I left the call before they could try to convince me to stay, before they could ask more questions about Femi or Matteo or my complete lack of a love life.
Well, damn.
I’d resolved to completely avoid Femi by all means possible. I had a plan. Stay in London, focus on work, let time and distance do their job. I'd thought that if I remained in my own world, carefully constructed and controlled, then all would be well.
Little did I know that the universe was busy making plans to thrust us together. The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
A part of me wanted to regard this as fate. Maybe our paths crossed for a reason. Maybe we were being thrown together because we were meant to be with each other and the eight years that we were apart was just the prologue to our real story.
I shook my head, banishing the thought. Sleep, I needed sleep. I was beginning to sound like a crazy person and we couldn’t allow that.
By morning, I would have forgotten all about Femi Davies.
I didn’t forget about him.
He was the first thing I thought about when I woke up the next morning. And the worst part? I wasn’t just thinking about him, I was thinking about the way he felt pressed against me. The taste of him. The sound he'd made when I'd kissed him back.
Ugh… I was in so much trouble.
Thoughts of him followed me into my office. I rubbed a hand across my face as I stared at the sketch I’d been working on for over an hour.
I’d managed one line. One. Single. Line.
I had no idea if it was supposed to be a dress, a skirt, a blouse, or a jacket. The design refused to take shape, the pencil felt wrong in my hand.
My assistant, Meg, appeared in my office doorway with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Delivery for you," she announced in her crisp, efficient way.
"From who?"
"No name on the order. Just a card."
That made me look up. "No name?"
She stepped aside, and a woman in a florist's uniform entered carrying the largest, most elaborate bouquet of flowers I'd ever seen. White roses, pale pink peonies, delicate sprays of something that smelled like heaven.
It was elegant. Expensive. The kind of arrangement that required forethought and a very generous budget.
"Where do you want them?" the woman asked, struggling slightly under the weight.
"I..." I stared at the flowers, my throat suddenly tight. "The table. By the window."
She set them down with visible relief and left. Meg handed me a small cream-colored envelope and retreated, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her.
I opened the envelope with shaking hands.
It was lovely seeing you. Dinner? —F
The handwriting was familiar. Neat, precise, with those distinctive loops. He'd always had beautiful penmanship. Another thing I loved about him, one of the many details that had made him seem almost too good to be true.
I should throw them away. I should toss the flowers and the card in the bin. I should rip up the card and pretend this neverhappened. I should text Naomi and tell her she was right, I was Femi-intolerant, and I needed to stay as far away from him as humanly possible.
Instead, I set the card carefully on my desk and went back to work.
Or tried to go back to work.
The flowers sat there for the rest of the afternoon. Every time I looked up, they were in my peripheral vision. Beautiful. Insistent. Impossible to ignore. The smell filled my office, overwhelmed my senses, made it impossible to think about anything except who had sent them and what that meant.
