Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(40)

The messages will escalate for the next twenty-four hours, shifting from promises to pay me back for whatever “loan” she wants (fact: she won’t), to angry rants, to sobbing guilt trips.

Also, if you’re wondering, she never actually sells the jewelry or handbags I send her. We’re friends on Facebook, and she’s addicted to the platform, posting a dozen pictures a day. Most of them feature the Coach purse, the earrings from Bergdorf, the Swarovski watch.

Why do I do it?

Good freaking question.

As far as why I don’t just turn off my damn phone? It’s like I told the dog . . . I keep hoping that I’ll teach myself a lesson.

She may not ever change, but I can.

“What are we eating?” I ask Juno, opening the fridge.

Her head pops up, tail wagging enthusiastically at the prospect of getting something other than kibble tonight.

“Hmm.” I purse my lips and survey the meager supplies. “How do we feel about takeout?”

Juno’s tail wags faster.

I start to go for my phone to order something from my delivery app when someone knocks on my door.

My heart leaps. The last time someone knocked on my door out of the blue, I ended up agreeing to play fake girlfriend for my mortal enemy. A decision that’s had some extremely painful consequences.

Of course, it may not be Matt.

Hell. It’s definitely Matt. I feel it, and that’s annoying. I’ve been anticipating it, and that’s even more annoying.

Juno, for her part, is losing her mind, alternating between frantic barks and throwing herself at the door.

I do the requisite safety check through the peephole, my stomach doing a full-on flip when I see Matt is indeed standing there.

With flowers.

I open the door, not even remotely regretting the way Matt’s required to take a step back from the force of my dog colliding with his legs.

“Juno, darling,” Matt says, lowering to give the dog attention. “I brought you something.”

Leaning against the doorjamb, I watch as he pulls a dog biscuit from his pocket. Juno munches it enthusiastically, nuzzling Matt’s chest as she chews.

Matt laughs at the crumbs spraying everywhere, oblivious and uncaring that his cashmere sweater is now covered in slobber, cookie crumbs, and dog fur.

I know the sweater’s cashmere, because I was with him when he bought it. I was right. It does match his eyes. Eyes that slowly lift from the dog until they find mine.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” I nod at the flowers. “What’s the story there?”

He stands and looks down at the pink roses. There are at least two dozen flawless buds. “I brought them for your doorman downstairs. Juan? Turns out he prefers tulips. Seemed a shame to waste them, so . . .” He flicks his wrist toward me, extending them.

Unable to resist, I reach for them, nodding for him to come in. He does, Juno unabashedly sniffing at his pocket for more cookies.

“Sorry, love,” Matt says, giving the dog a pat on the head. “Just the one.”

Juno huffs and trots to her food bowl, resigned to the fact that there are no more treats to be had and the takeout’s been delayed.

I go into the kitchen and pull a vase from the cupboard. Matt follows. “What are your favorite flowers, anyway? Ian didn’t know.”

“Pretty ones,” I say, setting the vase in the sink and turning on the water. “Flowers are always nice to receive, no matter the kind.”

“You were supposed to say pink roses and be very impressed that I got it right on the first try.”

Since my back is to him, I allow a small smile as I pull scissors out of a drawer to trim the stems.

It’s been two days since our fight on the sidewalk after the Jarod Lanham run-in, and I’ve been avoiding him. At first, it was because I was still mad and hurting. After that, I avoided him because . . .

I take a deep breath and turn around. “I have something to say to you.”

His gaze drops to my hand. “Any chance you can say it after you’ve put down the scissors?”

“I’m sorry,” I say in a rush, ignoring his attempts to lighten the mood. “I jumped to conclusions based on our history, and I acted horribly unprofessional. You hired me to convince people that we were in a relationship, and I jeopardized that.”

Matt smiles. “Cross, I’m pretty sure anyone witnessing that fight was even more convinced we’re in a relationship.”

I turn around and begin to cut open the cellophane containing the bouquet. “I thought of that. I even mentally added ‘lovers’ spat’ to my list of strategies on making a relationship seem more authentic. Still, I—”

Matt moves behind me, and though he doesn’t touch me, I can feel his closeness. “I don’t care that you acted unprofessionally. I care that I hurt you.”

“I was mad. That’s all,” I say, trimming the ends of the roses into the sink.

“That’s crap,” he says softly.

It is crap. But the last thing I want to do is revisit the pain that ripped through me that night. Or the fact that this man is the only person to ever elicit that kind of hurt.

I certainly don’t want to explore why that’s so.

“Is that what the flowers are for?” I ask, beginning to place the stems in the vase. “Apology flowers?”