Page 222 of Love in Riverbend
“Do not answer.”
I can’t get the note out of my head. I shouldn’t have answered his call to my office. I sure as hell shouldn’t have agreed to help him. Standing in front of my closet, I’m contemplating canceling tomorrow night’s dinner. Why should I care if he gets a job at Parker and Stevens? The longer I stare at my small stash of cocktail dresses, the more appealing the idea of canceling is to me. After all, if he gets the job, I’ll see him more often. Going to one dinner was about as masochistic as I get. Daily interactions would be too much.
Closing the closet door, I settle on my decision.
No cocktail dress.
No formal dinner at the Hotel Carmichael.
No more Ricky Dunn—ever.
The simple decision eases some of the throbbing in my temples.
In the bathroom, I turn on the water in my bathtub. The tub is one of my favorite features in my apartment. It’s deep, with claw feet, and perfect for soaking. At the vanity, I wash away the day’s makeup, noticing the puffiness around my eyes.
“No more,” I say to my reflection. “Never again.”
My reflection agrees, giving me a sturdy smile in response. Grabbing a hair tie, I secure my long hair on top of my head in a messy bun. Next, in the kitchen, I find a half-finished bottle of Moscato near the back of my refrigerator and pour a healthy glass.
Back in the bathroom, the air is warm and heavy with humidity from the hot water filling the tub. Setting the glass down on the table near the tub, I begin to shed my clothes. The boots came off as soon as I entered the door of my apartment. Now, the blouse, slacks, and my bra are littering the bathroom floor. I’m about to push down my underwear when the buzzer rings. It’s the buzzer for the intercom from the ground floor.
My thoughts immediately go to deliveries. While I contemplated a pity order to Uber Eats, I didn’t do it. Is there something I’m forgetting? If there is, I don’t want the delivery man to leave it on the stoop all night.
I turn off the running water, grab my robe from the hook, and tie the sash as I tread toward the front door and the intercom. “Hello?” I say into the box on the wall.
“Can I come up?”
I jump away from the box, startled by the voice coming through the speaker. Bravely moving forward, I press the button. “No. And you saved me a text message. I’m unable to attend the partner dinner tomorrow night. Don’t call. I won’t answer.”
“Marilyn, please?”
“Goodbye, Ricky. Good luck with whatever life has for you.”
“I brought you something.”
Shaking my head, I straighten my neck. “Leave it or take it. I don’t care.”
“It’s cold out here, but it could still melt.”
Melt?
Ricky speaks next. “I found caramel ice cream at Graeter’s. Thankfully, they’re open late.”
New tears prick my eyes. “Go to the dinner alone. Be honest with the partners.”
“I don’t care about the dinner. Please let me up. It’s freezing out here, especially holding a pint of ice cream.”
In place of answering, I push the button to unlock the main door. It’s at that moment that I realize I’m wearing a short satin robe that barely covers my ass. My boobs are free and not truly restrained by the small robe. And that doesn’t even take into account my messy bun and makeup-free face.
Well, fuck him.
Less than a minute later, there’s a knock on my door. A quick peek through the peephole confirms who is outside. From this view, I can’t tell if he really has caramel ice cream, but if he does, that’s great. I’ll eat it with my wine in the bathtub.
Unlocking the dead bolt, I pull open the door a few inches. My first instinct is to look for the ice cream. The pint is there in his bare hands. His coat is unzipped, and he’s still filling out the jeans and button-down shirt as well as he did earlier at the restaurant. The only thing missing from before is his smile.
“May I please come in?”
Keeping the door from opening farther with my foot, I extend my hand. “I’ll take the ice cream, and you can leave.”
