by Anna Zaires
“Cats, plural,” I correct. “And no, I don’t. Why don’t you do this? Get a variety of cat food brands, both wet and dry, and send them with the flowers. I’ll email you the note to add.”
“Okay, I’m on it.” Lynette turns her attention to her monitor, her long fingers flying over her keyboard. I have no doubt she’s going to send the best cat food and the freshest flowers money can buy. Lynette knows my predilection for high-quality products.
I like the best in all things, and I don’t accept compromises.
Speaking of the best… I glance at my watch. No, it’s still too early for Emmeline’s flight to have landed. Pulling out my phone, I set a reminder to call her later this afternoon and head toward my office.
I have five meetings and two dozen research reports to get through before lunch, but all I can think about is Emma.
Fuck. I’ll have to make sure I have my redheaded dessert this week, so I can forget her and move on with my life.
11
Emma
“Here you go, Mr. Roberts,” I say, handing the wizened old man a stack of paperbacks. “You’ll enjoy these, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I have no doubt.” He beams at me, showing two missing teeth in the front. “I love this series. So glad you recommended this author to me. I’ve loved all her books so far.”
I grin back at him. “I’m happy to hear that. She’s my favorite science fiction writer.”
“Mine too now,” he says, and we share a moment—that perfect moment of connection with someone who appreciates the same books you do. It’s moments like these that keep me working at Smithson Books despite low pay and no chance of advancement. Well, moments like these and my love of physical books. Just being in this little bookstore, surrounded by shelves of paperbacks and hardbacks, lifts my mood. I like ebooks too, but there’s nothing quite like the smell and feel of printed paper.
Each time we get a shipment in, I feel like a kid with a brand-new toy.
“All right then,” Mr. Roberts says, putting his paperbacks into a canvas bag. “You take care now, dear. Say hello to those cats for me.”
“I will, thank you.” A few months ago, I showed Mr. Roberts my cats’ pictures on the phone, and since then, he’s mentioned them every time he sees me. Come to think of it, he’s not the only one. Most of the regulars at the bookstore know about my fur babies and ask about them often.
Ugh. I am a cat lady.
“Hey, Emma. How’s it going?” Edward Smithson’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I turn to see my boss ambling toward me. Walking next to him is a guy I’ve never seen before. Blond, geeky-looking, and a little on the short side, he’s wearing rimless glasses and appears to be about my age.
“I’m good, Mr. Smithson. How about you?” I respond, smiling at my boss. He’s one of the nicest people I know—yet another reason why I haven’t quit this job.
“Oh, you know, still sticking to the diet.” He pats his massive belly, and I suppress a laugh. As far as I can tell, his diet consists of cookies and donuts—eaten when his wife isn’t looking, of course.
Stopping a few feet from me, Mr. Smithson says, “Emma, I’d like you to meet my nephew, Ian.” He turns to the blond guy. “Ian, this is Emma, the girl I was telling you about.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ian,” I say, smiling at the nephew. “What brings you to our bookstore?”
“I just moved to the city,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his neck turns bright red. “I like books, so Uncle Ed wanted to show me his store.”
“Of course.” I give him my warmest smile. I know what it’s like to be socially awkward, so I always try to be kind to shy people. “Would you like me to give you the tour?”
“That would be great,” Mr. Smithson says, sounding far too enthusiastic, and I suddenly realize why Ian is here.
My boss is matchmaking.
Now it’s my turn to blush. To hide the color spreading over my face, I crouch and pretend to tie my sneaker. I don’t know how I feel about this, especially the part where Ian is the boss’s nephew. It could get really awkward if anything goes wrong, and despite the crappy pay, I really like this job.
Oh, well. I’ll have to do my best to be friendly and only friendly.
When I’m sure that I no longer resemble a beet, I rise to my feet and smile at Ian. “Ready for the tour?”
