“Sorry, love,” Matt says, giving the dog a pat on the head. “Just the one.”
Juno huffs and trots to her food bowl, resigned to the fact that there are no more treats to be had and the takeout’s been delayed.
I go into the kitchen and pull a vase from the cupboard. Matt follows. “What are your favorite flowers, anyway? Ian didn’t know.”
“Pretty ones,” I say, setting the vase in the sink and turning on the water. “Flowers are always nice to receive, no matter the kind.”
“You were supposed to say pink roses and be very impressed that I got it right on the first try.”
Since my back is to him, I allow a small smile as I pull scissors out of a drawer to trim the stems.
It’s been two days since our fight on the sidewalk after the Jarod Lanham run-in, and I’ve been avoiding him. At first, it was because I was still mad and hurting. After that, I avoided him because . . .
I take a deep breath and turn around. “I have something to say to you.”
His gaze drops to my hand. “Any chance you can say it after you’ve put down the scissors?”
“I’m sorry,” I say in a rush, ignoring his attempts to lighten the mood. “I jumped to conclusions based on our history, and I acted horribly unprofessional. You hired me to convince people that we were in a relationship, and I jeopardized that.”
Matt smiles. “Cross, I’m pretty sure anyone witnessing that fight was even more convinced we’re in a relationship.”
I turn around and begin to cut open the cellophane containing the bouquet. “I thought of that. I even mentally added ‘lovers’ spat’ to my list of strategies on making a relationship seem more authentic. Still, I—”
Matt moves behind me, and though he doesn’t touch me, I can feel his closeness. “I don’t care that you acted unprofessionally. I care that I hurt you.”
“I was mad. That’s all,” I say, trimming the ends of the roses into the sink.
“That’s crap,” he says softly.
It is crap. But the last thing I want to do is revisit the pain that ripped through me that night. Or the fact that this man is the only person to ever elicit that kind of hurt.
I certainly don’t want to explore why that’s so.
“Is that what the flowers are for?” I ask, beginning to place the stems in the vase. “Apology flowers?”
“The first dozen are ‘I’m sorry’ flowers, yeah.”
I give him a look over my shoulder. “And the second?”
He comes around to my side, the heels of his hands braced on my kitchen counter as he watches me arrange the roses. “‘Favor’ flowers,” he says finally.
“Ah,” I say, stepping back and tilting my head to make sure my arrangement is even, before taking it to my kitchen table. “‘Favor’ flowers, also known as ‘buttering up’ flowers. Generally preceding a highly unpleasant request.”
“You have no idea,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair.
There’s something in his tone, a touch of vulnerability I’m not used to hearing from a man who usually has boundless energy and charm.
“What’s up?” I ask, sensing I need to be just a little bit careful with him.
He sucks in his cheeks for a moment, thinking. “Got anything to drink?”
“Of course.” I motion to the bar cart. “Or I have white wine in the fridge, red on the rack.”
He goes to the bar cart, selecting a bottle of Grey Goose. “You don’t keep this in the freezer?”
“I like the vodka to melt the ice just a little. I think the martini tastes better slightly diluted.”
He’s distracted, barely seems to hear me. “You want one?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got an open bottle of white in the fridge.”
He pours me a glass of wine first before going about the process of making himself a drink. Strange, how normal the sight of Matt Cannon fixing a martini in my apartment is starting to feel.
I wait until he’s dropped his lemon twist in the cocktail glass before nudging him again. “So . . . the favor?”
“Right.”
He takes a sip of the drink, his attention shifting to my phone, which is starting to buzz on the counter right next to him.
He glances at it when I don’t make a move to pick it up. “A Rochelle is calling. Are we answering?”
“We’re ignoring.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Are we talking about it?”
“We are not.”
He gives a faint smile, but I get the feeling my answer disappoints him. As though he was hoping I’d share more details.
I want to tell him that my hesitancy isn’t about him—that I don’t talk about my mother with anyone—but that’ll only derail the conversation from whatever it is he’s reluctant to talk about.
I wait.
“So, I’m hoping I can talk you into coming to a dinner with me on Saturday.”
“Um, sure?” I say, taking a drink of my wine. “That’s the deal, right? Up until the gala, I show up wherever you need me. And you’re well within the twenty-four-hour advance-notice requirement.” I smile. “You could have saved yourself the second dozen flowers.”
He doesn’t smile back. “You haven’t heard all of it yet.”
“Cannon, I once took tango classes with a known mobster as a favor to the NYPD. I think I can handle whatever you throw at me.”
“The dinner on Saturday is with my parents. At their house in Connecticut.”
“Whoa.” I take a large swallow of wine.
“Yeah,” he says in a tired tone. “You know your girl Georgie, the one who put our ‘relationship’ on the gossip circuit? My mother is on that circuit. There’s not a single item of Manhattan gossip she isn’t privy to, and she’s insisted I bring my ‘girlfriend’ to dinner.”
“Meting the parents is one tall order. But if it’ll help sell the story—”
“That’s the thing,” he interrupts. “My dad use to be plugged into the Wall Street scene, and by extension, so was my mother. But he retired last year, and mostly they’re wrapped up in their Connecticut social scene with other retirees. Golf, book clubs, that sort of thing.”
“So, us having dinner with them won’t do anything to help salvage your professional reputation?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I mean, in theory, my dad could mention it to someone important during his daily round of golf, but . . . no, not really.”
“So why not just tell them the truth?”
He winces. “They’re not really those kind of parents. Also, full disclosure, my motives are . . . selfish. After years of trying to be younger than she is, my mom’s realized she’s the only one of her friends without grandbaby pictures to show off.”
“Oh no.”
He nods. “Yeah. She’s been trying to set me up with every single woman in the Northeast, from her hairdresser to the remaining single daughters of their friends.”
“Having a girlfriend gets her off your back,” I conclude.
“Bingo.”
I blow out a long breath as I consider this. I should be freaking out by the very suggestion, but instead I find myself intrigued. The chance to find out more about where Matt came from, what shaped him . . . it’s appealing.
“No hard feelings if you say no,” Matt says. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you as a . . . friend.”
The way he hesitates over the last word does something funny to my stomach, as though he wants to be friends but isn’t sure it’s possible.
It’s possible.
“You know, for future reference, you really should have brought two dozen ‘favor’ flowers for this kind of ask. And maybe jewelry.”
A slow grin starts to spread over his face. “You’ll do it?”
“Yes. If nothing else, to save all those other women from the agony of being fixed up with you.”
And to save myself the agony of knowing you’re dating someone else.
“Thank you,” he says in relief. “Seriously, thank you. And I’d love to tell you you won’t regret it, but in the interest of honesty, you totally will.”
I laugh. “Candor appreciated.”
He takes another sip of his drink. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair. Let you get back to your evening.”
I nod, but instead of feeling relieved that he’s leaving, I feel a little melancholy at the thought of it.
“You can finish your drink,” I say, just as my phone starts to buzz again.