“You’re not?” Curse the hope that fluttered in my breast. Hadn’t I learned my lesson?
He stepped closer, his eyes dark pools. I felt myself slipping deeper. “I’m not giving up. I’m going to prove to you I’m not just some loser who asked you out on a whim. I mean it.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.” He leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss against my lips. And then he turned and strode back inside the Purple Note, leaving me
gaping on the street.
THE NEXT MORNING A delivery man showed up at work with an enormous bouquet of daisies. Most of them were white, but here and there was a splash of pink, orange, or yellow. There must have been four dozen of the things, at least. It seemed an odd thing for Paul to send Olivia. Usually when they were on the outs, he sent her roses, a dozen red ones.
“Over there,” I said, waving toward Olivia’s desk.
“Oh, are those for me?” Olivia squealed.
The delivery guy smiled. He was cute in a One Direction kind of way. Maybe Olivia should go out with him instead of Paul. At least he had a steady job and was age appropriate.
“If you’re Chloe, they are.”
Olivia’s eyes widened, and she bounced a little with excitement. “Nope. That’s Chloe.” She pointed dramatically at me.
It was my turn for wide eyes. “Seriously? Those are for me? Who are they from?”
“No idea, miss. Sorry. If you’ll sign, please?” He handed me a clipboard. I signed, and he set the giant glass vase on the table. “Thanks. Have a nice day.”
“Wait, a tip.” I grabbed my purple handbag. What did a person tip a flower delivery guy?
“No need, miss,” he grinned. “All taken care of. Guy gave me a twenty.” He tipped his hat and exited the office.
“Oh my gosh, somebody tipped him twenty pounds to deliver flowers?” Olivia’s eyes got even bigger.
“That’s a lot, right?”
“Um, yeah. A pound or two is usually sufficient. Who are they from?” She snatched the card from the flowers before I could stop her.
“Hey, that’s mine.” I snatched it back, nearly ripping it in two in the process.
“Well, hurry it up. I’m dying here.” She practically danced in place.
I laughed. “All right already.” I opened the envelope and pulled out the card. It was a small, single sheet of cardstock with “Thinking of You” in swirly silver letters across one side. On the other side, in bold, black handwriting, was a message:
Dear Chloe,
I was going to send roses, but I saw these and they made me think of you.
Always,
Bram
“Oh my word,” Olivia breathed as she hung over my shoulder, reading the message. “That is so romantic. Your favorite flower. Did he know?”
“No.” There was no way he could have known. I’d never told him, and he didn’t know any of my friends. Unless he’d stalked me on social media or something, which was possible.
“Is this the guy you met for coffee?”
“I didn’t meet him for coffee so much as met him at the coffee shop so he could return my planner.”
She gave me a look. “Semantics.”
I shrugged. I didn’t feel like arguing with her. Besides, she was right.
“You refused to go out with him, but he sends you flowers? The man is smitten.” She clapped her hands and cooed a little.
“You think?” It seemed astonishing. He was so incredibly gorgeous. Those blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, that smoldering gaze and broad shoulders. I mean, I was used to my fair share of male attention, but Bram was on a whole different level of hot from the guys I usually dated. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s a musician. I don’t date musicians.”
“Why? They’re fun.”
I wouldn’t exactly call Paul fun, but I didn’t mention it. “Maybe. But they’re also completely unreliable and broke most of the time. I don’t have time to waste on that nonsense. I need someone I can depend on. I need more than just fun.”
Olivia sighed. “Really, Chloe, you can be such a stick in the mud sometimes.”
I snorted. No one in my life had ever called me a stick in the mud. “Yeah, well, life’s too short to waste on losers.”
I stared at the daisies on my desk. Those were not the sign of a loser. I grew a little mushy. It was terribly romantic, sending my favorite flower.
I straightened up and reminded myself Bram had no idea they were my favorite. Probably he sent them because they were cheap, and he’d made up some cute story about them reminding him of me. Yeah, that was it.
Still, I found myself floating around the office the rest of the day, my mind on a certain pair of insanely blue eyes.
