Probably not.
Oh hell, I needed to stop overanalyzing this. So he bought a card. So what? Lots of people bought cards. It was a quick and easy way to just say, see you tomorrow.
I slid the card back in its envelope and put it in a safe place. Then, to keep busy, I turned on some music and tidied my living room, kitchen and bedroom, just in case he came in to visit for a few minutes. At about five o’clock I started getting myself ready for the big date.
By ten to six, I was ready to go. And horrifically nervous. I wasn’t sure what to expect. If he’d found someone more interesting than me at last night’s mixer, he might act differently toward me now.
That would be a good thing.
Good for my career.
When the doorbell chimed, I was standing next to the door, wringing my hands and trying to concentrate on breathing. I was breathing, but too fast. My palms were sweaty. I felt a little sick to my stomach.
I peered through the peephole.
He hadn’t sent a driver this time.
I opened the door, and his hand swooped out from behind his back. In it was a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. “Hello,” he said, displaying that same smile that had haunted my dreams last night. He handed me the flowers.
“Wow, they’re gorgeous. Thank you.” I stepped aside. “Do we have time to put these in water?”
“Sure.” He followed me as I hurried into the kitchen to dig up a vase. That wasn’t something I used often. I didn’t buy myself flowers, and I couldn’t remember the last time a man had given me any either.
“I found your card this morning. It was cute,” I said with my head buried in one of my kitchen cabinets.
“Glad you liked it.”
“I did.” Grabbing a glass pitcher--it was the best I could come up with--I extracted myself from the cabinet and stood. “It looked like you enjoyed the mixer last night.”
Looking unenthusiastic, he shrugged. No doubt, it was an act. “It was okay.”
“Okay. Really? Only okay?” I flipped on the water to fill the pitcher.
“Yes, okay.” Watching me, he leaned a hip against my kitchen counter.
“It looked like you were having more fun than that to me.”
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Were you…jealous?”
“No.” I pulled the cellophane wrapper off the flower bouquet. The stems were wound in a rubber band. I started unwinding it.
“Really? Not at all?”
“Not at all. Why should I be jealous?” Getting impatient, I grabbed a knife from the drawer and sliced the rubber band. As the blade cut through the rubber, it nicked my thumb. I winced, dropped the blade, and lunged for a paper towel.
He grabbed for me as if I’d just sliced my arm off with a machete. “You cut yourself.” He caught my hand to inspect the life-threatening injury.
“It’s just a little scratch. I’ll be fine.” Pulling my hand from his, I turned on the tap and stuck my bleeding appendage under the water. “As you’ll recall, I was the one who approached you about becoming a Premier member. My goal is to find you the woman of your dreams, your future wife. I can’t be jealous.”
“Yes, so you’ve said.” He took my hand in his again. With a free hand, he grabbed a fresh paper towel and patted my hand dry. I tried to ignore the sensations pulsing through my body at his gentle touch and focused attention.
Gosh damn it, why did he have to be so sexy and sweet and attentive? Why?
Once again, I pulled my hand free. “It’s fine. Just a little scratch.” Trying to pretend I wasn’t getting warm all over, I found the box of bandages I kept in a cabinet and flipped open the lid.
“You keep bandages in your kitchen?”
“I…yes.” I swear my cheeks were burning so hot they were about to blister.
“If I’d known you were prone to cutting yourself, I would have done that for you.” He jerked his head toward the flowers.
“I’m fine.” I oozed on some antibiotic ointment and glued on the bandage. “Good as new. See? Now, should we get going?” I scooped up the flowers and dropped them in my makeshift vase.
“Sure.”
“Thank you again for the flowers,” I said as I fiddled with the arrangement before grabbing my purse. “They really are beautiful.”
“Glad you like them.” Placing a hand on the small of my back, he escorted me outside, into an unseasonably crisp early evening. “It’s a little chilly,” he said as we strolled down the sidewalk toward his parked car. “Are you warm enough?”
“I’m fine.” Actually, thanks to his lingering touch on my back, and the heat of his earlier attention to my cut finger, I was quite warm. I sank into a leather seat that felt as if it had been molded to fit my body perfectly. Once I was settled, he rounded the front of the sleek black car and folded his frame into his seat. And within minutes the vehicle was prowling the streets, carrying me off toward the west, toward an unknown destination.