Page 62 of The Stranger
Is he worried I’m going to want more from him now? Is that why he’s being standoffish? I’m not asking or expecting him to move me into his bedroom. Or to getdown on one knee and profess his undying love, for Christ’s sake.
Sure, I wouldn’t say no to a redo—I slept like a baby last night after those mind-blowing orgasms—but I will not be hurt or offended if he’s not interested. I completely understand the complexity of our current situation.
Just before ten, a delivery arrives … the biggest arrangement of flowers I’ve ever seen. I’m not kidding, it takes up half of my desk. There would be easily two hundred roses in the bouquet. It’s a combination of impressive and overkill. There are only two people I know who could afford something so extravagant, and both their names end in Prescott.
I can’t see why Eloise would send me flowers. I’ve dined with her before and received nothing the following day. They must be from Spencer.
But why?
Have I misread him?
I spy a small white envelope tucked into the side of the vase, and my hand slightly shakes as I retrieve it and remove the card inside. The burst of adrenaline that just shot through me evaporates the second I read what it says.
I’m sorry!
Spencer.
He is sorry?
For what?
For kissing me?
For letting me use his giant dick to get myself off?
You know what? Fuck this. I’m sick to death of being pushed aside and ignored by everyone. I deserve better. Ihadn’t wanted to bring this into work, but there’s no way I can sit through the entire day and not say something.
The card is still clutched in my trembling hand as I storm towards his office. I enter without knocking, and I can see the surprise in his eyes when he notices me approaching.
“What exactly are you sorry for?” I spit, tossing the card on his desk.
His eyes flicker down to it before moving back to me. “I take it you’re not a flower person?”
Ugh, this man is infuriating. “What are you sorry for?” I repeat through gritted teeth.
“Delilah.”
“Don’t you dare Delilah me, answer my question.”
He stands, rounds the desk, and walks towards his office door to close it. “I’m sorry for …”
“For what, Spencer? What happened last night? You could’ve been man enough and just said the words. You didn’t need to clean out the entire florist to prove your point.”
He turns and reopens the door, glancing out into the reception area. He mumbles some expletives under his breath, but I don’t quite catch them all from here.
Once he closes the door again, he retakes his seat.
“Sit,” he orders.
“I don’t want to sit,” I snap back.
“Sit down, Miss St. James,” he growls, and a shiver courses down my spine. I hate how my body responds to his gruff tone. At this moment, I may even hate him a little as well.
I lift my chin defiantly. “No!”
“If you want to act like a child, maybe I should treat you like one.”
“The answer would still be no.”
