He extricated himself from the conversation and punched in Elinor’s number. Her roommate, Mimi, picked up the phone. Loud, incoherent music pulsed in the background. “Who is it?” Mimi shrieked.
“Elinor’s brother. May I speak to her?”
“Elinor’s brother? Like, which one? The bodaciously cute one, or the uptight, stuffed-shirt one?”
“The stuffed-shirt one,” he specified, with weary patience.
“Yo, Ellie!” Mimi screeched. Duncan winced and held the phone away from his ear. “It’s your bro. The stuffed-shirt one.” Mimi listened, and said, “She’s coming. Hang on.” There was a clunk. Duncan leaned back in his chair, started to shrug off his coat, and stopped. The SIG.
Shit. He had to keep it on, sweat and all. He stuck his hand in his pocket and gasped at the soft, silky texture that assaulted his hand.
Petals. He jerked his hand out, startled. Rose petals scattered all over the desk, his chair, his lap, the floor.
He laughed out loud, causing a graphic designer and a junior accountant to peer through his open door, eyes big. They probably thought he was losing it. Maybe he was, he thought, with delirious glee.
“Hello? Hello?”
He yanked his attention back to the telephone. “It’s Duncan.”
“Hi.” Elinor sounded guarded. “Did Mother tell you to call?”
Duncan paused for a second. “Well—”
“Your job is to convince me to change my major back to econ. Consider my retirement plan, split-level suburban home, SUV, and cemetery plot, right? Not! Forget it. I’m going to follow my dreams!”
“I think that’s great,” Duncan said.
There was an uncertain pause. Elinor pressed on. “You can’t make me change my mind. I’ve got what it takes to—”
“Of course you do,” he agreed.
There was a confused silence from Elinor. “What?”
“You’ll be great. Go for it. Give it your best shot.”
Elinor was stupefied. “You’re not being sarcastic, are you?”
Duncan sifted petals through his fingers. “Am I such an ogre?”
“I was just wondering if, you know, an alien took over your body.”
“Hah.” He buried his nose in the petals. Like Nell’s skin.
“Mother’s gonna kill you,” Elinor predicted cheerfully.
“No doubt,” he agreed. He said good-bye and hung up, staring at the crimson mass of rose petals. His helium balloon reinflated, floating him up off his chair. He was done being the official wet blanket of the family. He entered the number of the cell he’d given Nell, and fingered a petal while it rang, savoring the agony of anticipation.
“Hello?” came her sweet, musical voice.
“I found the petals,” he announced.
In her pause, he could actually feel her smiling that secret little smile that drove him wild. “And? I hope they didn’t embarrass you.”
“Nothing could embarrass me today.”
There was a shy silence. “Um, Duncan? I’m sort of in the middle of the lunch rush, so could we—”
“Do rose petals go bad, like vegetables, or do they dry out?”
“They dry out,” Nell said. “Do you think I would have filled your pockets with something that turns to slime?”
He ignored that, grinning. “I can’t wait for six o’clock.”
“Me neither,” Nell whispered. “Bye.”
She broke the connection, and Duncan laid down the phone.
He tried to concentrate. He really did. But the urgent, pressing, serious business that grimly occupied him on any other normal day seemed so much less important today. So much less interesting. The only things that engaged him were conversations with Gant and his buddy Braxton, another ex-agent from the old days who had a security outfit. He arranged for Nell’s apartment to be bug swept that day.
He called Nell so often, she started to snap at him and hang up, but always with laughter in her voice. He’d never been the type who had any luck making girls laugh before. He finally understood why guys worked so hard at it. It was irresistible. He would do any crazy thing to get that gurgle of laughter out of her.
Meetings, conference calls. Seconds ticked by, heavily, laboriously. His employees were acting strange. Whispering conversations, cut off when he walked by. Smothered bursts of laughter. Bruce had a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
At ten to five p.m., he gave in to it. It was an hour early, but he wasn’t getting diddly-shit done here. He might as well go to the Sunset, park his ass, and make damn sure she didn’t leave the place alone.
She was scheduled to work three hours on the game texts with Bruce, from six until nine. Too much, with a long shift of waitressing behind her. She pushed herself too hard. He might insist that she cut out early. They could get dinner before they met her sisters at that pub.
He found a good parking spot not far from the Grill and went in, heart thudding. There she was, swathed in her orange apron, hair twisted up and corkscrewing around her face. She looked tired, harassed.
And freaking drop-dead beautiful.
She glanced over and ran into a table. He was with her in two steps, steadying her tray. She pulled back, spilling half a bowl of French onion soup. “Thanks, I can manage. What are you doing here?”
“It’s a restaurant, right? Don’t I have the right to come in here?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry,” she said, biting her lower lip. “The tables are full. You can wait fifteen minutes, or you can sit at the counter.”
Duncan seated himself at the counter. The place was hopping with late lunchers and early diners. Nell and a redheaded girl were the only waitresses, both running frantically. He watched Nell serve people, gracing them with her luminous smile, carrying trays that looked far too heavy for her. She sneaked an occasional glance at him. Some minutes later she made it back to him with the coffeepot. “Stop staring. It’s making me nervous,” she hissed into his ear, pouring him a cup.
“What’s with you tonight?” he asked. “You’re tense.”
“Oh, nothing. Business as usual. Money problems. Credit card debt. A bugged apartment. Armed kidnappers shoving me into a car. Nights of wild monkey sex with a man who’s practically a stranger to me. Then I get to work and discover that not only does Kendra have one of her weird illnesses, but Lee broke his toe, so we’re short-staffed. And now you’re here, staring at me like I’ve got two heads. Other than that, I’m fine. Let me take your order. Strip steak, I presume.”
“Actually, I ordered out for lunch,” he said.
Her eyebrow lifted. “Then why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you,” he said simply. “I couldn’t wait anymore.”
She swallowed, a blush warming her cheeks. “We have a three-dollar minimum at night.”
“More coffee,” he said. “And bring my usual dessert.”
She looked disapproving. “You should try something new.” She marched away, chin high.
“So. You’re the one, eh?” a gravelly female voice said.
He looked across the counter, into the clear gray eyes of a strong-jawed, wide-hipped lady of about sixty. “Excuse me?” he said.
The woman smartly dressed a tray of salads and passed it across the counter to the redheaded waitress. The waitress hung over Duncan’s shoulder from behind, popped fragrant strawbery gum in his ear, and studied him as if he were some strange species of mold in a petri dish. “Not bad,” she commented, her voice judicious.
“I’m Norma,” the older woman said, examining him over the lenses of her glasses. “I own this joint. And you’re Strip Steak.”
Being defined and labeled in terms of his lunch choices was a new experience for him. “Duncan Burke, at your service,” he said.
“So you’re the one,” Norma said again, wrapping silverware in napkins and stacking them on a tray with machinelike efficiency.
He sipped his coffee. “What one am I?” he asked guardedly.
“The one who’s taking away my right-hand woman.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there,” he said.