“Will do. Have a good day, Gill.”
“Same to you, Sam.”
Clicking off, I put all of my attention back on my driving. It’s bumper to bumper on LaSalle and it’s slow going. Though the roads are clear, people are still driving cautiously. Frowning, I remind myself, “This is all worth it if I can find it.”
At noon,I get a text message.
MacKenzie: You did not just buy me a new cell phone.
Me: You’re right. I didn’t buy it—it was free. It was in a swag bag I got from some fund-raiser my mom organized.
MacKenzie: Really? Are you being honest with me?
Me: Really. I am. I’m telling you the truth, the whole truth, so help me God. It’s been sitting in my closet gathering dust—I don’t use that brand.
Not a lie. It’s just going to waste.
MacKenzie: Are you sure? I’m not letting you pay for my cell service.
Me: No. You’re still on your own plan. The phone is an upgrade. Now, you can download the app for your new smart lock. ;)
MacKenzie: I forgot about that.
Me: Everything okay now?
MacKenzie: Yeah. Thank you, Sam. You need to stop doing nice things for me.
Me: Never.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ALL MY FAULT
“Never?”He’snevergoing to stop doing nice things for me? I’m so confused. I know I’m the one who ended things, but it was his fault. If he didn’t stick his foot in his mouth all the time, we would have been fine. Sighing, I admit to myself that statement isn’t completely true. The whole thing moved too fast—I felt like I was on a bullet train. I know I’d needed a breather but not the way it happened. Sam went silent. Complete radio silence. Ghosted.
By Friday, Chicago’s back to usual—mostly. There’s still snow on the ground, but the sun is out and the temp is warm enough to start melting the snow, aided by the good work the City of Chicago crew as they clear streets and sidewalks so people like me can get around.
I have a smile on my face as I walk into work—a smile that feels authentic for the first time in days. My boss is standing behind the front display case. “Theresa. You’re back.”
“I got in late last night. How did things go here?”
“Good. Inventory is done. And… I was actuallyearlythree days this week,” I say, grinning.
“I heard. Good job. And you’re right on time today, too.”
“Yep.” I smile again. “So, what do you want me to work on today?”
“The usual stuff, but I’ve got a list of artists I need you to call today, too. We need some new pieces. Valentine’s Day sales depleted our stock.”
We were crazy-busy last Tuesday, before Valentine’s Day. Christmas is a very busy season, but February 14 is the most hectic. I suppose it’s the romantic emphasis on Valentine’s Day—men (and women) automatically think of jewelry as the go-to gift, thank goodness. I start right in making the calls to our artists. The reactions to my calls are mixed. Some artists are happy to send new things. Others are downright rude, informing me they’ll provide pieces on their own schedule, not the store’s schedule. I don’t understand this reaction. If someone called and wanted me to send pieces to sell, I’d work night and day to get them done. Some people are too entitled for their own good.
At a quarter to twelve, I’m leaning over the counter, making notes about the phone calls, when a shadow crosses over my notebook. I look up, ready to greet the customer. My voice catches in my throat. “Sam?” Holy hotness, Batman. He looks amazingly hunky in a dark-gray suit that looks tailored just for him. What do they call that in Regency romances? Bespoke? His suit isbespoke. Yeah, that’s it. It fits his broad shoulders and muscle-bound arms like a glove. He’s paired it with a cerulean-blue tie. My eyes pan upward to his face. When our eyes meet, I see a combination of worry and lust. Yeah, that’s what I said.Lust. The expression in them says,I want you.I want him, too. My eyes move to his hair. God, I love his hair. It’s cut close on the sides but it’s longer on top. Not so long that it flops over his eyes, but it is long enough for him to run his fingers through it. I think that’s why it always looks a little messy. He’s running his fingers through his hair right now—like he’s nervous. Oh, and I can smell him, too. His signature scent is woodsy and musky—manly. The guy is perfection. I still can’t believe he wants me. He’s actually trying to win me back.
“Hello, MacKenzie.”
That voice. God, that voice. Has it only been a week since I last saw him? Since I last heard that deep, rumbly voice? It feels like longer. Crap on a cracker, my panties just got wet. I’ve missed him. I’ve missed the sex. You would think, after not having sex foryears, I could easily go right back to my BS, my before-Sam-way-of-being (i.e. celibate); however, that’s not the case. Having sex with this man—the hottest sex I’ve ever had, by the way—is hard to get over.
I clear my throat a little; attempting to regain my composure. “What can I do for you, Sam?”
