“I’m drawing inspiration from real life. Perhaps I can write about an arranged marriage gone terribly wrong. The wife murders her husband after having a kinky affair with her sexy doorman…or not,” she added hastily when I glared at her. “But you have to admit, sex and murder go hand in hand.”
“Only to you.” I moved the sticky notes with Dominic and Alessandra Davenport’s names to the table with Kai. Much better. The last setup had Dominic sitting next to his biggest rival. “Should I worry about your exes?”
“Only the ones that pissed me off.”
“That’s all of them.”
“Is it?” Isabella was the picture of innocence. “Oops.”
A smile pulled on my lips. Her dating history was a string of red flags encompassing race car drivers, photographers, models, and, in one truly spectacular lapse of judgment, an aspiring poet with a Shakespeare tattoo and a penchant for spouting lines from Romeo and Juliet during sex.
The past year had been her longest break from men since I met her. She deserved it.
Dealing with men was exhausting.
Case in point: my relationship with Dante. Trying to figure out where we stood was like trying to find my footing on a slab of particle board in the middle of the ocean.
Isabella and I lapsed into silence again, but my mind kept straying toward a certain dark-haired Italian.
We’d kissed, and Dante had given me not one but two mind-blowing orgasms, only to shut down immediately after.
Nothing beat the humiliation of asking him for sex only for him to leave me high and dry. At least I’d successfully (I hoped) played the entire night off as a mistake.
A knock interrupted my inner turmoil.
“Come in.”
Shannon entered holding an extravagant bouquet of red roses. There must’ve been at least two dozen of them slotted into a slim crystal vase, and their scent instantly blanketed the room with cloying sweetness.
Isabella sat up, her eyes gleaming like a Page Six reporter who’d stumbled on a juicy society secret.
“These just came for you,” Shannon said with a knowing smile. “Where do you want me to put them?”
My heart leapt in my throat. “My desk is fine. Thank you.”
“Oh my God.” Isabella beelined to my desk the second the door closed. “These roses must’ve cost hundreds of dollars. What’s the occasion?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted. Surprise and pleasure warred for dominance in my chest.
Dante had never sent me flowers before. Our relationship had smoothed into one of civil cohabitation and the occasional shared late-night snack since Bali, but we still weren’t a “normal” couple by any means.
I couldn’t imagine why he’d be sending me roses now. It wasn’t a holiday, anniversary, or anyone’s birthday.
“Just because flowers. The best kind.” Isabella skimmed her fingers over a velvety petal. “Who knew Dante Russo was such a romantic?”
The pleasure edged out the surprise.
I searched the extravagant blooms until I found a tiny card with my name written on the front. I flipped it over, and my stomach plummeted.
“It’s not from Dante.”
“Then who’s it…oh.” Isabella’s eyes widened when I showed her the note.
Vivian,
Happy belated new year. I thought of you at midnight but didn’t have the guts to send you this until now. Hope you’re doing well.
Love, Heath.
P.S. I’m here if you ever change your mind.
A cocktail of disappointment, unease, and confusion brewed in my stomach. Save for a Merry Christmas text, I hadn’t talked to Heath since the flea market. His sending me flowers made even less sense than Dante sending them.
“Love, Heath.” Isabella wrinkled her nose. “First, he shows up in New York and coincidentally runs into you, now this. Man needs to move on. You’ve been broken up for years, and you—”
“Who’s Heath?” The black velvet voice wrenched my gaze to the entrance.
Charcoal suit. Broad shoulders. Expression as dark as his voice.
My pulse skittered into overdrive.
Dante stood in the doorway, brown paper bag in hand, his eyes glinting like shards of volcanic glass against the soft roses.
His body held dangerously still, like the calm before a storm.
“Um…” I slid a panicked look at Isabella, who hopped off the desk and scooped her bag up from the floor.
“Well, this was fun, but I gotta go,” she chirped in an overly bright voice. “Monty gets cranky if I don’t feed him on time.”
Traitor, my glare screamed.
Sorry, she mouthed. Good luck.
I was never letting her work in my office again.
She brushed past Dante with an awkward pat on his arm, and I watched, stomach twisting, as he walked toward me and set the paper bag next to the bouquet.
He flipped the note and read it wordlessly, his jaw ticking in rhythm with each passing second.
“It’s a New Year’s gift,” I said when the silence became too oppressive to bear. “Like the champagne glasses my mom bought us.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I hadn’t cheated on Dante or purposely sought out Heath myself. I had nothing to feel guilty about.
Still, my nerves rattled like wind chimes in a tornado.
“These aren’t champagne glasses, mia cara.” Dante dropped the note the way one would a diseased carcass. “Nor are they from your mother, which brings me back to my question. Who is Heath?”
I inhaled a soft breath for courage. “My ex-boyfriend.”
Dante’s eyes sparked. “Your ex-boyfriend.”
“Yes.” I didn’t want to lie, and Dante could probably find out who Heath was with the snap of a finger, anyway.
“Why is your ex-boyfriend sending you roses and love notes?” The velvety tone didn’t change, but the undercurrent of danger rippled closer to the surface.
“It’s not a love note.”
“It damn well looks like one to me.” If Dante ground his teeth any harder, they’d crumble into dust. “What does he mean by change your mind?”
“I told him about our engagement a few months ago.” If I was telling the truth, I might as well tell the whole truth. “He showed up in New York and implied he’d be open to giving our relationship another shot. I declined. He left. The end.”
Dante’s eyes were near-black now. “Obviously not the end, given this lovely bouquet he sent you.”
“It’s just flowers.” I understood why he was upset, but he was making it into something bigger than it was. “They’re harmless.”
“Some fucker is sending you flowers, and you want to tell me it’s harmless?” He picked up the card again. “Thought of you at midnight. Hope you’re doing well. Love, Heath.” Sarcasm weighed heavy on the recitation. “It doesn’t take a genius to know what he was doing while he was thinking of you at midnight.”
Frustration overrode my misplaced guilt. “I can’t control what other people do or say. I told him I wasn’t interested in getting back together, and I’ll tell him again if he persists. What do you want me to do? Get a restraining order against him?”
“Now that’s an excellent idea.”