“Guess you put out last night?” Indie spun herself around in my ergonomically correct swivel chair. I dropped my bags on the floor and glanced at the beautiful arrangement of flowers sitting in the middle of my desk.

“Where did those come from?”

She lifted the small florist’s card in her hand. “Cityscape Florists. Delivered them just before you walked in.”

“I need to run to the ladies’ room. Why don’t you make yourself at home? Oh, wait. You already have.” I stashed my purse in a drawer, tossed my cell on the desk and eyed the brown paper bag that I assumed contained the breakfast Indie had brought us. “I hope it’s something greasy . . . I need it this morning.”

When I returned to my office, Indie was talking on my cell phone. “Here she comes now. The flowers are beautiful, by the way.” She extended my cell with a cheeky grin.

“Hello.”

“Morning.” Brody’s voice was laced with morning huskiness. “What kind of flowers were delivered?”

I looked at the arrangement. “Roses. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“Unoriginal.”

“Pardon?”

“What asswipe sends a woman like you ordinary roses?”

“You mean . . . they’re not from you?”

“No. And the guy who sent them had his secretary send that crap and didn’t give it any thought. Probably has an account at the florist and a standard order. Guy’s a dick.”

“You don’t even know who they’re from. I don’t even know who they’re from. Yet you know he’s a dick?”

“I do.”

“Because the flowers are roses?”

“Yep. Dick. I’m sure of it.”

I chuckled. “Your assessment is amusing. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when I actually get to read the card and find out who the sweet gesture is from.”

“Sweet gesture.” He guffawed. “That’s not what you really want, and you know it.”

After eight hours of tossing and turning in my bed last night, I was beginning to think he was right. As much as I hated to admit it, I’d thought about Brody an awful lot after he left last night. Replaying our conversation over and over about why I couldn’t have sex without a relationship, I’d begun to doubt myself. Maybe there was nothing wrong with having sex with a man I was attracted to. Why did I need to tie in some sort of commitment to enjoy the physical benefits of a sexual relationship? I was twenty-six years old—there was nothing wrong with sex just being about sex if that was what I wanted.

“Did you call for a reason other than to tell me what I want, Mr. Easton?”

He groaned.

“What?”

“I like the way ‘Mr. Easton’ sounds coming from your mouth.” He groaned again.

“What?”

“Now I’m thinking of your mouth.”

I laughed. “You’re not very good at this friend thing, are you?”

“Told you that you’d be the first. It’s harder than I thought.”

“I bet it is.”

“Are you flirting back with me, friend?”

“You have my head spinning. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m not even sure what you called for yet.”

“Shit. Okay. Yeah. Right. I want the interview done in my hotel suite.”

“Your hotel suite?”

“Don’t sound so worried. You’ll have a crew with you. I can’t attack you in front of them.”

“That’s true.”

“I’ll have to wait until they leave.”

I was still standing next to my desk, so I hitched a thumb at Indie to tell her to get out of my chair. “What day?”

“Saturday. Late afternoon. Our game is home on Sunday, so we have practice until two.”

“How about five?”

“Works for me.”

“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you doing this. My boss is going to be thrilled. And he’s pretty much always miserable, so that’s saying something.”

“Glad I can help.”

“I’ll messenger over advance questions by tomorrow night.”

“Actually, why don’t you bring them, and we can do a dry run.”

“At your hotel?”

“Afraid you can’t control yourself?”

“Of course not.” Maybe.

“Seven. I’ll order dinner up.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and Delilah?”

“Yes?”

“You can leave your grandmother’s clothes at home. It’s not going to stop me from wanting to fuck you up against the wall.”

The phone disconnected, leaving me with my mouth hanging open. When I finally regained my wits, I held my hand out to Indie, palm up. She placed the small florist’s card in it.

Delilah. These don’t smell half as good as you. Michael Langley.

“Who are they from?”

“I shouldn’t even tell you after you just did that on the phone.”

“What? I assumed they were from Brody. You went out with him last night, and he was calling first thing this morning.”

“Well, you assumed wrong.”

“Bet Brody was jealous.”

“I don’t think so.”

Indie plucked the card from my hand. She read it and scrunched up her nose. “Michael Langley.”

“What? He’s a nice guy. We talked at the fundraiser. We have a lot in common.”

“You know what he’s missing?”

“What?”

“He’s not Brody Easton.”

“I think you should go out with Brody Easton.”

“I would. But I follow girl code.”

“Girl code?”

“You don’t sleep with men your best friend wants to do the dirty with.”

“I do not want to do the dirty with him.”

“Do too.”

There was no point in arguing with her. “Did you at least bring me something good for breakfast?”

“Two eggs over easy, bacon and cheese.”

“Thank God.”

“If you had slept with Easton, you wouldn’t need crappy food this morning. You’d be wanting yogurt or some other stupid healthy food.”

“So sleeping with Easton is actually healthy, then? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Absolutely.”

Later in the afternoon, I searched the company directory for Michael Langley’s telephone number. His secretary answered on the second ring.

“Michael Langley’s office.”

“Hi. This is Delilah Maddox. Is Michael available?”

“Oh, hi Delilah. No. Actually, he’s out at a meeting this afternoon. Can I take a message?”

“Sure. Can you . . . ” Brody’s comment replayed in my head. “Actually, I was calling to thank him for sending some flowers. But I probably should actually be thanking you. I’m sure he had you send the beautiful arrangement that came today.”

“I can’t take all the credit. He did tell me what to put on the card.” She chuckled, innocently acknowledging something that shouldn’t have mattered. Yet, it did for some reason.

“Well, thank you, and please let him know I called to thank him as well.”

“I’ll let him know.”

I sat in my office, staring out into space for a while after I hung up. A knock at the door startled me.

“Delilah Maddox?”

“Yes?” The deliveryman held a large white box wrapped with a giant blue-and-yellow bow. Long-stem roses now?

“These are for you.”

He placed the box on my desk and left. I slipped off the bow, taking note that the colors were the Steel team colors. Unwrapping the white tissue paper inside, I expected to find a dozen long-stem roses. Instead, the box was filled with long sticks—tree branches—a dozen or so, tied by a bow that matched the one on the outside. The card that accompanied the delivery was in Brody’s handwriting. I recognized it from the message he’d left me on the footballs.

In case you want to make s'mores.

Thinking of you. ~Brody

(P.S. The thoughts are dirty)