My gut squeezes, and I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my pajama pants. “It’s way too soon to tell.”
“Do you like him—the real him?”
“I think so. He’s funny, charming, and a really good kisser. Like, textbook good.”
“Hold up. You kissed him?” She slaps my shin. “Way to bury the lead!”
“I know. I still can’t believe it.” My stomach flutters at the memory of kissing him… for real. “What about you? What did you do tonight?”
“I had that panel, remember?”
I smack my forehead. “Duh. How did it go?”
“Ugh.” She flops her head onto my mattress before propping herself into a sitting position. “It was a testosterone-filled cluster. I was the only woman on the panel, and the men would not shut up. Even when the moderator asked me a question, they felt the need to chime in and talk over me. If it wasn’t for Marcus being there, I would have screamed.”
“Hold up, Marcus was there?”
“Yeah. He showed up halfway through.”
“Oh really?” I shimmy my shoulders.
“It’s not like that. We’re just friends. I told him about the conference the other day, and he swung by after his shift.”
“I see.” Looks like I’m not the only one with an admirer. “Well, I’m sorry I missed it.”
Yawning so wide her jaw cracks, she glides off the bed and ambles to the door. “You can make it up to me with brunch tomorrow.”
“For sure. Then I want a play-by-play of the entire panel.”
“Only if I get a play-by-play of your smooch with Devin.” She makes kissy noises as she backs out of my room. I toss a throw pillow at her, but she blocks it with my door. “Good night,” she calls, eyes twinkling.
“Night.”
Once my door is closed, I burrow under the covers. Rolling over, I reach for my bedside lamp, but pause. My sketchbook glimmers in a pool of light on my nightstand. Scooting higher in bed, I open it on my lap. Page after page of familiar Devin drawings stare back at me.
I study the detailed curve of his eyebrow in one of the close-up portraits. No scar. I flip through more pages. None of my drawings of Devin show him with a scar. Shoving the sketchbook into the drawer of my nightstand, I click off the light and snuggle deeper into bed.
How could I know things about Devin like where he went to college, his favorite food, and the sports he plays, but not remember him having a scar on his face? What else about him don’t I know?
And how much about him do I have wrong?
I guess I’ll just have to spend more time with him to find out.
The following Monday begins with a flurry of work emails and a brand-new assignment from Andréa: drafting a letter for a corporate client summarizing our legal advice for averting a potential class action lawsuit. I’m so busy I barely notice when my office phone rings around eleven.
I pick up the receiver. “Cass Walker.”
“Hey, Cass. It’s David from reception. You have a delivery at the front desk whenever you have a sec.” He pauses. “Hot tip? You’ll want to pick this one up immediately… before it wilts,” he adds meaningfully.
My cheeks flush. “Oh! Okay, thanks. I’ll be right there.”
I hang up the phone and stare at it for several seconds. “Before it wilts…” Did someone send me flowers? Could they be from Devin?
Standing so quickly my chair spins, I double-time it to the elevator. Devin and I texted for over an hour yesterday, talking about our weekends, favorite Netflix shows—his, Making a Murderer; mine, Jane the Virgin—among other generally cutesy, getting-to-know-you chitchat. I never would have guessed he was planning to send me flowers as a preamble to our first official date tomorrow.
By the time the elevator deposits me in the lobby, my smile is so big my cheeks ache. But then I catch sight of the person standing in front of the reception desk, and I freeze. It’s not Devin.
Perry is in the lobby, and he’s holding a small vase of purple irises.
He looks a lot better than he did in the Uber on Friday, I’ll give him that. His hair is neatly combed, and his expression is clear and no longer glassy-eyed. This Perry, the one standing before me, is the Perry from the first day we met: worn jeans, shy smile, and pollen-streaked T-shirt. He waves when he sees me.
On the corner of David’s desk is an enormous bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. I swallow hard. Are those for me?
“Perry, hi,” I say when I reach David’s desk. “What are you doing here?”