“Why?”
She sighs. “Don’t they teach kids the whole milk-and-cow adage anymore?”
“Daisy, it’s not the 1950s. I’m an independent woman who can spray her milk all over town if she so chooses.”
She snorts. “And far be it from me to interfere with that. But if that’s the case, there’s another adage you should remember: don’t cry over spilled milk.”
“What the hell? Are you trying to be some freaky spirit guide?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re not even spiritual.”
“I took a meditation class a couple months ago, Madeleine. Name one person in your life more spiritual than me.”
“My mom. My dog. My mailman. The lady that passes out bibles outside the grocery store.”
She hangs up on me, and it’s just as well because Sandra walks by my cubicle a second later and clicks her tongue. Oh, save it, Sandra. I’ve had to listen to you take personal phone calls for the last year and guess what, my hilariously witty conversations with Daisy trump your weekly phone calls with your podiatrist. Newsflash: no one wants to hear you talking about bunion cream.
“Nearly finished for the day, Madeleine?” she asks, attempting to surreptitiously spy on the papers sitting on my desk. What does she think I keep in here, the nuclear codes?
“I just have a few things to finish up.”
It’s true. While I’d love nothing more than to leave work and start primping for my “casual dining experience” with Adam, I still have to fire off an email to Kyle Foster—my new client who’s in the market for a condo—and recap the options we toured earlier this morning. I have another round of showings scheduled with him later in the week, but I want to make sure we’re both on the same page.
Mr. Boggs has demanded another list of houses, and though everyone will say it’s a waste of time, I compile all the new listings on the market and send them over.
Then, after a few phone calls and a short chat with Helen where she informs me that I’m “on the right track” and “won’t be on probation for much longer!”, I’m heading out the door, giddy to see Adam.
My attention is on my phone, though I tell myself I’m not checking for a text from him. Surely he wouldn’t cancel this last minute, right? As soon as I think the question, a dog bark snaps me back to reality. I glance up and freeze, completely taken aback by the sight in front of me. Adam’s car is parked in front of the curb and he’s leaning back against the passenger side door à la Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles.
“Well this is a surprise,” I say, stepping closer and taking in the whole tantalizing image first presented to me a few yards back: his sexy jeans, the white button-down, the bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in brown paper he has clutched in his right hand.
I try to keep my smile within normal, sane limits as I raise my gaze to meet his. He’s been watching me study him.
“Do you like sunflowers?”
“Oh those are for me?”
He tilts his head and his adorable smile nearly kills me. “Well, I could try giving them to Mouse, but he’ll probably try to eat them.”
I nod, playing along. “He’s more of a roses guy.”
He bends down to kiss my cheek. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
Next time. NEXT TIME. My heart explodes.
“I love them. Thank you.” He hands me the sunflowers and I cradle them to my chest as he opens the car door for me. “You know you’re a few hours early.”
His fancy car purrs to life and we pull out onto the main road.
“I figured there was no point in waiting.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe I wanted to change or reapply my makeup or something,” I joke.
“No need. You look great.”
“Hmm…in my work dress? I look like I’m about to go to a board meeting.”
“Then I want to sit by you in a board meeting.”
I follow his gaze to where my dress has ridden up. When I’m standing, it’s a modest length, but the leather seats in his Audi have hiked up the skirt and a few inches of my thighs are now on perfect display. I lay the sunflowers down across my lap and smile when everything is covered.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I say with a smirk.
“Maybe I should give them to Mouse after all.”
“No, they’re too pretty. Where are we headed?”
“To the grocery store. I thought we’d grab a few things and then head back to your place to cook.”
“Oh? No fancy restaurant for the first date? Whatever happened to wining and dining a woman?”
His green gaze locks with mine as he slows the car to stop at a red light. “I’m a really good cook.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Any man can take you to a restaurant and pay for a meal, but not everyone can make my famous lasagna.”