A nervous giggle escapes me. “These aren’t mine, Jax. They arrived in a shipment today, and I’m searching the database for a hit.”
His eyes close for a beat and then open again. Then, wordlessly, he steps further into the room. He pushes all the sex toys back into the box and closes the flaps one at a time. Then he tucks the box against his hip and carries it out of my office.
I watch him go, while my brain struggles to understand. Those items can’t be for…
No. Really?
Really?
I can’t wrap my head around it. Mild-mannered, skinny Jackson and his new girlfriend have a brand new flogger? Mr. Missionary Position on Alternate Tuesdays wants to dominate his girlfriend?
Or… The opposite? An image of Jackson kneeling naked in submission flashes through my mind, and I shudder, and then giggle hysterically.
What is the world coming to? Jackson, who alphabetizes his hair-care products, is having a torrid affair, and I’m cowering after a few good kisses.
A couple of hours later, Jenny appears with a cut-crystal vase containing three dozen long-stemmed pink roses. “There’s a note!” she sings, waltzing into my office and plunking the flowers in the center of the desk. They practically fill the room. I’ve been trying not to think about Matt, and this will make it a hell of a lot more difficult.
He probably knows that. The bastard.
“Open the fucking note. I’m dying here,” Jenny pleads.
“I’m surprised you didn’t read it already.”
She looks guilty.
“Jenny! Pass it over.”
The envelope lands in my hands and I untuck the flap, pulling out a tiny piece of paper.
Hottie. I had so much fun with you the other night. And I’m pretty sure you had fun too. Don’t worry so much, okay? I just want to spend time with you. Text me on your personal phone at this number. —M.
“Does he have you figured out or what?” Jenny asks, smirking.
“I hate you.”
“Sure you do. But don’t hate me too much or I won’t help you figure out what to wear next time.”
Oh shit. “I only hate you a little.”
Jenny grins. “I love you a whole lot. And if you turn this man down again, I will not be nice about it.”
“Right.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll be brave. I really will.”
“You’d better.”
And...I’m not.
I do not text him on his personal number.
Instead, I take a snapshot of the flowers and write a safe-for-work note on his Fetch request indicating that the flowers reached their destination and that they were lovely.
That night at home, I don’t text him because he’s busy. From the safety of my sofa I watch him beat L.A. He is magnificent, with a goal and an assist. And when I shut off the TV, I’m in awe.
I don’t text afterward, because he’s a hockey star who is busy with his teammates.
And I don’t text the next morning, because he’s on a plane to Denver.
I tell myself that Matt doesn’t really care if I text. He’ll probably meet a dozen attractive, available women at every stop on his trip. Maybe one of them is better positioned to handle all the terrifying hotness of Matt Eriksson.
Maybe one of them is in his bed right now.
That idea makes me feel cold inside. But Matt is probably the kind of guy who can have a one-night stand and forget about it the next day.
And I’m not.
Matt takes me so far out of my comfort zone that our first date caused me a week of shallow breathing and a loss of focus. I’ve never been so shaken by anyone.
That can’t be a good sign.
I coast along with this logic until the day arrives when I know he’s returning to Toronto. It’s not that I’m a stalker. I’m a rabid hockey fan, and I know the team has a home game the following night. Yet I’m practically buzzing from the knowledge that Matt Eriksson is headed into the Toronto metropolitan area.
God, I’m hopeless.
Sitting at my desk, I spend the whole morning wondering whether he’s back yet and what I should do about it.
“Hailey?” Jackson startles me out of my reverie by poking his head into my office. “Do you happen to have the information we compiled last year on piano-tuning services?”
“Sure.” I look up and meet his gaze for the first time since our awkward moment over the box of bondage equipment. He looks the same as he ever did, with a crisp, button-down shirt covering his slim frame, and tidy brown hair.
“Is it in here?” he prompts, waiting. And I realize I’m staring.
I tug on a file drawer and rifle through it, pulling out the information he’s looking for. “Here you go.”
He departs, and I watch him leave. This gentle man who divorced me has branched out to try new, exciting things. (Exciting to him, anyway.) And I’m just sitting here like a lump instead of sexing up my ideal man.
For the tenth time this week I tell myself to buck up. Only this time I dig out the florist’s card with Matt’s personal phone number on it. I wake up my phone and...
Ding! The Fetch queue on my computer screen announces a new priority request from Sniper87. Speak of the devil.
I click. I read.
Sniper87: From Whole Foods please bring two New York Strip steaks, and a double serving of whatever potato side dish they have. Hopefully it’s that cheesy one. And salad greens for two. I also require a bottle of a meaty red wine. Cabernet, something the wine guy likes for around thirty smackers. Also a bottle of champagne, chilled. And two slices of whichever cheesecake looks good. But not the whole cake because I’ll eat the leftovers. Delivery between six and seven, please.
I read the whole thing three times, cursing myself. But facts are facts.
Matt is having someone over for dinner. He’s serving steak and champagne. Furthermore, he’s basically asked me to plan his romantic evening at home for him. It couldn’t be more obvious if he’d taken marker to cardboard, like Jenny’s hockey sign, and written: THIS COULD HAVE BEEN YOU.
Unhappiness slices through me, and it’s a long time before I remember to breathe. But right before I pass out, I take a gulping breath and remind myself that this was all avoidable.
Lesson learned. Message received.
I spend the rest of the day trying not to feel sorry for myself. At five I go into the bathroom and reapply my makeup. If I should happen to run into him in the lobby of his building, I don’t want to look like a loser.
At five twenty I descend into the madness of Whole Foods at rush hour. I choose wonderful things for Sniper87—beautiful cuts of meat and a bottle of red that the wine guy swears will make even cynical angels weep.
It’s all for the best. It really is.
At ten minutes to six I arrive at his building. My timing is calibrated to bring me to his door before he’d be home. I’d rather miss him than see him.
“Perishables? Those have to be brought upstairs,” the concierge informs me when I try to hand over the bag. “I can’t handle that for you.”
I should have sent Jenny.
When the elevator brings me to the third floor, I’ve already thought up a solution. I’ll leave the bag outside his door and then mark his order “delivered.” He’s a smart man. He’ll find the food.