The tour, such as it is, takes less than ten minutes. The bookstore is only a little larger than my studio, with the back area dedicated to a row of armchairs where our patrons like to lounge, and the front populated by shelves stocked with all genres of popular fiction. We’re not big on literary fiction or classics—the boring stuff, as Mr. Smithson calls it—but we have a huge selection of science fiction, fantasy, thrillers, mysteries, and romance novels. It’s our way of making sure our customers aren’t tempted to go online to get the books they actually like to read.
As I show all this to Ian, we make small talk, and I find out that he’s an aspiring urban fantasy author. I discreetly slip in that I do freelance editing, and his eyes light up when I tell him my very reasonable rates.
“Are you going to self-publish or go the traditional route?” I ask as we return to the counter where Mr. Smithson is handling the customers in my stead.
“I’m leaning toward self-publishing,” Ian answers. He seems much less shy now that we’re discussing his passion. “Uncle Ed thinks I should query agents first, but I’m tempted to just put it out there and see how it does.”
“That’s probably smart,” I say, smiling. “But then again, I’m biased. Most of my editing clients these days are independent authors, so I obviously want as many of you around as possible.”
Ian laughs, and Mr. Smithson gives us a pleased smile as he rings up an old woman’s purchase.
Oops. I hope my boss doesn’t think we’re hitting it off in some way other than editor and potential client. Though Ian is the type of guy I normally go for—sweet, nerdy, and a little shy—I’m not the least bit attracted to him. As I wonder why that is, images of icy blue eyes and lean, hard jaw invade my mind, along with graphic details from my dreams last night.
No. No way. I push the images away before my face turns red again. I refuse to believe that my lack of attraction to Ian has anything to do with Marcus. I still don’t know why the hedge fund manager returned my phone in person yesterday, but I’m certain he’s forgotten all about me by now—and I need to forget all about him.
I’m not attracted to Ian, and that’s all there is to it. It’s for the best, really. I like Mr. Smithson’s nephew as a person and I hope to edit his book someday, but that’s as far as it should ever go.
To discourage any further matchmaking attempts by my boss, I tell Ian to ping me when he has his book ready, and then I hurry to relieve Mr. Smithson of the cashier duty.
I need to embrace my cat-lady-ness because this dating stuff is way too complex for me.
It’s sleeting again when I exit the subway, and I curse my bad luck as I rush home. I can’t recall a worse November. It’s still early in the month, but it’s already snowed once, with icy rain falling on at least two other occasions—almost as if we were in January. My phone vibrates in my pocket as I turn the corner, and I almost ignore it because I don’t want to expose my ears, currently covered by the collar of my coat, to the sleeting rain. However, a long-ingrained habit makes me reach into my pocket and pull out the phone to glance at the screen.
Sure enough, it’s a call I can’t miss.
“Grandma, hi,” I say, raising the phone to my ear. Without me holding up the collar, the coat falls back to my shoulders, exposing my neck to the sleeting rain, and I shudder as the icy water trickles inside. I should’ve worn my old, moth-eaten scarf today, but it’s so ugly that I couldn’t bring myself to do it, and now I’m paying for that moment of vanity.
I really need to buy myself a new scarf and keep it away from Mr. Puffs.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Grandma’s voice is warm and gen
tle, her Southern drawl noticeable despite several decades spent living in Brooklyn. “How are you?”
“I’m doing great,” I say, making my voice as cheerful as I can. With the icy raindrops pelting my face and getting inside my collar, I’m perfectly miserable, but Grandma doesn’t need to know that. “How are you and Gramps?”
“Oh, we’re good. Your grandfather is gardening in the heat again. I told him not to go out there when it’s eighty degrees, but he won’t listen to me.”
“Yeah, that’s Gramps for you,” I say, feeling jealous. I’d kill for eighty-degree weather instead of this hellish cold. My grandparents moved to Florida when I graduated from college, and now every time I speak to them, I hear all about how nice and hot it is over there. “You should lure him in with some chocolate chip cookies.”
Grandma laughs. “How did you know I was making those?”
