Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(63)

“You think? Listen, you either have feelings or you don’t.”

He ran a hand over his face and rubbed the heel of his palm over a brow. “I just advanced a florist one hundred dollars.”

“Are you mad? That was—”

“Stupid.”

“Most definitely stupid.”

Lowe’s shoulders slumped. “It really was.” Then again, he had a long history of making stupid mistakes. Maybe this was nothing out of the ordinary.

• • •

Hadley rarely made stupid mistakes, so she had to assume that her inability to add simple numbers and use the telephone without accidentally hanging up on the caller were indirectly related to the time spent on Lowe’s lap. And her newfound stupidity continued to hobble her throughout her workday. The other curators squinted at her like there was dirt smeared on her face. George asked why she was smiling to herself. Her father—blind, at that—suspected illness and suggested she go home and rest.

Rest was the last thing she needed. She was wound tighter than a cheap watch, bursting at the seams with an antsy sort of elation.

But as the hours passed, all that elation shifted into a nervous anticipation that created a dull fog over her brain. When five o’clock finally came, and she was on her way out of the office, she found herself standing at the front desk while Miss Tilly slowly repeated what she’d already said twice, looking at Hadley as if she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had.

She stared at the secretary’s hand in disbelief, her insides jumping with glee. “For me?” she said dumbly, finally catching on to what the woman was telling her.

“I know. I thought the same thing,” Miss Tilly said before glancing up at Hadley’s irritated reaction. “Oh, no—I didn’t mean that no one would ever send you flowers, it’s just that no one has.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware, but thank you for the reminder,” Hadley said dryly. “Who brought it into the building?”

“A delivery boy. He was sort of handsome,” the secretary said, flouncing her too-perfect strawberry hair. “Anyway, he said I could expect to see him a lot, because the gentleman who ordered it paid for daily delivery.” Daily? “Every kind of lily they can get their hands on, a different one each day.” She handed Hadley the single oriental lily, snowy white and smelling both sweet and spicy. On its long stem, a brilliant purple ribbon was tied in a bow. “Terribly romantic, don’t you think?”

Hadley had no experience with which to judge such a thing, but her heart was beating so fast, she feared she might break down and do something embarrassing, like laugh inappropriately or twirl in circles. It was all she could do to squeeze out a disinterested, “Mmm.”

“Is it from Mr. Ginn?” Miss Tilly whispered, wide eyes blinking with interest.

“Probably,” Hadley lied. She knew exactly whom it was from, and why no card was provided. After all, her father couldn’t find out they were working together.

She bid the secretary good night and stepped out into the parking lot. Should she call Lowe? They didn’t make plans after Mrs. Wentworth walked in on their erotic tête-à-tête last night. And though Hadley expected to find the woman’s resignation when she got home, she was more concerned about what to expect from Lowe. He said a lot of things that pointed to something of substance between them, but her mind still tugged her back to his casual “I’ll just call Ruby” speech from their trip to Lawndale. And though he’d flat-out told her he wasn’t interested in Ruby or any other girl, doubt lingered.

Because if she let herself believe in the possibility that he meant everything he said in her apartment, a dark fear whispered that she’d be setting herself up for disappointment.

Normal women probably didn’t have these obsessive reservations. And if Hadley wanted a shot at being normal, she reckoned she’d better shake off the fear and figure out what she wanted from Lowe. She sniffed the lily and pictured his muscled chest and arms.

I stroke myself to sleep every night thinking of you.

She glanced around guiltily, as if passersby could hear her thoughts.

All the tumbling joy and the nervous anticipation and the heavy fog swirled around her head like a mad game of musical chairs. If she wasn’t careful, she might trip over her own feet. So she pushed his words from her thoughts and focused on heading to the spot her usual taxicab sat every day at five. Standing on the sidewalk between her and the waiting yellow car was Oliver Ginn.

“Pretty flower,” he said, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Hello, Oliver.”

“Who gave it to you? That Magnusson fellow? He seemed awfully territorial that night at the Flood Mansion party. I would’ve thought you preferred brains over brawn.”

She brushed off the insult. “If you wanted to send me flowers, nothing was stopping you. Instead, you send me strange books.”

A wounded look flashed over his face. “I thought you liked books.”

“I do,” she said, wishing he wouldn’t make her feel so guilty. “Where did you find it? No author was listed.”

“It’s something from my family’s library. Did the passage strike a chord?”

“How did you see what you claimed to see at the Flood Mansion party and associate it with that particular myth?”