“I…you…uh…”
I stopped talking.
“Friday,” he decreed.
“No,” I whispered.
He seemed to lean toward me.
At that perceived movement, I scrambled off the bench andtook a big step back.
His hands came out of his pockets and he lifted them to hissides.
“Daisy, I won’t—”
“No,” I shook my head.“No more flowers.No lunch onFriday.”
“Please, I simply—”
“No.”
It came out strangled.
Then I turned and ran.
But I heard him order curtly, obviously not to me, “Makesure she gets home safely.”
And whoever it was did just that if the Mercedes trailing mein my Porsche was anything to go by.
Crap.
Damn.
Shit.
I stood at the window in my apartment staring down at theMercedes that didn’t move from sitting at the curb in front of my building.
Crap.
Damn.
Shit.
Okay.
Whatever.
Shit happened.Then it stopped happening and you moved on.
Whatever this was with Marcus Sloan would stop happeningtoo.
And I’d move on.
I turned away from my window.
And all I saw was daisies.
“I’m likin’ it but it needs some sparkle,” I toldChardonnay late Friday morning while sitting in the dancer’s dressing room atSmithie’s as she modeled her new stripper duds for me, doing it busting somemoves.
