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FORTY-EIGHT
Patrick
The flowers were an impulse. Driving throughFenway, I spotted a flower shop, just getting ready to roll down its doors for the night. Thankfully, I was able to sweet talk the owner into letting me in. When I pointed to the orange tulips in the cold case, she looked like she was going to try to talk me out of them, and into something more traditional, like roses, but stopped herself to look me up and down. “You look like the kind of young man who knows what he wants,” she said with a nod, pulling the tulips out of the case.
Damn right, I do.
And she’s standing right in front of me in a sexy black dress—the dress. My dress—that hugs every perfect curve of her, making it hard for me to remember my own name.
I lift her coat off the hook and follow her into the kitchen. Maybe if I get her coat on, I’ll have a fighting chance at re-routing the blood flow currently coursing its way through my veins, straight to my cock.
She’s standing at the counter, fussing over the tulips, a soft smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. It makes me want to bring her flowers, every day, for the rest of her life. “We should probably get going if we’re going to make the reservation.”
She looks up and blushes. “Of course,” she says, heat creeping across my chest. Setting the flowers on the counter, she comes toward me, letting me help her into her coat. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers, looking up at me.
Not I love you.
I’m glad you’re here.
“Me too,” I tell her, forcing a smile. Taking her keys out of her hand, I lead her out the door and lock up, before ushering her downstairs and onto the street.
On the sidewalk, I pocket her keys, switching them out with my own. “This is me,” I tell her when she starts down the sidewalk, toward Gilroy’s parking lot.
She looks at the car in front of her, confused. I don’t blame her. The Audi R8 coup I’m driving is a far cry from my beat-up Ford. “Where’s your truck?”
“At the office.” I laugh, hitting the fob in my hand, unlocking the door before opening it for her. “If I showed up at Davino’s in my work truck, Declan would string me up. This is his idea of a company car.”
She looks up at me. Confusion has slid into trepidation. Like she’s not sure who she’s about to get into a car with. “You’ve been there before?”
“Once or twice.” I give her a one-shoulder shrug. “No big deal,” I say, nodding at the open car door. “But they don’t hold reservations so…”
She gives me a tight smile before sliding into the seat. Shutting her door, I hurry around to my side of the car with the distinct feeling that, despite the fact that she asked me to come with her and she chose the restaurant, Cari is about five minutes away from calling this whole thing off.