Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(56)

Lotus





“We have guests coming,” JP says, his tone distracted as he squints at the color swathe splayed across his large glass desk, an anachronistic concession to the modern era in an office peppered with French antique furnishings.

“Guests?” I flip through the fabric samples I brought for him to consider. “Who?”

“I think some of those housewives? Paul coordinated it. They’re coming under the guise of looking at dresses for an event. They’re always searching for pretty places to have their fights and keep it interesting.” He pulls a set of green-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and slips them on. “Where’s this one from?”

“There should be a tag.” I lean forward and flip the sample over. “Here ya go. B&J Fabrics.”

“It’s close, but a bit too yellow, non?” He levels a look over the fashionable spectacles and shudders. “You know how I feel about chartreuse.”

“Of course.” I pluck the offending fabric from his fingers. “Want me to mix a few colors and take something to our guy over on Thirty-seventh? He may be our best shot at a custom match.”

“Good idea.” He looks past me and smiles. “Ah, I wondered when you would descend, Vale.”

His assistant strides in, a study of Icelandic sophistication and cool efficiency.

“We are behind,” she reminds us unnecessarily. “The show is less than two months away.”

“Mon dieu!” JP presses a plump hand to his chest. “I had no idea! Did you know Fashion Week is so soon, ma petite?”

I return the twinkle-eyed grin he aims at me with a wry smile. Angels are already upholstering a seat in the VIP section of Heaven for what Vale endures with JP.

“I’d heard something about it, yeah.” I gather the fabric samples and kiss Vale’s powdered cheek. “I’ll go work on that production schedule due yesterday.”

“That was my next item of business.” Her expression softens and she nods to the vibrantly-colored fabrics in my arms. “Chartreuse may be the color JP can’t stand. Red is Paul’s. We better be in the black after this show. Much work to do.”

That’s my cue to scurry into my own cubicle. Each show is a massive undertaking, and the closer we get, the less time we’ll all have for anything beyond these walls. The week before the show, we’ve been known to camp out here, sleeping and neglecting everything personal, including hygiene, to get it done.

Two heads poke around the sleek divider providing a flimsy semblance of privacy to work.

“What do you two tricks want?” I glance from my laptop to Yari and Billie hovering at the edge of my partition.

“Um . . . we come bearing gifts,” Yari says, glee threading her words.

I hope it’s one of the matcha lattes I love from up the street.

“Not from us,” Billie all but squeals, and pulls a bouquet from its hiding place behind her back. “But we’re dying to know who sent these!”

Billie’s holding a small vase with a few lotus flowers in vivid hues of pink and purple and blue. I know how hard lotus flowers are to come by locally, and they’re nearly impossible to transplant. They’re a lot of trouble to get and only last a few hours. I consider the small vase with a ribbon tied at its neck and a sealed envelope attached. My friends stand with tongues practically hanging from their mouths. Obviously they’re not planning to give me much . . . if any . . . privacy.

Billie holds the flowers while I tug the envelope free and open the card inside. The barely-legible words look like someone flung them on the page.

Button,

I told you I hate texting.

Unfortunately, lotus flowers don’t live long cut off from the soil they’re planted in. This loses some impact knowing they’ll be wilted by the time you come to my place for dinner tonight. Oh. Would you come to my place for dinner tonight? I’d like to see you. I can pick you up from work. You can just text yes . . . or no . . . and what time I should come get you.





“Let me see your face.

Let me hear your voice for your voice is sweet and your face is lovely.”

– Song of Solomon 2:14

--Kenan





Oh, this is bad.

The breath being syphoned from my lungs. The involuntary grin kissing my lips. The fluttering under my ribs. All signs that Kenan, when he sets his mind to it, has major game.

“Who’re they from?” Yari demands, patience nowhere in her voice. “Are they from who we think they’re from?”

With one hand, I take my vase of doomed petals from her. With the other, I press the card to my chest.

“They’re from a secret admirer,” I say, turning my back on them to place the vase on the edge of my desk.

“You don’t know who they’re from?” Billie asks.

“No, you don’t know who they’re from,” I reply with a grin to rub it in. “That’s the secret.”

They both look like they want to strangle me. I sit back down and slip the envelope into my desk drawer.

“We know they’re from Kenan,” Yari says.

“No, you don’t know.” I return to my laptop. “You’re fishing.”

“Well we think it’s Kenan Ross,” Billie says, hands on her slim hips.