Come As You Are(30)

How much time do you need? I have lots of favorite places.





From: Sabrina G

To: Flynn Parker





An hour or two? Let me know one of your favorites.





Ten minutes later, he sends me an address that strikes my curiosity.

I haven’t been there. Ever.

And that’s saying something, because New York is mine.

I write back telling him I’ve never been there before, but that I’m looking forward to it.

I have a feeling that Flynn Parker is going to be one hell of an interesting guy to get to know over the next few days.

That’s all he’ll be though.

He’s not the duke. He’s not the guy from last night. I’ll need to erase those fun, fond, flirty memories from the banks of my mind. These last few messages should help—they’re so professional. So worky, worky, work.

I flop down on my bed, grab my laptop, and bury myself in research for the piece. A little later, my phone lights up with an alert. Probably an email from a friend, or a note about a new yard of fabric for sale at my favorite discount shop.

But some insistent little voice nudges me. Tells me to check it now because . . . what if?

I slide open the inbox, a flutter of excitement racing through me. The email is from Flynn, and it’s not about the interview. It’s a simple question: Why should you never date an apostrophe?

I scrunch my brow and then shout, “Aha!”

My fingers fly on the keys, tapping out a reply before I risk him sending me the answer: Because they’re too possessive!

He answers swiftly, but this time his note zips over the transom of text. He’s switched gears, shifting back to who we were last night.

The name I gave him on my text blinks.

Duke.

My heart dares to skitter in my chest, to bounce around madly.



Duke: What do you call Santa’s elves?





Clutching my phone as if it’s a source of joy, I squeeze my shoulders in delight, my grammar nerd heart lighting up. I swear it’s glowing in my chest, and the warmth from it spreads to my toes, then my fingers. I think and think, and then the answer materializes, and I grin as I reply. This is more fun than 80s Trivial Pursuit. This is better than Boardwalk.



Angel: Subordinate Clauses!!





I’m rewarded with another grammar riddle seconds later.



Duke: What should you say to comfort a grammar nerd?





I narrow my eyes and chew on my lip, considering. Then, it hits me, like a bucket of social media grammatical errors slamming into me all at once.



Angel: They’re, their, there.





I feel like we could go on all night. I want to, even though I know it’s silly. Even though I know it’s pointless.

But maybe that’s the point of us flirting.

That it goes nowhere.

That it’s a momentary buzz.

It’s a quick whiff of expensive perfume in the department store. A nibble on a bite of decadent chocolate. A dance with the best-looking guy you’ve ever met.

You take your snippet of pleasure and you move on. That’s all you get.



Angel: Did you know the last four letters in queue aren’t silent?





I wait, and I wait, and three minutes later, his name appears.



Duke: I bet they’re just waiting their turn.





Now it’s my turn to move on.





14





Flynn



“In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have sent that apostrophe email.”

I wait for a response from my audience. She gives me none. I pace across the living room, checking out the view of Gramercy Park. “But in my defense, it was a good joke.”

Still no answer.

“She liked it. I swear, she liked it,” I insist.

Silence.

“Look, you’d have done the same, Zoe.”

A delicious smile is my reward. My niece coos at me.

This kid. This sweet little baby. She melts me. “See? I knew you would laugh! You love my jokes. You cracked up when I told you the broccoli joke the first time I met you in the hospital room.”

She smiles again, like the Mona Lisa, and I’m ready to give this little blonde baby anything in the cosmos she wants. I bounce my niece higher in my arms then drop a kiss to her soft forehead, taking a moment to inhale her baby scent as I pace around my sister’s place, waiting for her to return from her morning workout.

“Knock, knock,” I say, then answer for Zoe. “Who’s there? Broccoli. Broccoli who? Broccoli doesn’t have a last name, silly.”

She emits a gurgling sound that makes it clear she remains my number-one fan, enjoying the joke as much as she did on her Birth day.

A lock clicks and the door to my sister’s home opens. Olivia returns, her face flushed, her hair a little damp from sweating. “Who is my favorite brother in the entire universe?” She points both hands at me as Zoe squirms at the sound of her mom’s voice. “I knew you’d win the Best of the Twin Brothers Olympics today.”