‘Erm... okay?’ My voice wavers as I try not to laugh, mainly from embarrassment. When was the last time a man gave me flowers? I can’t even remember. I can’t even get excited either because these flowers aren’t from Flynn.
‘I gave your friend my business card.’ My neighbour, Tate, lowers the hand-tied bouquet. While beautiful and expensive-looking, it isn’t some extravagant display but rather tasteful. ‘I thought you might give me a call. Maybe say hello in the street... knock on my door to welcome me into the neighbourhood?’
‘Oh.’ Really? Because he gave Paisley a business card? What am I? Mayor of Whacky town? ‘I’m sorry’—I am so not sorry— ‘I’ve been very preoccupied with work.’
‘Apology accepted and reinforced if you’ll have dinner with me,’ he says, passing the flowers into my hand.
‘Dinner?’ That sounded... like I thought he doesn’t have a chance.But flowers—really?Is that not a huge presumption?
‘Not because I brought you flowers,’ he adds quickly, almost as though reading my thoughts. ‘A coffee, then. Nothing nefarious, Professor. I promise.’ He holds up his right hand in a boy scout salute, something I recognise. Max was a cub scout for a while.
And, fuck it. Why do I get myself into these scrapes? Flowers at the door and a fictitious career?
‘I’m notactuallya professor,’ I begin, unravelling myself from this knot. Oh, what a tangled web we weave.. .
‘I know,’ Tate replies quite happily.
‘Well, then. I suppose that begs the questionhow?’ My stalker senses are tingling. Not that I’ve been stalked especially, but in my line of business, I have had to create a wall between myself and couple of the crazies in this world. Plus, who wouldn’t be slightly concerned to learn that someone who isn’t even a blip on your radar claims to know details about you?
‘Courtesy of Royal Mail.’
‘The postal service? I’m not sure I follow.’ My gaze slides over his shoulder and across the street to his door.
‘The postman delivered a piece of your mail to the wrong address,’ he explains, hiking a thumb in the same direction. ‘It wasn’t addressed to a professor or else I wouldn’t have spent the last couple of months calling you something else in my head. That is, at least, until you turned up in my restaurant when I introduced myself.’
‘I am. . . unsure how to process this information.’ Calling me what in his head? The neighbour who looks like she doesn’t want to be your friend? And if so, why are you on my doorstep?
‘Ah, I can see I’ve overplayed my hand. I’m a bit nervous. Can you tell?’ He laughs nervously. ‘I only mean that I might’ve seen you in passing and taken a bit of a shine to you.’
‘As far as anyone can when they don’t reallyknowthat person.’ I feel my eyebrows draw in. Am I being a judgmental bitch?
‘Exactly!’ He laughs, so obliviously unconcerned. So maybe I’m not as bad as I think I am, or maybe he’s hard to offend? ‘I’ll admit it. I’d seen you about and, as juvenile as it sounds, fancied you a bit.’
‘You fancied me?’ I repeat, my words quivering with just an edge of laughter.
‘I’m man enough to take your scorn,’ he responds happily. ‘I fancy you. Deal with it.’
I let my gaze fall to the flowers, no longer sure how to proceed. ‘It’s been a while since anyone admitted to fancying me.’ Firstly, I haven’t heard that word for at least a decade. Secondly, I think I intimidate most men.
‘Now that I don’t believe.’
‘So this name of mine, the one you’ve been calling me in your head. Care to share it with me?’
‘Let me take you for a coffee, and I’ll tell you.’
‘Blackmail rarely works,’ I reply, my voice holding a suggestion ofschoolmarm.
‘I wonder if the Metropolitan police would disagree.’
‘I imagine that would be bad for business,’ I retort.
‘Come on,’ he cajoles. ‘Aren’t you at least a little curious?’
‘What you call me? Yes!’ My words hit the air as a chuckle. But other than that, not so much because I’m pretty sure that’s what killed the cat. That or frustration. And that cat will probably be me.
Here lies Chastity Lenore Landry.
Died from sexual frustration aged just twenty-nine.