Chapter 15
MY MOTHER HAD DRILLED manners into me from an early age. And if one thing had stuck, it was that you thanked a person when they sent you a gift. I told myself that the churning in my gut as I dialed Bram’s number was from dread, not eagerness to hear his voice again. I paced the living room as the phone rang. I nearly hung up before he answered, but I told myself not to be a wuss. It wasn’t in my nature, but it was like the man turned me into a dithering sixteen-year-old.
“Hello, Chloe.” His warm voice caressed my ear, sending shivers to my nether regions. I told my nether regions not to be such ninnies.
“Hi, Bram.” My voice came out a little huskier than I’d intended. I cleared my throat. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely.”
“You’re welcome.”
I didn’t know what else to say, which was unusual. I was always the one with a comeback. I fidgeted a little, pacing back and forth across the living room. “Did you, ah, know daisies were my favorite?” I finally blurted. I was an idiot. Why had all my mad flirting skills gone straight out the window?
“I didn’t,” he said. “But I’m glad.”
“Yeah. Simple, basic.” I cleared my throat, realizing it sounded like I was slamming his choice of flower. “They’re cheerful, you know?”
There was a pause. Was he offended by my remark about the flowers? “Listen, Chloe. I have tickets to The History of Jazz exhibit this Friday. What do you say? Hit the exhibit, have some dinner.”
My head kept telling me to say no. Nothing had changed. He was still a musician. But I wanted to say yes with all of my heart, and not just because I was dying to see the exclusive exhibit.
“How did you manage to score tickets to that?”
“I have my ways. Yes or no?” I smiled a little at his direct approach. I did love a man who didn’t beat about the bush.
I took a deep breath, trying to remember the reasons I should decline. “Yes,” I finally said.
“Good. I’ll pick you up at your office Friday at six.”
“Okay.” It came out more a squeak than anything.
“And Chloe?”
“Yes?”
“Wear your dancing shoes. You never know where the night will take us.”
“ARE YOU NERVOUS?” OLIVIA asked as I adjusted my necklace in the bathroom mirror, making sure each large purple stone lay just right against my collarbones. Her eyes sparkled. She was enjoying this far too much.
“Why should I be?” I ran a fingertip beneath my lower lip, wiping off an extra smudge of lip gloss. My brain was singing a song that went something like, “Ohmigawd, omigawd, omigawd.” It was set to the tune of the Hallelujah Chorus. Pretty sure that was not what Handel had in mind when he wrote it.
She snorted. “A date with the delicious Bram, giver of your favorite flowers. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, believe me.”
I shrugged, pretending indifference. “It’s no big thing. Just a date.” I double checked to make sure my red silk blouse was buttoned properly and tucked into my black pencil skirt just right. There was nothing like a pencil skirt to show off some serious curves. I gave a sassy wiggle, watching my reflection. Yeah, my butt looked pretty awesome.
Truth was, I was a
nervous wreck. I kept telling myself this was no big deal. Just a one-time thing. I couldn’t get involved with a guy like Bram. Not long term. I’d been on loads of dates with inappropriate men. This was no different.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t listening to myself. Instead, excitement simmered under my skin, effervescent like the finest champagne. I’d been wandering around the office all day with my head in the clouds. Even our boss, Olivia’s dad, noticed.
“What’s wrong with you, Daniels?” he’d barked when I managed to overfill my coffee cup, sending a giant puddle of brown liquid sloshing over the counter and onto the floor in the office kitchen. It was the third time that day I’d done something stupid, and it was only ten in the morning.
“Uh, nothing, sir. Just, you know, thinking about the reports due at the end of the month.” Which was a total lie. I’d finished them earlier that week.
I’d managed to make it through the rest of the day with only a few minor incidents. I’d given myself a paper cut while filing, ordered three thousand boxes of copy paper instead of thirty (fortunately, I caught that one and corrected it before the order shipped), and dumped the contents of my desk drawer on the floor. Twice. Question was, would I make it through the evening?
