Chapter 17
CHASTITY
I pull out my phone for about the tenth time today, the hundredth time this week, and put it away.
I will not call Flynn and ask how his face is.
I will not call Flynn with an invitation to my bed.
This week has been hectic and not in the fun way. I’ve barely moved from my studio office all week, catching up on all the horrible admin jobs I always postpone until the last minute, add to that the plans I need to make for the quarter ahead.In other words, burying my head in the Flynn free sand.
I can’t afford to get involved with Flynn Phillips. We’re just not compatible. We’re not in the same place. Okay, physically, we may be in the same place sometimes—and those times are fun—but we’re not in the same place in our lives. I need to write that shit down a hundred times daily. Maybe make a mantra of it. Chantthata hundred times.
Lord, his reaction when I suggested he might make a good dad—yes, I know, a slip from the vault that is my subconscious—anyone would think it was contagious. But I stand by my opinion because he will make a good dad. Though he’ll probably be one of those first time geriatric fathers, pushing the stroller from his wheelchair, because it’ll take him that long to grow up.
No, that’s just my bitter lack of orgasm talking. Because myO? It’s still not turning up for solo flight.
Thursday, I get back home around six, having grabbed takeaway from my local Italian joint. I’m just about to spoon the carby, garlicky pasta goodness into bowl when my front doorbell rings. Twice in two weeks? No one in Chelsea knocks on a door without issuing some forewarning that they’re about to.That’s what phones are for.Flynn gets a pass for not being a Londoner. Okay, Flynn gets a pass for bringing orgasmic gifts, and while I glance regretfully at my dinner and my stomach rumbles in protest as I make my way to the front door, I’m still hoping it’s Flynn.
‘There’s only so long a man can wait before taking things into his own hands,’ says a large bunch of flowers. Or, at least, the voice behind a large bunch of peach-coloured cabbage roses.
‘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’ve had to create a wall between myself and 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.’