“Just a lucky guess,” I say, shivering as a particularly strong gust of wind slaps my face. “How did your blood test go last week?”
“All clear. I’m healthy as a hog.” Grandma’s tone is upbeat. “Now tell me about you. How’s life in the big city? Any luck finding new editing jobs?”
“Not yet, but I have some leads on potential clients,” I say, crossing the street to my brownstone. “And before you ask, I’m fine. I don’t need any help. Truly.”
“Emma…” Grandma lets out a sigh. “I wish you’d just let us take care of those loans for you. I told you, we can take out a second mortgage and—”
“No. Absolutely not.” My grandparents scrimped and saved their whole life so they could buy a house in Florida, and I have no intention of letting their retirement be ruined because of me. Their pensions and social security payments barely cover their bills as is, and a second mortgage payment would place an enormous strain on their finances. It’s bad enough they worked an extra seven years to support me through middle school and high school; I’m not letting them take care of me in my adult years as well.
I’d sooner starve than impose on them like that.
Grandma sighs again. “Emma, sweetie… Accepting a helping hand every now and then wouldn’t make you like your mother. You know that, right?”
“Grandma, stop. Please. I’m getting by perfectly well,” I say, fumbling for my keys as I approach my door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I just got home, so I have to feed the cats. Give my love to Gramps, okay?”
“Will do. Take care, sweetheart, and talk soon. Can’t wait ’till Thanksgiving,” Grandma replies, and I hang up, dropping the phone back into my pocket.
Clutching my keys, I reach for the door, eager to get inside and escape the cold.
“Miss Walsh?” The male voice from behind me startles me so much that I spin around with a squeak, my keys dropping onto the wet ground.
Standing in front of me is a short, middle-aged man in a puffy winter jacket, his arms laden with a giant bouquet of pink and white roses.
“I’m so sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quickly. “I’m just here to make a delivery.”
“A delivery?” I’m shaking both from the cold and the excess of adrenaline, my heart beating so fast I can barely speak. “For me?”
“Yes,” he says with a smile. Approaching me, he bends down to pick up my keys and hands them to me, along with the giant bouquet. “This is for you.”
“Um, okay.” Awkwardly, I take both the keys and the flowers. The roses are covered in clear plastic that protects them from the elements, but even so, I can tell that the flowers are gorgeous. I’m about to ask who sent them when something else occurs to me. “Oh, I don’t have any cash for the tip,” I say, feeling like a bumbling idiot. “I’m so sorry. I meant to stop by an ATM, but—”
“Oh, no, it’s all good. Everything is taken care of.” A big smile splits his weathered face. “You just enjoy these, okay, miss?”
He turns and hurries away, clearly eager to get out of the rain, and it’s only when he’s gone that I realize I didn’t have a chance to ask who ordered the delivery.
Oh, well. Hopefully, there’s a note. My fingers are almost numb from the cold, but I manage to get my keys into the lock and get inside. Instantly, my three cats rush toward me, meowing like I’ve been gone for a week instead of just over eight hours.
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get fed,” I mutter, trying not to trip over Mr. Puffs. “Just give me a second here.”
The furry asshole ignores my words, and my walk to the kitchen is perilous, to say the least. Between the humongous bouquet of flowers and the giant cat winding between my legs, it’s a wonder I don’t trip and split my head open.
Finally, I’m in the kitchen. Putting the flowers down on the counter, I quickly prep my cats’ dinner and give it to them. Then, taking a deep breath, I approach the bouquet.
Before I can pull off the protective plastic, my doorbell rings.
Cottonball looks up from his dish and gives me an inquisitive look.
“Sorry, bud. I’m as clueless as you are,” I say to the cat as I hurry toward the door. The only person who comes over unannounced is my landlady, and she has no reason to do so tonight, as I’ve paid my rent on time for several months straight.
When I look through the peephole, I see a man dressed in a FedEx uniform walking away.
Another delivery? What the hell?
