Page 71 of The False Flat

“Hi. I hope I’m not disturbing.”

Disturbing what? My day? My life? My sense of reason?

For five days, five days, I’d been agonizing over that rain-drenched, amazingly romantic, incredibly foolish color-ride kiss. I was also working very hard to get Grant back into the “friend” category inside my mind. I certainly wasn’t ready for him to be this close, in my office, holding a bouquet wrapped in white tissue and making me want to run over to him and do it all again.

Erin’s eyebrows bobbed up and down behind Grant’s back. We were sharing my office—she had a desk in the corner—until we could figure out something more permanent, and if she hadn’t been awesome at her job, I would’ve fired her for the smugness perched on her face.

“Grant, what are you doing in my office?” And why was Erin shutting the door? For Elaine’s sake, I couldn’t be alone with this man. Hell, for my own sake. For Grant’s sake! I couldn’t be trusted. “Do you want me to take a look at your investments?”

I calmed a fraction, even as I felt my face darken. Because of course that was it. He was here for my expertise, not me.

“Yes,” he said.

I’d just told myself that was why he was here, but even so, disappointment sidled up next to me.

“Well, great. I wish I’d known you were coming. I would’ve put something together. I have generic packets here.” I patted the tidy, metal and vintage wood letter tray on the right side of my desk. My life and home weren’t organized, but my desk always was. Numbers demanded organization. Papers with numbers on them demanded organization. “But if I’d known . . .”

“That’s okay. It was a spontaneous decision. These are for you, by the way.”

I took the extended flowers, held them stiffly like a delivery boy.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of guy to leave your finances up to chance.”

Something smelled amazing. Sure, Grant, but this was something more. I looked at the flowers, which on closer inspection . . . “Are these . . . cookies?” They were definitely cookies, little, flat heavenly disks wrapped at the bottom with tissue paper so the baked goods looked like they were blooming. He’d brought me a bouquet of cookies.

Damn this man.

He nodded. “I thought I remembered you saying your two favorites were chocolate chip and snickerdoodles. The snickerdoodles are on the bottom.”

He’d cozied himself into one of the chairs across from me. He was enclosed in my office—even if the doors were glass and Erin was unabashedly spying with googly eyes. He filled the space with the smell of the outdoors and chocolate chip cookies. It made me want to ride and eat, but not eat now because my stomach was doing the Macarena. “You’re perfect. I mean . . . they’re perfect.” Just stop talking, Pen. “Thank you,” I concluded, then surprised myself by adding, “I should probably put these in some milk.”

He laughed, and I was stunned that I’d made an applicable joke during such duress.

“So, tell me why you’re here. My investing expertise, obviously, but what’s your goal? How much are we investing, and do you have a preconceived direction for these funds?” I was comfortable again. I grabbed a new-client folder and walked my fingers along the pages until I got to my favorite, the one with all the colorful lines, the one that said, Do you understand this complicated graph? I do.

“I was thinking more about a time investment.”

The sheet of paper fluttered back and forth as I pulled it into the air. It was as confused as I was.

“A time investment?”

“Yeah. And less a question of where to place my time, and more of where I’d like you to.”

I put the colorful graph face down on my desk. A black-and-white chart stared up at me. I crossed my hands over the graph and stared at him.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not a subtle guy. I know there’s a way to do these things, but I don’t care. I’ve learned it’s important to go after what I want, conventions aside.”

My mouth had gone dry. He wasn’t saying . . . “And you want . . .”

“You. I want you.”

I blinked. I stared. I counted to seven.

“But . . . but. Elaine.” Had I misheard him? Was this one of those times when words had come out of his mouth, but I’d heard what I wanted to hear instead of what he’d actually said? Maybe he’d said he wanted two of something. Or he wanted to chew something. I needed to breathe.

“Do you remember the color ride, when we were out in the rain?”