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It’s somehow sweet and filthy at the same time. Like three guys I know.
The next morning, the doorman rings. “Package for you.”
Donut springs up and down at the door, and when I open it, the maintenance guy is handing me a silver box with a red bow. When I’m alone, I open it, shaking my head in amazement at the stunning pair of strappy silver shoes. There’s a note too.
We won’t be able to take our eyes off you.
My heart stutters. My mind races. And I see…my future. It’s bright and unconventional, and entirely mine.
The next morning, I’m saying, “Send him up” as soon as I answer the call.
This time the package is a slim blue box, hardly bigger than my hand. When I open it, my breath catches. A silver necklace with what looks like a small diamond pendant at the throat sits elegantly in the soft tissue. They got me…a diamond?
This is too much. My fingers tremble as I open the note.
You deserve it.
I can barely breathe. I’ve never wanted a diamond before. But when I gently take it out, all the air rushes from my lungs. It’s a diamond four-leaf clover. My throat tightens with beautiful emotions—ones I want to feel. Ones I never want to fake.
I clutch it to my chest, wanting not so much the diamond but what it stands for.
I’m not even sure how I’ll make it through the rest of the day. All I want is tonight.
A few minutes later, the doorman buzzes one more time. One more time, Donut jumps at the door. One more time, I fling it open.
This time, the maintenance guy hands me only a card. I slide a finger under the flap, then read.
A limo will be here at seven to pick you up. See you at the gala…
Your three friends
I scratch Mrs. Frances Furbottom on the chin, kiss Donut on the snout, then fly out the door, down the hall, to the elevator, and out the lobby.
The gala is across the city at the Luxe Hotel. It should take twenty minutes in traffic to get there. Twenty minutes till I can see my guys, till I can tell them I want so much more than friendship, till I can ask if they’ll take a chance on me.
I push through the doors and out into the San Francisco evening. The air is slightly chilly, but I have a black wrap around my shoulders to keep me warm enough as I drink in the lights and the glitter of the city. The shiny black limo glints from the curb even in the evening light.
I grin, shaking my head in amazement as I glance down at my pink shimmery dress, swishing against my legs.
I’m a leggings and ponytail gal, not a gown and glitter one. But tonight, Aubrey came over and styled my hair, twisting it up on the sides into a silvery barrette, curling it at the ends.
I’m used to fix-it cars, not stretch limos.
To air mattresses, not king-size beds.
To doing it all myself.
I near the limo, surprised the driver doesn’t pop out and scurry around. I’ve seen enough movies to know that’s kind of what they do. But when I reach for the handle, the door pushes open from the inside.
And out step my three men, dressed to the nines in tuxes.
67
KARMA IS THREE BOYFRIENDS
Briar
They don’t look like my friends. They look like my men. “I don’t want to go as friends,” I blurt out.
