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“A delivery?” I’m shaking both from the cold and the excess of adrenaline, my heart beating so fast I can barely speak. “For me?”
“Yes,” he says with a smile. Approaching me, he bends down to pick up my keys and hands them to me, along with the giant bouquet. “This is for you.”
“Um, okay.” Awkwardly, I take both the keys and the flowers. The roses are covered in clear plastic that protects them from the elements, but even so, I can tell that the flowers are gorgeous. I’m about to ask who sent them when something else occurs to me. “Oh, I don’t have any cash for the tip,” I say, feeling like a bumbling idiot. “I’m so sorry. I meant to stop by an ATM, but—”
“Oh, no, it’s all good. Everything is taken care of.” A big smile splits his weathered face. “You just enjoy these, okay, miss?”
He turns and hurries away, clearly eager to get out of the rain, and it’s only when he’s gone that I realize I didn’t have a chance to ask who ordered the delivery.
Oh, well. Hopefully, there’s a note. My fingers are almost numb from the cold, but I manage to get my keys into the lock and get inside. Instantly, my three cats rush toward me, meowing like I’ve been gone for a week instead of just over eight hours.
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get fed,” I mutter, trying not to trip over Mr. Puffs. “Just give me a second here.”
The furry asshole ignores my words, and my walk to the kitchen is perilous, to say the least. Between the humongous bouquet of flowers and the giant cat winding between my legs, it’s a wonder I don’t trip and split my head open.
Finally, I’m in the kitchen. Putting the flowers down on the counter, I quickly prep my cats’ dinner and give it to them. Then, taking a deep breath, I approach the bouquet.
Before I can pull off the protective plastic, my doorbell rings.
Cottonball looks up from his dish and gives me an inquisitive look.
“Sorry, bud. I’m as clueless as you are,” I say to the cat as I hurry toward the door. The only person who comes over unannounced is my landlady, and she has no reason to do so tonight, as I’ve paid my rent on time for several months straight.
When I look through the peephole, I see a man dressed in a FedEx uniform walking away.
Another delivery? What the hell?
Since I was born and raised in Brooklyn, I wait until the stranger is gone before cautiously opening the door. Sure enough, there is a big box sitting on my doorstep. I bend down to pick it up, but it’s way too heavy to lift. Swearing under my breath, I wrestle it inside and close the door. Then, dying from curiosity, I grab a knife from the kitchen and open the box.
Dumbfounded, I stare at the contents.
Cat food. Lots and lots of cat food. All the best brands, in a variety of flavors, some dry and some canned, like my cats prefer.
It’s enough cat food for the next several months.
I’m so confused I almost miss the small white envelope taped to the side of the box. It’s only when I’m dragging the heavy box to the kitchen that I see it. Stopping, I grab it and open it, ripping the pretty paper in my eagerness. The note reads:
I hope your cats enjoy this, and you like the flowers.
-Marcus.
A wave of heat rushes through me, chasing away the lingering chill from the cold outside. The images from the sex dreams I’ve been trying not to think about flood my mind, and my breathing speeds up.
The deliveries are from Marcus.
I all but run into the kitchen, hoping there’s another note with an explanation as to why, but there’s nothing attached to the bouquet. Queen Elizabeth looks up from her dish and gives me a look that suggests I’m crazy, but I ignore her.
Marcus sent me roses and cat food.
This is far beyond any kind of good Samaritan act. I remember the ridiculous thought that had occurred to me last night—that he might be interested in me—and all of a sudden, it doesn’t seem quite so ridiculous anymore. Because what other explanation is there when a man sends a woman flowers?
Well, flowers and cat food.
“Do you think he likes me that way?” I ask Queen Elizabeth, and the cat gives me a look that suggests I’m acting like I’m twelve.
Okay, fine. Maybe I’m reading too much into my cat’s looks, but I swear she’s able to communicate with me. She tilts her head this way and that way when I talk to her, and sometimes she even meows in response—which is exactly what she does now.
“You do think he likes me?” I ask, irrationally excited, and Queen Elizabeth meows again before returning her attention to her food.
