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I pull my phone from the pocket of my recently tailored Armani suit and check the time. 7:16 pm. I realize I’m near Julianna's penthouse at the Time Warner Center and I decide to not waste another moment. I need to make a bold move. I walk across the street. A small florist shop is still open, its sign casting a neon glow, and I scan the buckets of flowers—blues, golds, whites, pinks, lavenders—peonies, carnations, orchids, tulips—the variety is dizzying. Then my eyes land on a far corner of the room, and I know I’ve made my decision. I buy the largest bouquet of flowers that they have available—an entire bundle of 100 long-stemmed red roses.
"Go big or go home, right?" I tell the florist as he carefully wraps the heavy bundle in clear plastic paper.
"She must be pretty special," he smiles.
"One in a million."
I realize that the bundle is so big I need to use both of my arms to carry it across three blocks across Columbus Circle to Julianna's place. But I know it was important that I make a lasting impression, and this should do it. So I walk in the direction of her building, and in a few minutes I see it. The Time Warner Center is a massive and iconic structure. It stands majestic and proud, nestled in the bustle of the city. I adjust my tie, take a deep breath, and enter the lobby. An older man is seated at the concierge desk. He quickly stands up and approaches me.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asks.
"I'm here to see Ms. Julianna Heaton."
"Is she expecting you?"
Shit. I didn't have an appointment. Should I say she's expecting me? Or should I be truthful? I decide that honesty was probably the best policy. And besides, I've never been a good liar.
"I don't, but my name is Ethan Blake. I'm currently trying out for the defensive end position with the New York Nailers, and it's important that I see her this evening."
"Wait a minute!" the man exclaim. "I know you! You're the guy from SportsNation! Yes! Yes! That's you—the guy who got knocked out by that other football player."
I swear it seemed that no matter where I went, I couldn't get away from Colt Stackford. I’m sick of the tabloids buzzing about our fight, and I was even sicker of being reminded about it from strangers.
"That's me, but listen," I say, changing the subject, "Could you let me up to visit Ms. Heaton? Like I said, it's important."
"I can see that," he says with a whistle, looking down at the bundle of flowers in my arms. "I'm not usually permitted to let guests up without an appointment, but I'll make an exception this once … under one condition that is."
Oh great. How did I find myself bartering with a concierge? "Sure, what's that?" I ask. He walks back to his desk and pulls out a New York Nailers hat.
"Can you sign this? I'm a huge fan."
I take the elevator to the top floor and find myself in front of the grand double-door entrance of her penthouse. I straighten my suit coat and gather my nerves before knocking, and then lightly rap on the door with my knuckles. No answer.
I wait and listen for movement, but don’t hear anything. I knock again, this time with a little more force. Did she leave? Could she have slipped out without the concierge noticing? I figure I’ll try knocking once more. If she doesn't answer, I'll leave. Here goes nothing...
I think I hear someone coming to the door. Yes, she's home. The lock clicks and the door opens. There she is, I swear, a goddess in heels. Julianna stands in the doorway wearing a stunning, form-fitting red dress. She’s smelling amazing, and her blonde hair is cascading down to her shoulders. It's taking everything in me not to touch her—not to run my fingers against her cheek and through her hair. But my fantasy is stopped abruptly when she speaks.
"Wh-what are you doing here?” she asks. “Did Sammy let you up?"
"It's nice to see you too," I say, brushing aside her confusion. "I didn't catch the concierge's name downstairs."
"I can't believe it. I told him to not let anyone up without an appointment."
"It's not his fault,” I say, not wanting to get him in trouble. “I was pushy."
Then I see her look at the bundle of flowers and do something I didn't think she was capable of—she blushes. It only lasted for a moment, and then she shakes it off.
"It's a bad time, Ethan. Let's talk at the office." She begins to close the door, but I place my shoe inside of the frame.
"I'm not leaving," I say.
This catches her off guard, and she stands there for a moment. We lock gazes. I can see a new intensity flare in the depths of her clear blue eyes. My pulse quickens as I step closer to her. This is my chance. I reach out my arm, but instead of touching her, I rest against the doorframe. I watch as her breath quickens and I think I can see a flush appear in her cheeks.
Then I hear what sounds like the voice of another man. "I've just poured your wine, Julianna. Who’s at the door?" Yes, it’s definitely a man. Who was he? What was she doing with him? A middle-aged man in a business suit appears in the doorway. I guess he’s in his early 40s. His hair is beginning to thin, but I can tell that he combed it meticulously to hide this fact. He looks at me and then looks at the 100 long-stemmed roses in my arms and asks Julianna, "Who the hell is this?"
Given all of the SportsNation hype, I’m a little surprised he didn't recognize me, but also relieved. Before I can answer, Julianna turned to him. "I think you should leave. I'm sorry to do this Matt, but—"
"It's Mike—"