Since I was born and raised in Brooklyn, I wait until the stranger is gone before cautiously opening the door. Sure enough, there is a big box sitting on my doorstep. I bend down to pick it up, but it’s way too heavy to lift. Swearing under my breath, I wrestle it inside and close the door. Then, dying from curiosity, I grab a knife from the kitchen and open the box.
Dumbfounded, I stare at the contents.
Cat food. Lots and lots of cat food. All the best brands, in a variety of flavors, some dry and some canned, like my cats prefer.
It’s enough cat food for the next several months.
I’m so confused I almost miss the small white envelope taped to the side of the box. It’s only when I’m dragging the heavy box to the kitchen that I see it. Stopping, I grab it and open it, ripping the pretty paper in my eagerness. The note reads:
I hope your cats enjoy this, and you like the flowers.
-Marcus.
A wave of heat rushes through me, chasing away the lingering chill from the cold outside. The images from the sex dreams I’ve been trying not to think about flood my mind, and my breathing speeds up.
The deliveries are from Marcus.
I all but run into the kitchen, hoping there’s another note with an explanation as to why, but there’s nothing attached to the bouquet. Queen Elizabeth looks up from her dish and gives me a look that suggests I’m crazy, but I ignore her.
Marcus sent me roses and cat food.
This is far beyond any kind of good Samaritan act. I remember the ridiculous thought that had occurred to me last night—that he might be interested in me—and all of a sudden, it doesn’t seem quite so ridiculous anymore. Because what other explanation is there when a man sends a woman flowers?
Well, flowers and cat food.
“Do you think he likes me that way?” I ask Queen Elizabeth, and the cat gives me a look that suggests I’m acting like I’m twelve.
Okay, fine. Maybe I’m reading too much into my cat’s looks, but I swear she’s able to communicate with me. She tilts her head this way and that way when I talk to her, and sometimes she even meows in response—which is exactly what she does now.
“You do think he likes me?” I ask, irrationally excited, and Queen Elizabeth meows again before returning her attention to her food.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, and go hunting for a vase big enough to hold the enormous bouquet. As I bounce around the kitchen, I realize I feel giddy, almost high at the idea that Marcus might like me. He’s the polar opposite of my type, but something about him draws me—which explains those dreams last night.
His big hands all over my body, his hard-muscled
chest pressing down on my breasts as he moves inside me…
Whoa. A hot flush crawls along my hairline. Despite my lengthy dry spell, I have a healthy libido and enjoy sex, but this is something else entirely. My heart seems to have taken up drumming lessons in my chest, and my panties feel damp from the mere recollection of those dreams.
This is attraction like I’ve never felt before—base, primal, and having nothing to do with logic or intellectual connection. I know next to nothing about Marcus, and what little I do know suggests we don’t have anything in common, yet the mere thought of him turns me on more than an hour of foreplay by my college boyfriend.
“Do you think I’m in heat?” I ask Queen Elizabeth as I grab a big pot—the closest thing I have to a vase of needed size. “I mean, I’m human and all, but this is kind of extreme, don’t you think?”
Queen Elizabeth looks up and daintily runs her tongue over her face, cleaning off any remnants of her food.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m being ridiculous. Human females don’t go into heat.” I fill the pot with water, remove the plastic wrap from the roses, add the flower food to the water, and put the roses in. They end up listing to one side, but they still look beautiful—and very expensive.
If my grandmother knew about this, she’d say Marcus is courting me.
“Do you think he’s courting me?” I ask the cat, but Queen Elizabeth just sits gracefully and starts licking her paw. She’s clearly had her fill of interaction with a human, and I don’t blame her.
I should be calling Kendall with this, not bugging the cat.
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I run to my phone and eagerly swipe across the screen. Before I can select Kendall’s number, though, a message notification pops up, and my pulse jumps further.
It’s a text message from an unknown number.
Hi, Emma, it reads. This is Marcus. I hope the flowers and the gift for your cats got to you safely. Are you free this Thursday evening? I’d love to take you out to dinner. We can debate Wall Street ethics if you wish.