leaving me dumbstruck and wide-eyed.
Patrick is not wearing Khakis.
“Holy shit,” I breathe softly, taking in the sight of him. Beautifully cut suit. Designer tie. Hand-tailored shirt. What look like ruby and platinum cufflinks. My eyes travel upward, taking it all in. His gorgeous, clean-shaven face. Subtlety styled hair. Clear green eyes.
I look down at the dress I’m wearing. I bought it off the rack at an outlet years ago. My shoes are so old they could be considered vintage. I feel like a complete—
“My thoughts exactly,” he says, flashing me a quick, dimpled smile before leaning in to press a lingering kiss to my cheek. He smells fantastic. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from saying, you too.
When he pulls back, his lips grazing the corner my mouth. “These are for you.”
Still feeling a little off balance, I look down. He’s holding a bouquet of tulips.
“You brought me tulips?” Not roses. Not lilies. He brought me tulips.
Orange ones.
“I did.” One of his eyebrows inches upward while his mouth twitches under the weight of a suppressed smile.
Now I’m grinning like an idiot. “They’re my favorite.”
“I know.” The smile he’s fighting is gaining ground, his dimple digging a little deeper into his cheek.
Of course, he knows. This is Patrick. He knows what kind of yogurt I like and what brand shampoo I use. He knows I love olives on my pizza and what horrible taste I have in television. He’s seen me ugly cry and covered in paint.
“No one’s ever brought me flowers before,” I say, and as soon as it comes out of my mouth, I want to slap a hand over it.
Jesus. Why can’t I stop saying stupid things?
Before he can comment on how absolutely pathetic my life is, I take the flowers out of his hand. “I’ll put these in some water,” I say, carrying them into the kitchen and rifle through the cabinets until I find a tall glass. Filling it with water, I take a few seconds to arrange them.
Patrick brought me flowers.