Somebody banged on the door of the women’s bathroom. Olivia and I both jumped.
“Daniels, you in there?” It was the boss man.
“Yes, sir,” I called.
“Somebody to see you. Make it snappy. I’m not running a social club here.”
Olivia and I snickered at his outraged tone. Boss man liked to bluster a lot, but he was harmless and generally a good sport when it came right down to it. Plus Olivia could wrap him around her little finger, which often came in handy.
“Be right out,” I called. He made a grumbling sound, and I heard his footsteps retreat toward the outer office. “How do I look?” I asked Olivia. “And be honest.”
“You look great. Now get out there, and knock him dead.”
I nodded, trying to ignore the giant knot in my stomach. Good thing we were having dinner after the exhibit, or I’d never be able to eat a thing.
Bram was waiting near the front door, looking incredibly sexy in a dark suit. No tie, just a black, button-down shirt with the top few buttons open. His blue eyes glowed with inner fire. Hot dang.
He gave me an appreciative once over. “You’re looking lovely this evening, Chloe.” His voice brushed against my senses and rubbed me in places I didn’t think it was possible for a voice to touch. “Thank you. So do you. I mean...not lovely. Handsome. Er, nice. Um, yeah. You look good.” I licked my lips before I caught myself. If I could have given myself a facepalm just then, I so would have.
His grin widened as I fumbled through the world’s worst compliment. “Thank you. Shall we?” He held out his arm in a gentlemanly fashion. I couldn’t help myself. I shot him a grin as I took his arm. Beneath the smooth fabric of his wool suit jacket — not the cheap polyester I’d expected —I felt the bulge of his muscles, the warmth of his body. I caught the scent of peppermint and spice. Oh, boy, I was in trouble.
Bram escorted me out the door and down the sidewalk toward the Tube station. “The museum isn’t far,” he explained. “Seemed smarter to take the Tube than try and fight through rush-hour traffic.”
I nodded. It made perfect sense. Lots of people took the Tube when on dates. This was London, after all. Still, that part of my brain that couldn’t let go of what he was put another tick on the virtual chalkboard column of “things against Bram.” Too cheap to take a cab.
To be fair, I really needed to have a “plus” column. You know, a tick for the flowers, even if they’d been cheap. A tick for returning my planner, even if he did try and trick me into having coffee with him. A tick for escorting me like a gentleman even if...well, I didn’t have an “even if” for that one. But that was three ticks in his favor, right?
My inner scorekeeper told me to shut up.
The museum had a cloakroom, which was nice. Bram paid the whopping one pound coin so they’d hold my jacket and purse for me. It was warm inside, so he shrugged out of his suit jacket and handed that to them, too. The movement nicely showed off defined muscles beneath his perfectly tailored shirt. I licked my lips, suddenly feeling overwarm. Then he offered his arm again, and I felt the fizz of attraction as I wrapped my hand around his forearm. We wandered over toward the exhibit, taking our time.
Inside the special exhibition hall, it was dark except for the lights focused on each display. The first few exhibits were pictures and descriptions of the early jazz movement in the States, including the visits to London by the first American jazz artists.
“It’s all your fault,” Bram joked. “You Americans.”
“And you should be grateful,” I teased back. “Without us you’d be wallowing in misery, devoid of the sweet, soulful sounds of jazz.”
We moved slowly through the exhibits, taking in the historical images of British jazz musicians and clubs, sheets of original music, and examples of old-school instruments played by famous artists. It was an amazing experience. Eye-opening.
I stopped in front of one photo in the section marked “Women of Jazz.” The picture was of a woman, hair piled on top her head, smiling gently as her fingers tickled the ivories of a piano. Below the photo was a plaque: Mary Lou Williams (1910–1981). “I’ve never heard of her,” I said softly.
Bram stooped to read the rest of the plaque. “It says she was a jazz pianist, composer, and arranger. Crikey heck. She recorded over one hundred records.”
“Let me see.” I bent down. “Wow. She arranged for Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, and Thelonius Monk. She was amazing.”
