ELLIOT
I sit in the bar and sip my Scotch. I went to work this morning, but left early.
Not in the mood for work today. Not in the mood for anything, really.
I have a lead ball in my stomach, one that isn’t going away. I screwed up on Saturday night . . . bad.
But in my defense, she’s fucking infuriating. Did she really think I would sit there all night and watch someone come on to her without consequence?
I glance at my watch, it’s 2 p. m. I haven’t heard from her and I know that I’m not going to.
Typical fucking Kathryn Landon, stubborn as all hell.
I go over my options: there aren’t any. I either have to grovel or kiss her goodbye. I know she isn’t going to come looking for me anytime soon.
I exhale heavily and scroll through my phone, find the number I’m looking for and give a disgusted shake of my head. This is a first, I’ve never done this before. I’m usually glad when they leave. Sucking up to a woman is a new kind of uncharted-territory hell.
“Hello, Park Avenue Florist,” the girl answers.
“Can I send some flowers as a matter of urgency please?”
“Sure. We can deliver that in an hour, where to?”
“Kathryn Landon, Miles Media building, level ten.”
“What would you like to send?”
“Ummmm.” I think for a moment. “What would you suggest for . . . to get out of . . .”
“An apology?”
“Yes.”
“Well, how big an apology do you need?”
“Pretty big.” I roll my eyes. “The biggest you’ve got.”
“Okay, so red roses?”
“I guess.”
“A dozen.”
I frown. “Umm . . . stubborn kind of woman.”
“Four dozen?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Okay, and what do you want the card to say.”
“Hmm.” I think for a moment. “Maybe just, ‘I’m sorry.'”
That’s so lame.
“Okay.” I can hear her typing. “Four dozen red roses and ‘I’m sorry’ on the card.”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
I frown as I think; I really should come up with something witty but I can’t think straight when she’s angry with me. “‘Love, Elliot.'”
Damn her.
She’s got me by the balls, and she fucking knows it.
“So, ‘I’m sorry, love Elliot’?” she asks as she checks the details.
“Yes. Can you call me as soon as they’ve been delivered, please?”
“Of course, sir.” I pay her with my credit card and I hang up and wait.
An hour and four glasses of Scotch later, my phone rings. “Yes.”
“The roses have been delivered, sir.”
“Did she receive them?”
“Yes, signed for them herself.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and roll my lips; this could go either way. I dial Kate’s number.
“Yes,” she answers.
I clench my jaw at the sound of her voice. She wants to fight. “Hello Kathryn.”
“What do you want, Elliot?”
“I . . .” I hesitate as I think what to say. “I wanted to see if you got your roses.”
“I did, thank you. However, there aren’t enough roses on earth to make up for your behavior.”
I roll my eyes. Did she even read the fucking card? “I’m sorry.”
She stays silent.
“I acted appallingly and I regret it.”
She stays silent.
“But in my defense, this could have been easily avoided. Why didn’t you just tell him that you had a boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, Elliot, you have made that quite clear.”
“Well, maybe you do,” I spit.
I scrunch up my face. Shit.
“Well, maybe my boyfriend is a fucking idiot.”
“It’s possible.”
“And maybe he better get his act together or else he’s getting dumped.”
I smirk. “Maybe you should be quiet now?”
“Don’t shush me, Elliot, and so help me God if you fucking ever flirt with someone in another language in front of me again-”
I cut her off. “You know I was only doing it to make you jealous.”
“It didn’t work.”
I can tell she’s smiling, I’ve nearly got her. “Maybe a little.”
“Elliot,” she snaps. “I swear to God, if you ever pull a stunt like that again . . .”
“Did you miss me last night?” I ask. “Because I missed you.”
“No, and I’m very busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Putting your roses through the shredder.”
I chuckle, I wouldn’t put it past her. “I have an art auction tonight, I’ll come over after.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll just see you tomorrow night.”
I sip my Scotch. I don’t want to get off the phone, this damn woman has me like a puppy. “Am I forgiven?” I ask.
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Elliot. I’ll think about it.”
I smile and I know that I am.
I hear someone talk to her in her office. “Who are they from?”
“My boyfriend,” she replies.
I wince . . . fuck . . . boyfriend, how did that happen? Slipped that one in under the radar, didn’t she?
“Call me later.” She sighs.
“Okay.” I hang on the line.
“Goodbye Elliot.” She hangs up and I smile into my glass.
Mission accomplished.
I stare at the painting on the easel in front of me.