Chapter 6 #2
I was so busy digging in my bag for my house key, I almost tripped over the box waiting in front of my door.
I ran through a quick list in my head to see if I’d forgotten about something I ordered.
If I did, I’d really forgotten it. The package—charcoal gray and bigger than a shoe box—was stamped with the name Lillet in an elegant script with my first name hand-lettered underneath.
The fonts weren’t the same, but the paper and attention to detail reminded me of the cocktail menu at the bar Ford worked at, which was further annoying evidence of my almost obsession.
Puzzled but curious, I carried the box inside and set it on my kitchen counter. After watching Ford work his magic with the eggs, I was having a hard time looking at my kitchen the same way again. It was just one more place where his presence kept asserting itself and the man wasn’t even here.
I tended not to be a favorite with clients.
I did my very best to make sure the women I worked for got everything they deserved from the men who either wronged them or left them behind.
It made me persona non grata with the exes, but even the women I served usually ended up with mixed feelings about me.
Gratitude for sure, but at best I reminded them of a time they’d rather forget.
It was fine. I wasn’t looking to make friends; I just hoped none of it had devolved to pipe bomb in a box level.
Dead roses, headless dolls—none of the stuff of nightmares, please.
Work had been relatively quiet. It was unlikely anyone had gone to the effort to bomb me that week or that they’d put it in such a lovely package.
But I also didn’t know who’d want to send me a gift.
There was only one way to find out what was in the box.
Leaning away from it as if that would actually help in the case of an explosion, I gingerly lifted the lid and peered inside.
The package was filled with a stack of different-sized smaller boxes fitted together like Tetris pieces. I pulled out the largest one and a card with my name slid out with it. I opened the card, more interested in who sent the gift than the gift itself.
––––––––
You should always have delicious cocktails. These will help.
xo Ford
––––––––
Ford sent me a present. With a card on very good paper.
Signed with a hug and a kiss. My brain skittered over the bits of information, unsure what to do with them.
After momentary paralysis, I reached for the larger box and gently lifted the lid.
I swear the packaging itself felt so special—like a present inside a present.
The box held a cocktail shaker almost identical to the one Ford used to mix my drink at the bar.
It was simple with clean lines (Elena had taught me something,) but heavy and smooth.
I held it for a moment, feeling the cool metal warm to my touch before setting it aside to reach for another box.
I unwrapped a coiled strainer, a long spoon that would reach the bottom of the shaker, and a wicked-looking tool I was pretty sure was for zesting things and making garnishes.
It was the contents of the last box that charmed me most. It held a small club made of some kind of striped wood.
All of the edges were rounded, and it fit perfectly in my hand, a warm weight that felt almost alive somehow.
It was beautiful and unique, and I had absolutely no idea what it was used for.
What I did know was that it wasn’t cheap.
None of the contents of the box were. Unless Ford was some kind of trust-fund working man—an admitted oxymoron—or moonlighting as an escort, this was too expensive a gift to give a casual acquaintance.
Even one he’d shared orgasms with. It was too thoughtful a gift to be casual at all.
I’d gotten gifts from friends and relatives that weren’t as perfect as this.
I stood holding the small wooden club, feeling Ford’s presence in my kitchen as if he were standing there in all his shirtless glory, offering me eggs. Or a cocktail. Or a handful of orgasms.
I had no clue what to do about any of it.
Being clueless didn’t sit well with my inherent control-freak nature.
Taking the lovely set to him and telling him it was too much felt condescending and wrong.
And, if I was honest, made me a little sad.
I didn’t realize I wanted the bar tools until I’d held them in my hands.
I could buy them on my own, but I liked the idea of Ford picking them for me.
I didn’t like what that meant about the space he was taking up in my head, but it’s not like that was all that different than it had been before I opened the box.
So a thank-you instead of a return. I could write him a note—I was pretty sure I had actual stationary somewhere—but that didn’t feel quite right either.
With as much attention as he’d put into selecting the set and having it delivered in packaging that felt as deliberately chosen as the gift, the least I could do was give similar attention to the thank-you.
He was probably at work. I could swing by and tell him in person how much the gift meant to me and leave before I got further into something I was pretty sure I had no business pursuing.
At least that’s what I told myself as I freshened my lipstick and gave my hair a quick brush.
I gave the set of bar tools one last glance, running my fingertip over the wood before heading out.
I’d thank Ford because it was the right thing to do and head back home because it was the smart thing to do.
If I was lying, it was just to myself, and I’d gotten surprisingly comfortable at doing that over the past couple of years.