Chapter twenty-nine
Antonia
“Delivery for Antonia Cole.”
I look up.
Framed in the doorway of my office is a deliveryman in a green uniform, a red rose stitched on his chest. He’s peering over the top of a bunch of pink flowers that are so big that he has to tilt them to the side to see me.
“Antonia Cole?” he asks.
I just sit there, not speaking.
No one sends me flowers.
Clara bustles in past him. “Yes, yes, this is Antonia Cole. Bring them in, bring them in. Like I said.”
He exhales, obviously glad to have somebody who knows what they’re doing.
The flowers land on my desk with a soft thump. My lips stay sealed. Clara hands the man a twenty-pound note as a tip. Hescurries off with a beaming smile, a sign of what he thinks is a job well done.
She turns to me. “Flowers? Who sent you flowers?”
I shrug, pretending not to know. It can only be Ben, but I can’t imagine him sending me flowers, not after the first date. Surely, a nice evening with wine doesn’t require such a large display of pink blossoms. A chaste kiss doesn’t need an exclamation point.
“It’s probably a business thing,” I say, plucking the small blue card from the base, all the time knowing my gut says otherwise. It tightens as I peel back the opening.
Thank you for a lovely evening. I’m glad you stepped off the edge. Ben.
I stare at the card longer than I should, my pulse quickening with each read.
“Well,” Clara mutters. “Who’s it from?”
Before I know it, she swipes the card from my hand. “Whoa,” she says. “Dinner must have gone well.”
Every muscle in my face tightens.
Of course she knows; he asked her about the wine.
At the time, I’d been quite impressed he had the forethought to ask her what wine I like. It meant he cared, that he really wanted the night to go well. But now, in my office the following day, it feels like an overstep.
My assistant knew I was going on a date before I did.
Did he think it was a date?
I asked him to dinner.
I suppose I thought it was a date before I asked him. Even if I didn’t admit it to myself.
But it still stings a little. That lack of control I’m not used to having. The uncomfortable truth that someone else being in charge makes my nerves fire.
The flowers sit on my desk.
I pick them up, take them out to reception, and place them on the coffee table between the two big sofas where our clients sit when they’re waiting to speak to me.
Clara scowls, unimpressed. “They’re for you,” she says. “For you to appreciate.”
“Well, they’re better out here. Everyone can enjoy them then.”