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“Do you have any suggestions for me?” I asked. “I normally don’t do this sort of thing myself.”
“Judging by the cut of that suit and those shoes,” she said dryly, “I assume you have either a personal shopper or an assistant.”
“The latter,” I admitted.
“But this is important enough to you that you’re out here on a weekday morning trying to find an obscure book.” She gave me a hard look. “Let me guess, young man. You fucked up.”
Her word choice shocked me into honesty. “Yes, I did.”
“Well, hon, I know a thing or two about that.” She motioned for me to follow her into the shop. “I once had to track down a signed first edition ofGrapes of Wrathafter I insulted my wife’s Thanksgiving turkey, not knowing it was her grandmother’s recipe.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just watched as the shop owner went behind the counter, pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled down a list. She held it out to me.
“These are the dealers who might have a copy of the book you’re looking for,” she said. “I think at least one of them has the book in their own private collection, but you might be able to convince them to sell it to you for a price.”
“Money’s not an issue,” I assured her.
“This is where I’d start looking then,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely.
I walked the two blocks to the first store on the list, and found a sort a little bigger than the one I’d just left. Fortunately, it was already open, and I found a silver-haired gentleman at the register.
“Do you have a copy ofSonnets from the Portuguese?”
“Good morning.” He gave me a polite smile. “Let me check.”
As he typed on his computer, I pulled out my phone and checked the time. I’d had Anamaria reschedule all of my morning appointments in the hopes that my gift would prompt make-up sex but if I ended up spending the morning running around the city to find this book, I might need to decide whether or not to give up the search to make my afternoon schedule, or put off more work to find this personal apology gift.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t haveSonnets from the Portuguese. I do have collections by both Shelly and Keats.”
I shook my head. “No, it has to be that specific volume.”
“I understand.” His gaze darted to the extremely expensive watch on my wrist to my suit. “Would you like me to order it? It may take me a while to find it, but–”
“No, thank you,” I cut him off. “I appreciate the offer, but I need it today.”
I was halfway toward the door before I finished my sentence. Three more stores on my list and hopefully one of them would have what I needed.
Two hours and three stores later, I wrote a check with a lot of zeros to a man who had a pristine copy ofSonnets from the Portuguesein his personal collection. I also owed him invites to my family’s next three fundraisers and a consultation on a book he intended to write.
As he carefully wrapped my prize, I felt a surge of pride that I’d managed to find something that I knew Jessica dearly wanted. I could only hope that it would be enough to make things right between us, because if it didn’t, I had no idea what would.
* * *
When I steppedoff the elevator, Jessica was standing in the door of her office talking to one of the junior editors, and I went still at the sight of her. She was pale, her hair worn back in a simple ponytail, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. As she spoke, she reached up and rubbed the back of her neck, then massaged her temple, as if trying to rid herself of a dull, nagging headache.
Guilt rose as I realized I was probably the source of that headache, and with it, what remained of my self-righteousness melted away.
Fuck. Drew had been right.
I moved closer but kept my distance even when she saw me, her expression closing as she subtly turned her body toward the other person. Without a single word, she made it clear she wouldn’t come scurrying just because I’d shown up.
In retrospect, I could see that I’d given her that impression—along with a slew of other pretty shitty ones. I didn’t want her with me because she felt I’d bought her with this deal or that I was essentially blackmailing her because of her parents’ place and her friend’s job.
An unsettling thought occurred to me then, followed by an even more disturbing revelation: Ididwant her with me, and it had far less to do with my book and far too much to do with her. And while I did want her to be mine, I didn’t want it to happen because I’d bought her or paid for it. I wanted her to give herself to me because it was what she wanted.
Alarm bells sounded in my head yet again and I wondered if I should deal with this before talking to her.