The morning gift on my desk, fourth this week, was a cube of Belgian chocolate nestled in a box that cost more than my shoes. Next to it stood the impossible white orchid: petals so pure I checked for hidden plastic. I swiveled it so the best bloom faced me, ignoring the cluster of emails that I was supposed to be tackling.
The card was simple, unsigned. “For your stamina.” Because who doesn’t want to be negged by their own stalker? And the chocolate was dark, 72%, which, honestly, was my preference. He’d asked. He’d remembered. What kind of psycho remembered that?
I liked it. I liked it too much.
I took the box and slid it into my drawer, refusing to acknowledge how it made my chest ache in a sweet, strangling way.
By ten, I’d fended off the day’s first fire when my office door banged open. Calvin, currently unshaven and sunburned, charged in, holding a coffee.
“You still don’t lock your door? In this city?” he demanded, appraising the office with a look that suggested I’d decorated itin biohazard chic. “I’d stage an intervention, but you’d probably convert the therapist in three sessions.”
“Cal, you hate therapy,” I reminded him, mostly to keep control of the conversation.
He ignored that, settling his ass on my guest chair, shoes already on the arms. “Wow. New flowers. Any chance this guy’s a real human or are you just catfishing yourself for the attention?”
I swiveled away from the computer, elbows on the desk, chin on knuckles. “Jealous?”
“Always.” He grinned, and I saw the wolf underneath the play. “He got a name yet? Or are we doing the anonymous sugar-daddy thing?”
I shrugged. “Some men like to keep a sense of mystery. Maybe you could try it, next time.”
Calvin squinted at the card, then flipped the chocolate box over, hunting for clues. I could’ve told him he’d find nothing. “You know, if you’re fucking someone you can tell me. Unless it’s someone Mom set you up with. Then I need to stage the actual intervention.”
“It’s not Mom,” I said, voice flat. Then, because I was bored of deflecting, “Are you here to talk about my imaginary sex life, or do you need a loan?”
His eyes went big and tragic, but there was a pulse of real feeling behind the act. “I’m here for my little sister. You seemed… off, last call.”
I’d been off. He didn’t need to say it.
I softened, just for a second. “I’m good. Just the usual mergers, acquisitions, and attempts at character assassination.”
He scoffed, but it was a gentler sound. “Just remember, if you need me to burn someone’s house down, I still have friends in low places.” He leaned over, voice dropping. “You don’t want to piss off a guy who once set fire to a frat house with four packs of sparklers and a bottle of Smirnoff.”
I snorted, and for a moment we were twelve and fourteen again, covering for each other with forged notes and fake field trips.
He glanced at the orchid, fingers brushing a leaf. “But really, Eliza, you sure this isn’t some corporate creep? I’ve seen too many bad movies. Maybe put a nanny-cam in here or something.”
I bristled, weirdly defensive. “It’s just flowers, Cal.”
“Hey, I’m happy if you’re happy.” He said it like a challenge, eyes searching for something I wasn’t ready to name.
“I am,” I lied, because I was, and I wasn’t, and either way it wasn’t his job to fix.
Calvin got up, stretched, and wandered to the mini-fridge, stealing one of my expense-account San Pellegrinos. He popped the tab but didn’t leave.
“So when’s this mystery man taking you out? Or does he just want to keep you as a-” he glanced at the card again “-plant mistress?”
I turned away, flipping open the file I’d been pretending to read. “I have a lunch meeting today. With someone important.”
“Ooo, lunch date. Progress.” He raised the can in a toast. “Don’t let him buy you salad. That’s beta male shit.”
“I’ll order the steak. Bloody.”
He laughed but then stopped. “Hey. Seriously. You’re good?”
I nodded, meeting his gaze squarely. “Always.”
He must’ve believed it, because he gave a short nod and left without looking back.