Please . . . just go.
Ten minutes later, I hear his door slam, peer through the crack in the curtains, and watch the car slowly pull away. Relief fills me and I drop onto my bed. “Ugh,” I fume. “What a fucking asshole.”
Chapter 20
ELLIOT
I sit in the bar and sip my Scotch. I went to work this morning, but left early.
Not in the mood for work today. Not in the mood for anything, really.
I have a lead ball in my stomach, one that isn’t going away. I screwed up on Saturday night . . . bad.
But in my defense, she’s fucking infuriating. Did she really think I would sit there all night and watch someone come on to her without consequence?
I glance at my watch, it’s 2 p.m. I haven’t heard from her and I know that I’m not going to.
Typical fucking Kathryn Landon, stubborn as all hell.
I go over my options: there aren’t any. I either have to grovel or kiss her goodbye. I know she isn’t going to come looking for me anytime soon.
I exhale heavily and scroll through my phone, find the number I’m looking for and give a disgusted shake of my head. This is a first, I’ve never done this before. I’m usually glad when they leave. Sucking up to a woman is a new kind of uncharted-territory hell.
“Hello, Park Avenue Florist,” the girl answers.
“Can I send some flowers as a matter of urgency please?”
“Sure. We can deliver that in an hour, where to?”
“Kathryn Landon, Miles Media building, level ten.”
“What would you like to send?”
“Ummmm.” I think for a moment. “What would you suggest for . . . to get out of . . .”
“An apology?”
“Yes.”
“Well, how big an apology do you need?”
“Pretty big.” I roll my eyes. “The biggest you’ve got.”
“Okay, so red roses?”
“I guess.”
“A dozen.”
I frown. “Umm . . . stubborn kind of woman.”
“Four dozen?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Okay, and what do you want the card to say.”
“Hmm.” I think for a moment. “Maybe just, ‘I’m sorry.’”
That’s so lame.
“Okay.” I can hear her typing. “Four dozen red roses and ‘I’m sorry’ on the card.”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
I frown as I think; I really should come up with something witty but I can’t think straight when she’s angry with me. “‘Love, Elliot.’”
Damn her.
She’s got me by the balls, and she fucking knows it.
“So, ‘I’m sorry, love Elliot’？” she asks as she checks the details.
“Yes. Can you call me as soon as they’ve been delivered, please?”
“Of course, sir.” I pay her with my credit card and I hang up and wait.
An hour and four glasses of Scotch later, my phone rings. “Yes.”
“The roses have been delivered, sir.”