The Hot One(11)

Fine, plans might change, even for the better. But people? I’m not sure they do. Not when he sounds like the same cocky guy. “I’ll think about it,” I say as I leave the salad bar and hang up.

I try hard not to think about the ease of our three-minute conversation as I return to Nirvana and work my way through the afternoon.

That evening I hunker down in the tiny office in the back of the spa and take care of my online banking, then answer some work emails. I hit refresh once more on the inbox before I close out. For a few days I’ve been waiting for a particular email, hoping to hear from a guy I hired to track down information about someone I once loved. I’m eager, even antsy, but as I scan my inbox I’ll have to live with those emotions a little longer. There’s no word yet. I try to put the possibility out of my mind. I shut down my email and pore over bills and invoices, happily paying all of them—because I believe bills should be paid with a smile, since it means I’m fortunate enough to own a business that makes money—until the receptionist raps on my door.

“Hey Jasmine,” I say to the pretty girl who handles the phones. Yoga pants with a butterfly pattern hug her hips, and silver bracelets adorn her wrists. A nose piercing glints in the evening light.

“Look what we have! A gift for you,” she says. Jasmine loves gifts. She loves that working the front desk means she’s the one to sign for flowers and packages, even if they’re intended for others. She simply likes delivering them, like she fancies herself one of Santa’s elves.

She hands me a potted plant, bursting with light purple blooms.

A tiny lilac bush.

She rubs her hands together. “Who’s it from? It smells so good. Someone must know lilacs are your favorite flowers.”

My stomach pirouettes this time, like it’s excited. Like I’m excited. But I’m not. I swear I’m not.

I swallow but don’t answer right away. He does know they’re my favorite. But he was never a big gift-giver before. So these can’t be from him. I can’t get my hopes up.

A notecard hangs on the side of the pot. I flip it open and read: Don’t think. Just say yes.

Two, three, four pirouettes.

I bend my nose to the plant and inhale my favorite scent in the world.

Motherfucker.





4





Tyler



* * *



I suppose Delaney could have turned into a bitch. It’s possible she might bore me to tears. There’s a chance we’d have nothing to say to each other.

But I’m a betting man, and I’m not putting my money on any of those options.

“I won’t give up until I have a chance to talk to her again,” I say to my buddy Simon when I shoot hoops with him the next morning.

After he sinks a layup, he gives me a doubtful stare. “Talk to her? You’re trying to make me believe you simply want to talk to her?”

I nod, resolute and then some. “Hell yeah.”

“And what is it you want to talk to her about? The stock market? The weather? The latest movie you’re dying to see?”

“No, asshole. I want to talk to her about . . .” I trail off, remembering how easy our phone call was. I shrug and hold my hands out wide. “Anything. Just anything.”

“All this from five seconds of you juggling in the park?”

He dribbles then passes the ball to me. I grab it and throw, watching it catch nothing but net. “That, and a phone call yesterday,” I add as he grabs the rebound.

“A two-minute call?”

“Oh, ye of little faith. It was three or four minutes, and we reconnected like that,” I say, snapping my fingers. “She also sent me a thank you note for the lilacs, I’ll have you know. You’re not the only one who has game when it comes to the ladies,” I point out, since Simon recently wooed and won a very special woman.

“What did her note say? Was it demonstrative of her deep and undying affection for you? Like, say, Thanks for the lilacs?”

“Yes,” I admit, annoyed he totally nailed it. “And she said they were still her favorite flowers.”

“Well,” my friend says, raising the ball above his head. “That’s all the proof you need that she wants you to win her back.”

“Hundred bucks says you miss and I’m not wrong. I know the two of us can be good together again.”

Simon laughs as he shoots. “Man, you kill me. Not only are you an entertainment lawyer, but you’re entertaining.”

I’m also damn determined to get her to say yes, no matter what Simon thinks. Especially since he misses the next shot.

The next day, my morning starts bright and early when I meet the top lawyer and an executive at LGO, a premium network that’s been giving HBO a run for its money with its equally aggressive online and on-air approach to programming. Even though Craig Buckley, the dark-haired and famously risk-taking network head, has home-field advantage, since the meeting’s at his office, I win four out of the six deal points I want for my client, the creator of a new sexy show, After Dark.

I thank Craig with a handshake, and his attorney grumbles that he’ll call me soon.

I leave the high-rise building in Times Square, emboldened that I can wrap up the rest of the thorny issues in the deal over the next several days. As I weave through the morning crowds and tourists, heading toward the relatively quieter route up Eighth Avenue to return to the office, I call my client, Jay Benator, a brilliant artist who is poised for breakout success. I update him on the developments.