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The identity of the sender is a mystery, but I know it’s someone in my family. The way my parents and Carter acted when I first asked them about the bouquet told me as much. Besides, they know my love of Rose Hill’s iconic namesake. Roses were the perfect gift to send when I first felt homesick after leaving for college. Only, the bouquets didn’t stop coming once I graduated. Even after moving back to Rose Hill, and then Dallas, a bouquet finds its way to me every year. But I still haven’t discovered the sender.
My phone chimes with an incoming text.
I’ll pick you up at six. Wear something sexy.
Morgan adds a winking smiley face.
Damn.
I forgot about the double date Morgan conned me into. When she’d asked if I was free on a Monday night, I thought my best friend wanted to get together for a girls’ night in. Turns out, she wanted me to take one for the team and agree to be the date for her latest fling’s older brother.
Morgan Caldwell is beautiful and successful. She’s a nutritionist with a love for cooking and she’s currently in grad school to become a registered dietician. Her goal is to become a sports dietician and work for a professional team or be hired to work for an athlete exclusively. Like me, she loves sports. Unlike me, however, she was actually an athlete herself. She played volleyball in high school and all four years in college on a scholarship. She’s funny, kindhearted, and confident. She’sbasically one of the best people I know. There’s no reason for her to be single other than she hasn’t found the right guy yet.
So when she told me she was truly interested in the guy she’s seeing, I shoved down my aversion to blind dates and agreed to help her out. Just this once.
I reply with a thumbs-up emoji, then put my phone face down and return my attention to replying to Lawrence’s email, hoping work will distract me from the unease filling me at the thought of tonight.
My phone rings.
With a sigh, I answer the call without looking at the screen. “I’m not going to wear something sexy to play miniature golf, Morgan. Forget it.”
A feminine laugh trails through the receiver, but it’s not Morgan. “That’s very practical of you, Carlee. I support your decision.”
Mortification floods me. “Erika! Oh my god.” I glance at the screen and confirm the director of Soup Soul has called me. “I’m so sorry, I thought you were someone else. Forget you heard that.”
“Done,” the kind woman says. Amusement laces the word.
I clear my throat and try to move past my embarrassment. “Are you calling about the holiday toy drive?” I’d agreed to help Soup Soul increase visibility on their social media platforms for charity events, beginning with this season’s holiday toy drive. With one week left, the promotional campaigns have already exceeded their expected reach. Hopefully, that translates to reaching Soup Soul’s donation goals.
“No, this isn’t about the campaign,” she says.
“Oh.” I lean back in my chair, intrigued. “Then how can I help you?”
“I was hoping you could give me Corey Johnson’s contact information.”
I almost choke on my saliva. “What?”
“I hope the request doesn’t put you in an awkward position. It’s just that since Corey moved, I no longer have his address, and I would like to send him a thank you gift for his most recent donation. I know you work for the Lonestars, so I hoped you could help me out.”
I have so many questions, but the one I ask is, “What donation?”
“Corey purchased enough coats, gloves, scarves, and beanies to outfit every man, woman, and child in need of winter clothes this season. I swear, that boy is so thoughtful. He always seems to know our most pressing need and finds a way to meet it.”
My heart clenches. I remember the little girl Corey spoke with in the serving line. Her jacket had seen better days.
“That’s…” I pause to swallow down the emotion threatening to clog my throat. “That’s wonderful.”
“It is. So, do you think I could get his address? I’d rather my gift was a surprise, but I understand if you’d want to ask him first.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t know his specific unit number, but I can text you the address to his apartment building in Midtown.” I refrain from mentioning it’s also my building. “I’m sure the front desk would get the gift to him.”
“That would be wonderful, Carlee. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.”
We make small talk for another minute before saying goodbye. I end the call then drop my phone on the desk and lean forward, resting my head in my hands. My thoughts are conflicting.
Corey’s spontaneous donation is the perfect PR opportunity to endear him to the community, but I know that’s not why he did it. Corey doesn’t showboat for the press. This donation came from the heart. It’s just who he is.
