Page 27 of Love Me Tomorrow

Bouquet tucked under one arm, I tear open this next envelope and sweep open the card with my thumb.

Her message is simple, a taunting tease as much as it is throwing down the gauntlet for me to pick up:

I’ll be at the office all day. Fourth floor. Suite 402. I’ll bring my wits as long as you promise to bring an open mind. Yrs, The Woman Behind the Obnoxiously Annoying Rose Delivery.

Pressure builds at my temples, and the plastic wrap around the roses crinkles loudly under my armpit as I shove open the front door and holler at Gage to lock up behind me.

Savannah thinks she’s got the upper hand in our little situation.

She may have struck the first match, but she sure as hell isn’t going to win the war.

8

Savannah

Moaning filters through the conference room.

Male moaning, female moaning, hell, I’m pretty sure even our office cat—Pablo—gives a beseechingmeowas we all dig into the steaming crawfish dumplings set out before us.

“Dufrene,” says Jorge, ERRG’s social media manager and IT guru, “you are a god.”

At the head of the twelve-person table, Jean sits like a king. One booted foot hiked up on the edge of the table, elbow propped up on his bent knee, his Saints hat askew on his head like a jaunty crown. “What was that, Jorge?” Jean prompts, tapping his ear. His chair creaks as he leans forward. “You said I’m a . . . what?”

Cheeks stuffed full, Jorge grumbles something unintelligible.

“That’s right,” my head chef says, snapping his fingers, “agod. And you doubted me for wanting to do a Cajun-style twist on steamed dumplings.”

Shamelessly, I scrape my fork across the porcelain plate, then lick the aioli sauce off the tines. I swear my heart gives a little flutter of satisfaction. Thing is, when it comes to food, Jean Dufreneisa god. He started off as a sous-chef seven or eight years ago with Rose & Thorn, our flagship restaurant, but it didn’t take long for him to catch Dad’s attention. Once that happened, any hope Dufrene had of not moving up the ranks—he’d initially only planned to remain in Louisiana for another year before moving to Atlanta with his then-girlfriend—was sliced and diced. He’s been with us ever since. Cocky. Confident. And clearly determined to rub it in Jorge’s face that he’s the best food mastermind we’ve ever had.

Granted, I’m pretty sure Jorge only talks smack so that Jean will feel compelled to show up to the office with bite-sized samples of all the new items going on our menus.

Truly, their bromance is legendary.

Eyeing the second dumpling set before me, it takes every bit of self-control to not eat it. Instead, I reach for my bottled water and crack the cap open. “What’s the timeline for getting these moving at Rosalie?”

Dufrene shoots me one of his arrogant grins. No surprise, a few of my female coworkers squirm in their chairs. “By the weekend rush, at the latest. I’m confident that—”

The door to the conference room swings open and Georgie pokes her head through. Her gaze immediately lands on me. “You missed a call on line one.”

“Ever hear of knocking, Harris?”

Georgie nudges the door wider, turning slightly so she can eyeball Jean where he sits. “Ever hear of manners, Dufrene?”

Usually, I’d let the two of them banter it out—free entertainment, ladies and gents—but not right now. Not today. Not after I special-ordered over a hundred roses to be hand-delivered to Inked on Bourbon, all in the effort of prompting Owen from his cave. The man is the most self-contained person I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something coming fromme.

Licking my lips, I pretend to be sidetracked and nonplussed by scratching outMeet About Menu Additionfrom my calendar’s to-do list. “Did they leave a name?”

Georgie shakes her head. “No.”

Disappointment has me gripping my pen a little tighter. Probably a random caller then—someone on staff needing a day off or one of my managers wanting to gripe about the host not showing up for a shift again. Those sorts of issues are supposed to go through a chain of command, but I still end up with a handful of them every day.

Maybe Owen hasn’t seen the roses yet?

Maybe. Unlikely.

The thought of him avoiding me forever churns my stomach in a way that feels like it should come with a DANGEROUS THOUGHTS label attached.

Reaching up to tug at her curls, Georgie shifts her weight, door still propped open by her hip. “He, ah, said he would be here in time for your appointment.”

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