Chapter 11 #2
Standing in front of me is a short, middle-aged man in a puffy winter jacket, his arms laden with a giant bouquet of pink and white roses.
“I’m so sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quickly. “I’m just here to make a delivery.”
“A delivery?” I’m shaking both from the cold and the excess of adrenaline, my heart beating so fast I can barely speak. “For me?”
“Yes,” he says with a smile. Approaching me, he bends down to pick up my keys and hands them to me, along with the giant bouquet. “This is for you.”
“Um, okay.” Awkwardly, I take both the keys and the flowers.
The roses are covered in clear plastic that protects them from the elements, but even so, I can tell that the flowers are gorgeous.
I’m about to ask who sent them when something else occurs to me.
“Oh, I don’t have any cash for the tip,” I say, feeling like a bumbling idiot.
“I’m so sorry. I meant to stop by an ATM, but—”
“Oh, no, it’s all good. Everything is taken care of.” A big smile splits his weathered face. “You just enjoy these, okay, miss?”
He turns and hurries away, clearly eager to get out of the rain, and it’s only when he’s gone that I realize I didn’t have a chance to ask who ordered the delivery.
Oh, well. Hopefully, there’s a note. My fingers are almost numb from the cold, but I manage to get my keys into the lock and get inside. Instantly, my three cats rush toward me, meowing like I’ve been gone for a week instead of just over eight hours.
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get fed,” I mutter, trying not to trip over Mr. Puffs. “Just give me a second here.”
The furry asshole ignores my words, and my walk to the kitchen is perilous, to say the least. Between the humongous bouquet of flowers and the giant cat winding between my legs, it’s a wonder I don’t trip and split my head open.
Finally, I’m in the kitchen. Putting the flowers down on the counter, I quickly prep my cats’ dinner and give it to them. Then, taking a deep breath, I approach the bouquet.
Before I can pull off the protective plastic, my doorbell rings.
Cottonball looks up from his dish and gives me an inquisitive look.
“Sorry, bud. I’m as clueless as you are,” I say to the cat as I hurry toward the door. The only person who comes over unannounced is my landlady, and she has no reason to do so tonight, as I’ve paid my rent on time for several months straight.
When I look through the peephole, I see a man dressed in a FedEx uniform walking away.
Another delivery? What the hell?
Since I was born and raised in Brooklyn, I wait until the stranger is gone before cautiously opening the door.
Sure enough, there is a big box sitting on my doorstep.
I bend down to pick it up, but it’s way too heavy to lift.
Swearing under my breath, I wrestle it inside and close the door.
Then, dying from curiosity, I grab a knife from the kitchen and open the box.
Dumbfounded, I stare at the contents.
Cat food. Lots and lots of cat food. All the best brands, in a variety of flavors, some dry and some canned, like my cats prefer.
It’s enough cat food for the next several months.
I’m so confused I almost miss the small white envelope taped to the side of the box. It’s only when I’m dragging the heavy box to the kitchen that I see it. Stopping, I grab it and open it, ripping the pretty paper in my eagerness. The note reads:
I hope your cats enjoy this, and you like the flowers.
-Marcus.
A wave of heat rushes through me, chasing away the lingering chill from the cold outside. The images from the sex dreams I’ve been trying not to think about flood my mind, and my breathing speeds up.
The deliveries are from Marcus .
I all but run into the kitchen, hoping there’s another note with an explanation as to why, but there’s nothing attached to the bouquet. Queen Elizabeth looks up from her dish and gives me a look that suggests I’m crazy, but I ignore her.
Marcus sent me roses and cat food .
This is far beyond any kind of good Samaritan act. I remember the ridiculous thought that had occurred to me last night—that he might be interested in me—and all of a sudden, it doesn’t seem quite so ridiculous anymore. Because what other explanation is there when a man sends a woman flowers?
Well, flowers and cat food.
“Do you think he likes me that way?” I ask Queen Elizabeth, and the cat gives me a look that suggests I’m acting like I’m twelve.
