As I headed for the coffee machine, a bunch of roses and a pair of legs headed my way, and this time, it wasn’t my surreal take on the mundane.
Angie, the administrator, noticed me passing. “Ah… there you are, Penny.” She handed me a bunch of roses of every color known to that genus.
After I regained my senses, having buried my nose in the intoxicating bunch of fragrant flowers, I asked, “Are they really for me?”
She smiled. “An admirer.”
Over my shoulder, I heard Sheldon remark, “A rich admirer, I’d say.”
“Lucky you,” she said, passing me an envelope.
The card nearly fell from my hand. I looked up at Sheldon, who took it from my hand and sniffed it. “Mm… it’s perfumed.” He held his chin. “Now, who could these be from?”
My legs, by this stage, were nearly buckling from the weight of the blooms coupled with shock and all other kinds of indescribable emotions.
Sheldon took the bunch from my arms. “Here, let me help you. Shit, there must be at least sixty roses.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I uttered, “Holy crap.”
He remained there with the roses in his arms. “Well, come on. Aren’t you going to see who they’re from?”
I sat down and opened the envelope. The card read: Can we start again? Dinner? Your paintings look lovely in my home. Thank you. Blake Sinclair.
I kept reading it over and over as if I’d missed some small detail. It was handwritten, and I ran my fingers over the card, feeling the pen markings, like a psychic with a piece of jewelry.
“It’s from him, isn’t it?” asked Sheldon, placing the flowers down on the seat next to me.
I nodded. In a trance, I passed him the card.
“You must go. I mean he’s absolutely fucking gorgeous.”
“I know. He’s almost too gorgeous.”
Sheldon tilted his head in sympathy. “Don’t be scared. I’m sure he’ll be a gentleman. Unless, you know…” He growled. “You don’t want him to be.”
I laughed.
Blake hadn’t left my thoughts, even though I tried to quash this sudden obsession, because Sheldon was right—Blake Sinclair terrified me. I hated the thought of him learning about my life at the estate, and my drug-addicted mother. Swamped by guilt, I hated how shallow that made me. But what would a man of his class, used to the finer things in life, do with someone like me?
I imagined he was after my body, and after he was done with me, he’d probably move onto the next flower to pluck. Maybe it was a sport. I’d read about rich men and their kinky ways. Perhaps he had a thing for impoverished art students.
“Can you imagine him dropping me off at my home, with the walking dead, and drug dealers lingering about?”
Sheldon’s mouth turned down in sympathy. “Oh, Penny… just enjoy it. And anyhow, tell him you’re living with me in Soho. It’s partly true.”
“I feel like an idiot, pointing my finger at him for something that wasn’t even my business.”
Sheldon nodded. “You did overreact. It’s fear. I can understand it. But he’s seriously yummy. I mean, the guy’s hot, and I bet he works out.”
I had to agree with all of that. “So, should I reply? He’s printed his number on the card.”
“I would’ve been on the phone and in his bed by now.” He giggled.
“That’s the point. I’m expected to sleep with him, aren’t I?”
“Penny, you’re going to have fuck some time. Baby, you’re twenty-three, for God’s sake.” His head pushed back. “And to be honest, I’d kill to have my virginity taken by someone like Blake Sinclair.”
“Hmm… I suppose.”
After I left Sheldon, instead of returning to class, I headed outside and found a quiet spot on a bench canopied by a sycamore.
I kept looking down at the card with his number. After five minutes and endless deep breaths, I tapped his number. My hand shook as I gripped the phone.
It went to voicemail, and his husky voice traveled deep into my core.
I waited for the beep and then stammered, “Um… this is Penelope Green. Thanks for the roses. I… just called to thank you.” I closed the call, overcome by self-loathing at how stupid I sounded.
The phone vibrated in my hand, and I took the call without looking to see who it was.
“Penelope.” His deep voice traveled all the way to my nipples.
“Yes.”
“It’s Blake. I just missed your call.”
“Oh… um… I just called.” I took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe how imbecilic I’d become. “I received the flowers. They’re beautiful. There’s lots of them.” I giggled nervously.
“Good. Fragrant, I trust.”
“Very much. They made me dizzy. The scent, I mean.”
“Good. I mean not so good feeling faint. But roses have that affecting charm about them. I love smelling a rose in full bloom.”
I hadn’t expected that.
“Penelope?”
“Call me Penny, please,” I said.
“Penny… would you like to have dinner? Or a drink?”
“Sure. That would be nice.”
“So, dinner, drink, or both?”
“Dinner sounds good.” My voice sounded weak and quavering. In order to still my racing heart, I reminded myself that I wasn’t talking to the leader of a nation or a king or anything. This was a normal person.
Well… maybe not so normal. Hell.
“Great. Say, seven tonight?”
“That sounds good.”
“Wonderful. I look forward to it. Text me your address.”
“Oh… you’re going to pick me up?” I clenched my jaw.
“Would you prefer to meet me somewhere?”
“That might be better,” I said cautiously.
“How about if we meet at a bar in Piccadilly?”
“Yes. Good. Just text me the details, and I’ll see you there at seven.”
“Will do. I look forward to seeing you. Your paintings look great.”
“Oh, you’ve hung them?” I kept forgetting that he’d bought my work, and that I’d become a wealthy artist. It still didn’t feel real to me.
“In my bedroom,” he said with that clit-tickling voice that could have recited the telephone book, and I’d probably still burst a vein.
I paused. Why did my paintings being hung in his bedroom sound so intimate? They were inanimate objects after all. But then, to me, that triptych held a power. “Oh… that’s a very personal space.”
“It is. And they’re right at home. They change with the light. In the morning they greet me with a smile. In the afternoon, they’re a little more introspective, and by nightfall, they become figures of supreme mystery.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Yes. Light and shadow change paintings. I love that you’ve seen that, because that’s such an important way to experience art. I wish I could be more eloquent.”
“You’re sufficiently eloquent, Penelope. The sophistication of that work speaks for itself.”
“Thank you. That’s very complimentary. I… I never quite know what I’m going to paint. My approach is ‘stream of consciousness.’”