Hard Sell (Page 29)

“Hmm.” I purse my lips and survey the meager supplies. “How do we feel about takeout?”

Juno’s tail wags faster.

I start to go for my phone to order something from my delivery app when someone knocks on my door.

My heart leaps. The last time someone knocked on my door out of the blue, I ended up agreeing to play fake girlfriend for my mortal enemy. A decision that’s had some extremely painful consequences.

Of course, it may not be Matt.

Hell. It’s definitely Matt. I feel it, and that’s annoying. I’ve been anticipating it, and that’s even more annoying.

Juno, for her part, is losing her mind, alternating between frantic barks and throwing herself at the door.

I do the requisite safety check through the peephole, my stomach doing a full-on flip when I see Matt is indeed standing there.

With flowers.

I open the door, not even remotely regretting the way Matt’s required to take a step back from the force of my dog colliding with his legs.

“Juno, darling,” Matt says, lowering to give the dog attention. “I brought you something.”

Leaning against the doorjamb, I watch as he pulls a dog biscuit from his pocket. Juno munches it enthusiastically, nuzzling Matt’s chest as she chews.

Matt laughs at the crumbs spraying everywhere, oblivious and uncaring that his cashmere sweater is now covered in slobber, cookie crumbs, and dog fur.

I know the sweater’s cashmere, because I was with him when he bought it. I was right. It does match his eyes. Eyes that slowly lift from the dog until they find mine.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” I nod at the flowers. “What’s the story there?”

He stands and looks down at the pink roses. There are at least two dozen flawless buds. “I brought them for your doorman downstairs. Juan? Turns out he prefers tulips. Seemed a shame to waste them, so . . .” He flicks his wrist toward me, extending them.

Unable to resist, I reach for them, nodding for him to come in. He does, Juno unabashedly sniffing at his pocket for more cookies.

“Sorry, love,” Matt says, giving the dog a pat on the head. “Just the one.”

Juno huffs and trots to her food bowl, resigned to the fact that there are no more treats to be had and the takeout’s been delayed.

I go into the kitchen and pull a vase from the cupboard. Matt follows. “What are your favorite flowers, anyway? Ian didn’t know.”

“Pretty ones,” I say, setting the vase in the sink and turning on the water. “Flowers are always nice to receive, no matter the kind.”

“You were supposed to say pink roses and be very impressed that I got it right on the first try.”

Since my back is to him, I allow a small smile as I pull scissors out of a drawer to trim the stems.

It’s been two days since our fight on the sidewalk after the Jarod Lanham run-in, and I’ve been avoiding him. At first, it was because I was still mad and hurting. After that, I avoided him because . . .

I take a deep breath and turn around. “I have something to say to you.”

His gaze drops to my hand. “Any chance you can say it after you’ve put down the scissors?”

“I’m sorry,” I say in a rush, ignoring his attempts to lighten the mood. “I jumped to conclusions based on our history, and I acted horribly unprofessional. You hired me to convince people that we were in a relationship, and I jeopardized that.”

Matt smiles. “Cross, I’m pretty sure anyone witnessing that fight was even more convinced we’re in a relationship.”

I turn around and begin to cut open the cellophane containing the bouquet. “I thought of that. I even mentally added ‘lovers’ spat’ to my list of strategies on making a relationship seem more authentic. Still, I—”

Matt moves behind me, and though he doesn’t touch me, I can feel his closeness. “I don’t care that you acted unprofessionally. I care that I hurt you.”

“I was mad. That’s all,” I say, trimming the ends of the roses into the sink.

“That’s crap,” he says softly.

It is crap. But the last thing I want to do is revisit the pain that ripped through me that night. Or the fact that this man is the only person to ever elicit that kind of hurt.

I certainly don’t want to explore why that’s so.

“Is that what the flowers are for?” I ask, beginning to place the stems in the vase. “Apology flowers?”

“The first dozen are ‘I’m sorry’ flowers, yeah.”

I give him a look over my shoulder. “And the second?”

He comes around to my side, the heels of his hands braced on my kitchen counter as he watches me arrange the roses. “‘Favor’ flowers,” he says finally.

“Ah,” I say, stepping back and tilting my head to make sure my arrangement is even, before taking it to my kitchen table. “‘Favor’ flowers, also known as ‘buttering up’ flowers. Generally preceding a highly unpleasant request.”

“You have no idea,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair.

There’s something in his tone, a touch of vulnerability I’m not used to hearing from a man who usually has boundless energy and charm.

“What’s up?” I ask, sensing I need to be just a little bit careful with him.

He sucks in his cheeks for a moment, thinking. “Got anything to drink?”

“Of course.” I motion to the bar cart. “Or I have white wine in the fridge, red on the rack.”

He goes to the bar cart, selecting a bottle of Grey Goose. “You don’t keep this in the freezer?”

“I like the vodka to melt the ice just a little. I think the martini tastes better slightly diluted.”

He’s distracted, barely seems to hear me. “You want one?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got an open bottle of white in the fridge.”

He pours me a glass of wine first before going about the process of making himself a drink. Strange, how normal the sight of Matt Cannon fixing a martini in my apartment is starting to feel.

I wait until he’s dropped his lemon twist in the cocktail glass before nudging him again. “So . . . the favor?”

“Right.”

He takes a sip of the drink, his attention shifting to my phone, which is starting to buzz on the counter right next to him.

He glances at it when I don’t make a move to pick it up. “A Rochelle is calling. Are we answering?”

“We’re ignoring.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Are we talking about it?”

“We are not.”

He gives a faint smile, but I get the feeling my answer disappoints him. As though he was hoping I’d share more details.

I want to tell him that my hesitancy isn’t about him—that I don’t talk about my mother with anyone—but that’ll only derail the conversation from whatever it is he’s reluctant to talk about.

I wait.

“So, I’m hoping I can talk you into coming to a dinner with me on Saturday.”

“Um, sure?” I say, taking a drink of my wine. “That’s the deal, right? Up until the gala, I show up wherever you need me. And you’re well within the twenty-four-hour advance-notice requirement.” I smile. “You could have saved yourself the second dozen flowers.”

He doesn’t smile back. “You haven’t heard all of it yet.”