Page 89 of Torrid Love
“Oh, please, you don’t need it. You have mad skills and talent coming out of your yin yang.”
I blush even though she can’t see me.
“Is your boss asking you to do his dirty laundry?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you calling me because Rod has a request, but instead of picking up the phone, he’s going through you?”
I haven’t heard from him since I left him standing there at the studio yesterday afternoon. It’s weird. We’ve talked or texted each other every day since we became best friends. Even when he was traveling, we’d still be in touch.
“Nah. The boss was at an offsite meeting until half an hour ago. I’m calling because someone has a not-so-secret admirer.”
“You lost me.”
“As Rod was walking into the office, this delivery guy holding the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen in my entire life was also entering the building. Said bouquet, had your name on it.”
“Flowers for me?”
“Not just any flowers. We’re talking top of the line. Primo. The best of the best. And the sender is pretty cute, if you ask my opinion.”
I guess they aren’t from Rod.
“Are you going to enlighten me?”
“So it’s true?”
I expect her to elaborate, but she doesn’t.
“What’s true?”
“You’re seeing, Joel. I guess last night’s date went really, really, really well.”
“It was just dinner.”
“These stunning flowers say otherwise,” she argues. “Soooo… you guys are really dating. Wow.”
The woman is relentless when she’s trying to get to the bottom of something.
“This is LA… the land of smoke and mirrors. Just because I shared a meal with a guy doesn’t mean anything more.”
“Oh, come on, you can tell me. I won’t tell a soul,” she cajoles.
“My lips are sealed,” I mock.
“You’re no fun. In any case, your maybe-boyfriend—”
“You’re impossible!”
“What? You’re not giving me much of a choice than to come to my own conclusions and we all know how dangerous that can be.” I laugh. “As I was saying, Joel sent you a spectacular arrangement from Eric Buterbaugh on Melrose Ave. He’s been voted––five years in a row––top florist in the city by voop.com. I don’t care much about Gail Valtrow, but her blog is pretty addicting. In any case, your maybe-boyfriend selected the Parisian Flair arrangement—all white flowers with a few anemones here and there. The monochromatic color schematic is stylish—like you.”
She sounds like a professional commentator.
“I’m grateful, but Joel knows my studio is next door. Why would he have the flowers delivered at Pending Inference’s studio?”
“I think your maybe-boyfriend is sending a not-so-subtle message to your bestfriend.”
I didn’t see that one coming.
