While she was wondering exactly how she’d managed to get it that lopsided, Brad stormed into the room, on his way out. He shoved one arm into a V-neck sweater. “Hey, did you see the package for you?” he asked as he pulled the sweater over his head, and nodded toward the kitchen table as he wrestled his other arm into the sweater.
Leah glanced over her shoulder, saw a small gray box. “Where did that come from?”
“Don’t know. Some driver in a suit delivered it yesterday while you were at work. Okay, I’m gone,” Brad said, and left Leah alone in the house.
Still cross-legged, she inched her way around and stared at the box as she sipped her coffee. She had a pretty good idea who it was from and frowned, because that little shiver of anticipation that ran up her spine was ridiculously shortsighted. She was a fool to trust him. Regardless of the fluttery feelings she got every time he so much as smiled, what he’d done to her five years ago was no small thing.
Okay, so he was sorry for it. What was to say he wouldn’t do the same thing again?
Whatever, curiosity was killing her, so she put her coffee cup aside and hopped to her feet, padding across the wood floor to the kitchen table. She hesitated only a moment before picking up the box.
Van Cleef & Arpels, it said in cursive, silver letters. She slipped the silver ribbon from the box and lifted the lid. There was a note on top—she picked it up, saw that beneath it, there was a small bottle of Van Cleef French perfume— real perfume. She could not help grinning. She knew that perfume.
Leah opened the note first.
Remember the night we went to see Phantom of the Opera? I will never forget how you looked and how you smelled. You wore a slinky long black dress and your hair up. Your favorite perfume was Van Cleef. You never were more beautiful than you were that night. M.
Her smile deepened—she remembered, all right. Michael had surprised her with box seats and dinner at Pierre Au Tunnel, a swanky New York restaurant for her birthday. She’d worn a simple, floor-length black gown that he later removed so that he could have his leisurely way with her.
That memory prompted another delicious shiver as she extracted the bottle from the box. She removed the stopper and inhaled. It was heavenly, just as she remembered. This was her favorite perfume, but she hadn’t been able to afford another bottle since she left New York. The fact that he remembered that it was her favorite was astonishing.
Goddammit, his crap was beginning to work. She could feel herself softening, could feel the ironclad grip she held on her fragile heart starting to ease. She picked up the card again and turned it over. Smart boy. He’d left his cell phone number on the back. She’d once complained about people leaving cards with no cell phone numbers and then never answering their landlines. It had been a running joke with them, checking every business card for a cell phone number.
She dialed the number, but it went to voice mail, for which she was really not prepared, and she started waving her hand, trying to think what to say while Michael’s sexy deep voice instructed her to leave a message and he’d call back as soon as he could.
When the beep sounded, she still wasn’t ready, and said, “Ah, hey,” like a dork. “I ah . . . I—this is Leah, by the way. I ah . . . I got your gift.” Okay, well that was obvious. She waved her hand harder. “That was really nice.” Nice. That’s what she said when Grandma sent her panties for her birthday. “And I, ah . . . I remember, too,” she said, and squeezed her eyes shut. “So . . . thanks,” she added, and quickly clicked off.
She opened her eyes, looked at the phone in her hand. “Great, Leah. You’ve just made an ass of yourself. I remember, too,” she mimicked herself. “So thanks,” she added with a huge swoon, and with a groan to the rafters, she put the phone down and took her real perfume to her bedroom to try on.
MICHAEL didn’t get Leah’s message until he returned from Malibu, where he’d spent the day with Jack and Lindsey, the production assistant, and one of her closest friends, Ariel, on a yacht Jack had scrounged up somewhere. Michael had only done it as a favor to Jack—he’d called up, sounding desperate. “Hey, I need a favor, and I can’t find Coop,” he’d said, dispensing with any greeting. “I’ve got a yacht lined up, but Lindsey won’t go unless her friend goes, too.”
“Okay,” Michael had said, in the middle of some budget work. “Take the friend.”
“Don’t be a jerk, Mikey. I need a hand here. Come on, come with.”
“What is it with women?” Michael had sighed.
“Who the hell knows?” Jack responded with exasperation. “Just come on. You love this sort of thing.”