My desk phone rings, grabbing my attention.
I pick it up with a heavy sigh.
“Lincoln Burns, CEO, this is Miss Poe speaking. How can I help you?” I say with rehearsed politeness.
“Miss Poe, this is security. I’ve got a delivery with your name on it. Should I send it up?”
“What is it?” I freeze in my seat, grateful Anna and Cheryl have at least gone back to chattering among themselves.
“Can’t tell, but it’s pretty long. Light weight. Came in a box. You want me to open it?”
Oof, yeah, as long as it’s not a bomb.
“Sure, open it and then send it up,” I say.
A few minutes later when the elevator opens, a guy wearing a building security uniform steps out with a bulging bouquet of puffy purple hydrangeas. “Dakota Poe?”
Oh, no.
He stops and glances around. A few heavy seconds pass while I’m frozen in my seat before I finally clear my throat enough to say, “Right here. That’s me.”
Unfortunately.
He storms over and shoves the flowers in my face. “Can I put these down?”
“Um, sure.” I start rearranging stuff on my desk to make space like I’m trying to bury my own shame.
I gesture and he sets the flowers down in the empty space I cleared. I have one good guess who they’re from and it’s already making my stomach heave.
“Ohhh, gorgeous! Just the splash of color you need, Dakota. Who are they from?” Cheryl asks, her eyes wide with excitement.
I try not to cringe. I should’ve known it was hopeless, hiding my anti-gift from one of the office big mouths.
“I haven’t read the card yet,” I lie. I find it buried between the flowers and pluck it out, unsure if the lead weight in my belly is mostly anger or dread.
Anna giggles obnoxiously. “We know who they’re from! I think that’s his way of saying he’s game for a little marketing magic.”
Desperation, thy name is Anna Patel.
“You do, huh?” I flip the card open only because I want to prove her wrong.
“Bossman has an eye for lavish gifts,” Cheryl says.
“I wish,” I mutter.
And I actually do wish Lincoln was my secret admirer when I read the blocky words scrawled inside the card.
Can we talk? stares up at me, along with a new number.
Anna can’t see the name. I’m starting to believe she really thinks it’s from Lincoln with the way she giggles. It’s just incredible how the boss might be the least annoying person here today.
“What’s going on out here?” Speak of the devil. His voice drops low as he comes around my desk. “Flowers? Who are they from?”
“Like you don’t know,” Anna says, giving him an exaggerated eye roll. “I knew you’d come around. That email you sent the other day about scouting talent with the model agency was a dead giveaway.”
He glares at her.
I think a full thirty seconds passes where Lincoln’s dark eyes flick back and forth. It’s like I can see him contemplating her termination.
“Oh, well...maybe he doesn’t know. Sorry for assuming,” Anna squeaks, then grabs Cheryl’s arm. “We’ll get out of your hair, Mr. Burns. Lots of campaigns to polish up. Later!”
They both scurry to the elevator like fleeing rats.
It’s so ridiculous it takes the edge off, and I almost laugh.
Then Lincoln’s intense gaze lands on me and lingers until the elevator dings shut.
“Who are they from?” he asks, his voice low thunder.
I hold my hands up, trying to find the words.
“Dakota? You have a hot new date or what?”
Holy hell. The look on his face is one long silent scream of jealousy that makes me shudder.
“Why do you care?” I say with a shrug. “They came from somebody back home.”
A little white lie painted purple. That’s all I’ve got.
Even if we’ve been on better terms lately, I’m not about to explain that my stalker ex keeps sending me unwanted flowers. For all I know, Lincoln might be ludicrous enough to follow through on his threats—though having Jay wrecked right now is very, very tempting.
“I don’t care, Nevermore. Just curious.” He rolls his big shoulders, a tension pulling through him like a cord.
“Don’t waste the mental energy. They’re for charity,” I say, refusing to meet his eyes.
“For such a bad liar, you’re bold,” he rumbles, leaning over me.
My heart skips a beat as I look up, defiantly meeting his swirling brown eyes.
“What? Why would I lie about this? It would be cooler if they were for me.” I know I’m playing with fire, strumming his jealousy strings.
“Cool. Right. Whoever they’re from has trash taste. Hydrangeas are overplayed and barely remarkable. They shout friend zone, not romance,” he says, and I’m surprised he talks like he knows his flowers.
I bite my tongue so I don’t laugh. Also, he isn’t wrong.
“I told you. They’re just for charity. Down, boy,” I say playfully.
“Charity? Only because you don’t like them, and you know I’m right. Whoever sends this shit to a girl wants to make her drier than the Sonoran desert.”