Page 62 of Whiskey Splash

“Here,” he says, pulling something else out of his grocery bag. “This might help with the smell.” He lays a bouquet of flowers down next to the ice cream, only they aren’t just flowers, they’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!

“Fucking peonies!” I exclaim, and his face drops.

“Wait. I thought you liked peonies?”

“I do!”

What is wrong with him? Why couldn’t he bring me some cheap drug-store carnations dyed a ridiculous color like blue? Why did he have to go to some bloody farmers market and get a fresh-cut bouquet of my favorite fucking flowers wrapped in craft paper like a damn prince?! I pick them up and stuff my face in them, because I have to! Because they’re too gorgeous. Because they smell like bloody sunshine and gloriousness. I think I may even moan—because I have no decorum when it comes to peonies—which my sister knows, the wench.

“Glad you like ‘em,” Desmond says, and I look up to see him beaming.

“I hate them!” I snap.

“I can tell.”

“I’m sure your assistant bought these.”

“Absolutely,” he nods. “I would never take the time to go hand-pick flowers for someone who hung up the phone on me when I was trying to apologize.”

“I get awkward!”

“I know.”

“You realize that buying a girl flowers is what you do when you’re trying to apologize for something awful you’ve done, like forgetting an anniversary or cheating on your wife,” I snap.

“Well, I wouldn’t say it was that bad,” Desmond says, not giving me an inch. “I’ll admit, the photo part was crap, but the rest was the kind of evening that’ll make a guy never want to cheat in his life.”

Our eyes lock and I can’t take it, his gaze is way too hot, way too sweet. What the hell is he actually saying? I bury my face in the peonies instead.

“I’m glad you hate those,” he says, and I don’t dare look at him.

“They’re hideous.”

“I should probably just throw them away.”

“If you put these flowers in the trash, I will cut you!” I sass, breathing in the soft floral aroma and hoping there’s some hallucinogenic agent present that might make me forget this whole embarrassing event.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you had an entire bunker of weapons in that blanket … or cocoon … or caterpillar outfit.” He motions to my spaghetti tangle of sheets.

“What? Comforter couture hasn’t hit the mainland yet?” I joke.

“You’re ahead of the curve.”

“Oh no, it’s perfect for those extra special moments when hot men show up unannounced in your bedroom. A girl never wants to get caught looking frumpy or ridiculous!” I glare at him knowing that’s exactly how I look, vowing to pummel my sister for not even hinting that I should take a shower this morning.

“I’ll admit,” he says, pulling something else out of his grocery bag. “You definitely look better in this.”

He pulls out a hanger with a dress and holds it up. I flush and I’m certain my ears just burned off my head. It’s my dress from our date. The one I ran around into the rain wearing, the one I left on his terrace. It’s been dry cleaned and the elegant capped sleeves ruffle softly in the sunlight from my window, the tiny polka dots shimmering.

He holds it out, offering it to me and I swallow hard, the blankets around me an inferno, baking me raw. It’s horrifying to have to accept something I tore off so shamelessly, way too eager to press my naked skin against his. A sideways smile creeps up his cheek and he knows what I’m thinking, the image of me, bold and depraved, burned into both of our memories.

I try to hold it together and act like this isn’t a big deal as I take the dress. It’s totally normal to accept your discarded clothing from a movie star. I grip the hanger, letting the blankets burn me up as I attempt to casually hook the garment onto the back of the chair next to my bed. But then—

I see my bra and thong. They’re both dry and clean, folded neatly in a plastic bag attached to the hanger.

Are you kidding?! Desmond had to pick those up too? Not just my dress, but my lacy undergarments?

My hand wobbles.

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