Twisted Love (Modern Romance #3) - Piper Lawson Page 0,64
to my office, tablet under my arm as I consider before typing back.
Daisy: Can’t.
Ben: Because…?
I sink into my chair, drumming my fingers on the desk.
Daisy: Because I lost a client.
The phone rings moments later, and I answer, “I don't want to talk.”
"Since when?"
“Since we went to see your mom and you shut down.”
“So… you are mad.”
The fact that Ben is the smartest guy I know and speaking as if he’s trying to do some new kind of calculus even he hasn’t mastered has me sighing.
“I'm not mad. Mad is what happens when a kid steals another kid’s markers. We’re adults, Ben.”
“Okay. So what are you?”
“Disappointed,” I admit. “With you, and with myself for being disappointed, because… I expected better from you. You asked me to go, and I was happy to go. For you, and your mom. But you acted as if I not only overstepped, but said something awful.”
He’s quiet a long time. "I fucked up. It was easier to shut you out than admit you were right. Holt and Tris had said some things that afternoon, and I lost it—”
“You let Holt and Tris determine how we are?” I cut him off. “The Ben I know doesn’t let anyone get to him.”
I picture him pacing his office, shoving a hand through his hair before he continues. “It never used to be like this. But lately, you get to me.”
My breath sticks in my throat. Not because of the words, or the frustration in them, but the vulnerability right beneath the surface.
It’s not enough to get to him. I want to affect him in good ways, not bad ones.
I study the cut on my hand, now nearly healed. Soon it’ll be gone, and maybe the closeness I thought we had at the Vineyard will be a memory, too.
“Tell me something good,” he says at last.
I shut my eyes. “Apparently I have two free hours later this afternoon that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
"That is something good. Do you want to know mine?”
“Not right now,” I say honestly.
“Mkay. Later,” he promises, and hangs up before I can protest.
An hour later, while I'm seeing if there's anything I can do to get that account back, Kendall asks, “Want anything from the café? I’m about to…” She looks past me toward the elevator, eyes widening. “Hold that thought.”
I follow her gaze to see a huge spray of flowers walk in the door. Or technically it’s being carried by a delivery man. I go to meet him, taking in the overwhelming riot of lush, bright pink flowers.
“Gerbera daisies,” I murmur, instructing him to set them on the glass table in our foyer. The delivery barely fits on the tabletop.
“Eight dozen,” he confirms.
Serena and Kendall come up behind me. “What’s going on?”
I open the card and huff out a breath.
"‘You're my something good. Ben,’" Kendall reads over my shoulder.
Oh boy. It’s sweet and romantic.
And eight dozen - that can’t be for the eight years we’ve been friends, can it? It’s almost obscenely thoughtful, and not at all like Ben.
The outrageous display and the message should have me rolling my eyes, but I don’t hate it.
Not even a little.
“What is that?” Rena points into the middle of the arrangement.
I peer into the flower stems toward the spot she’s indicating. Jet’s attached to one of the stems in the middle of the arrangement with a piece of ribbon that matches the daisies, along with a note.
Meet the car downstairs.
I should ignore it, but I’m wondering where it all leads. I’m curious what Ben’s idea of an apology is, and what he thinks he’s apologizing for.
Since I have a couple of hours free, I grab my bag and head downstairs.
The towncar is empty when I shift into the backseat, the driver navigating to a destination he refuses to divulge until we’re there.
I step out at the curb, casting my eyes up at the fanciest spa on the Upper East Side.
“Daisy,” the smiling, slender woman at the desk greets me. “We’re all ready for you. You have half an hour to relax before your treatments.”
I follow her to a private steam room with a huge bathtub. Floating on top of the water in the tub is a blow-up doll with a picture of Henry Cavill’s face taped to its head. Its hand rests on a bottle of tequila occupying the marble shelf behind the tub.
The feeling starts low in my stomach, bubbles up to my chest.
It’s a tingling, tickling warmth, and despite the fancy surroundings I can hold