We both straightened, staring at the beautiful image of a musical genius who’d taken her place in a male-dominated industry at a time when women were still considered second-class citizens. Now there was a woman who knew how to kick some serious backside. Although I had no intention of making music my living, I would love to be as brave and fearless as Mary Lou Williams. She was definitely my new hero. Move over, Wonder Woman.
For dinner, Bram took me to El Cid. Naturally, being a Moroccan restaurant, this involved the use of fingers and not a lot of actual utensils. I was excited. I’d always wanted to try Moroccan. Of course, with my luck, I’d probably slop something down my cleavage.
We were shown to a low, round table surrounded by plump cushions in a variety of jewel-toned colors. I chose a plum-colored cushion and carefully lowered myself. I started as I realized Bram had chosen a saffron pillow that was disturbingly close to mine. Our shoulders touched a little. I should have moved away, but I didn’t.
They brought us small bowls of lentil soup, which fortunately came with spoons. It was delicious, flavored with coriander, cinnamon, and ginger. Just a touch of spice to the rich heartiness of the lentils. It was the most amazing soup I’d ever tasted. Next came a chicken lemon and olive tagine heavily spiced with cinnamon, cumin, garlic, and red pepper. It was served not with forks, but with warm flat bread meant for dipping, as well as a bowl of couscous for mixing. The heat from the peppers warmed my cheeks and made my sinuses burn. I hoped I wouldn’t get a runny nose but decided not to care and dug in with gusto.
As we ate, a dark-haired woman with dusky skin and lush curves entered the restaurant dressed in a long, sheer skirt in shocking orange slung low on her hips and a crop top that showed off her slightly rounded belly and ample cleavage. The music changed from mostly pipes and flutes to something much earthier, with lots of drums and a heavy beat. The woman twisted and twined, shimmying to the music.
“I love belly dancing,” I blurted, beginning to move to the music. I felt Bram’s eyes on me, but I refused to acknowledge his interest.
The woman gyrated over and grabbed me by the hands. Next thing I knew, I was up in the middle of the restaurant, rolling my hips right along with her. Soon other women, and even a couple of men, joined us on the floor. There was a great deal of laughing and silliness,
but Bram’s gaze never left me and the heat went up about twelve notches.
As we left El Cid, Bram offered me his arm. “How about a walk?” he suggested. “I know I could use one after all that food. I might need a crow bar to pry me out of the cab later.”
I laughed. “You and me both. A walk sounds lovely.” We turned toward the river. “That was delicious. Thank you. And the dancing? Wow. Amazing.”
It was full dark, the streetlights along the Thames casting their golden glow as we passed from one pool of light to the next. There was a chill in the air, and a light fog swirled off the water, adding to the atmosphere. We passed very few people as we walked arm in arm along the promenade.
“Where in the States are you from?” Bram asked.
I gave him the same answer I gave everyone: Portland. I expected him to ask how close it was to Seattle or LA.
“Oh, yes,” he said instead, “I’m familiar with it. My sister spent some time there a few years ago.”
“Really? Almost no one over here seems to have heard of it. Why was she there?”
“She’s a university professor. There was some sort of exchange program. She spent a year teaching at Portland State.”
“That’s amazing. Is she older or younger than you?”
He grinned. “A year younger. I also have a younger brother who is a doctor. I’m the underachiever.” He laughed as if at a joke. I smiled, but I didn’t find it funny.
“I see.” I winced at the tartness in my voice. His smile faded. I scrambled to cover my faux pas. “They don’t like that you’re a musician?”
He laughed. “That isn’t the problem. Music is encouraged in the Halliday household. It’s my day job they don’t care for.”
I frowned. What could he possibly do that was so dreadful his family didn’t approve? “What do you—” I started to ask, but was interrupted by Bram’s phone.
“Sorry about that,” he muttered, pulling it out. He glanced at the screen, his expression turning grim. “It’s my sister. She never calls this late. I’d better take it.”
Kiss Me, Chloe Page 13