Okay, fine. Maybe I’m reading too much into my cat’s looks, but I swear she’s able to communicate with me. She tilts her head this way and that way when I talk to her, and sometimes she even meows in response—which is exactly what she does now.
“You do think he likes me?” I ask, irrationally excited, and Queen Elizabeth meows again before returning her attention to her food.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, and go hunting for a vase big enough to hold the enormous bouquet.
As I bounce around the kitchen, I realize I feel giddy, almost high at the idea that Marcus might like me.
He’s the polar opposite of my type, but something about him draws me—which explains those dreams last night.
His big hands all over my body, his hard-muscled chest pressing down on my breasts as he moves inside me…
Whoa. A hot flush crawls along my hairline. Despite my lengthy dry spell, I have a healthy libido and enjoy sex, but this is something else entirely. My heart seems to have taken up drumming lessons in my chest, and my panties feel damp from the mere recollection of those dreams.
This is attraction like I’ve never felt before—base, primal, and having nothing to do with logic or intellectual connection.
I know next to nothing about Marcus, and what little I do know suggests we don’t have anything in common, yet the mere thought of him turns me on more than an hour of foreplay by my college boyfriend.
“Do you think I’m in heat?” I ask Queen Elizabeth as I grab a big pot—the closest thing I have to a vase of needed size. “I mean, I’m human and all, but this is kind of extreme, don’t you think?”
Queen Elizabeth looks up and daintily runs her tongue over her face, cleaning off any remnants of her food.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m being ridiculous. Human females don’t go into heat.” I fill the pot with water, remove the plastic wrap from the roses, add the flower food to the water, and put the roses in. They end up listing to one side, but they still look beautiful—and very expensive.
If my grandmother knew about this, she’d say Marcus is courting me.
“Do you think he’s courting me?” I ask the cat, but Queen Elizabeth just sits gracefully and starts licking her paw. She’s clearly had her fill of interaction with a human, and I don’t blame her.
I should be calling Kendall with this, not bugging the cat.
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I run to my phone and eagerly swipe across the screen. Before I can select Kendall’s number, though, a message notification pops up, and my pulse jumps further.
It’s a text message from an unknown number.
Hi, Emma , it reads. This is Marcus. I hope the flowers and the gift for your cats got to you safely. Are you free this Thursday evening? I’d love to take you out to dinner. We can debate Wall Street ethics if you wish.
I stare at the text, feeling like I’m hyperventilating. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise—after all, I did think, just moments ago, that Marcus might be courting me—but somehow, I still feel caught off-guard.
Dinner? On Thursday? That’s tomorrow .
Something soft taps my calf, and I glance down to see Cottonball swishing his tail back and forth as he stares up at me.
“He wants to have dinner with me tomorrow,” I tell the cat, and even to my own ears, I sound shell-shocked. “Can you believe that?”
Unlike Queen Elizabeth, Cottonball is not a female of any species, so he doesn’t care about my dating issues.
He just lifts his paw and swats my calf again.
Sighing, I put down my phone and pick him up, knowing he won’t leave me alone otherwise.
Thankfully, he’s not as heavy as Mr. Puffs, so I can hold him with one arm, which leaves my hand free to pick up the phone again.
Chewing on my lip, I read the text again and wonder what to do.
If this were any other man—Mark from the dating app, for instance—it would be easy.
I’d thank him for the thoughtful gift, suggest a pizza place next to my apartment, and see how things go.
But this is Marcus—he of the tailored suits and sex-dream-inducing hands.
He makes me uneasy, and not just because of my physical reaction to him.
As bizarre as it is, there’s something almost… dangerous about him, something not quite civilized.
Cottonball emits a loud purr, bringing my attention back to him, and I put the phone down to stroke his soft, fluffy fur.
He’s the cuddliest of my cats, demanding a thorough petting session at least once a day, and I’m normally happy to oblige him.
Right now, though, I’m too overwhelmed to deal with a needy cat.
Marcus asked me out on a date, and I have no idea what to say.