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She glanced down, calculated his savings and winced a little at the hit to her pocketbook. But she could afford it. The guy had suffered a major blow. She could skip a few margaritas and baskets of wings at Loki’s the next few Saturday nights, for pity’s sake.
“Thank you. That’s not necessary, but I appreciate it. How about you just use it for the first week of the next billboard?”
When Rory didn’t reply, he continued. “I’m glad you called actually. Saves me an email. You do have me down for December? I emailed last week but then my ’net went down and I never received your final confirmation.”
“D-December?” What was up with the stutter? She never stuttered. “You still want to go through with the billboard order?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I? I placed it last week. You got the email, didn’t you?”
Because she’s dead. Her lips trembled and firmed seconds before the words tumbled out. Was this guy for real? Most men she knew couldn’t be bothered to call unless they were horny or hungry or bored, but this one intended to continue putting up love poems for his late wife? At sizeable expense?
Her heart skipped, annoying her. She was not one of those mushy types. Normally she didn’t even like poetry. So what was the deal with Sam? Why did he make her question herself and her reactions?
“Why wouldn’t you?” she agreed softly, pressing so hard on the point of her pencil that it broke. “I can take down your order now, if you would prefer. If it would make things easier.”
“No, I’ll submit it via email as usual, if that’s all right. I haven’t figured out what I’d like to say yet.” His short, dry laugh caught her off guard. “It takes time, you know?”
No, she didn’t know. Nor had she ever known a man like him, even if she didn’t really know him at all. “Sure. Take your time. You know where to reach me, Sam.”
Jesus, she’d almost stuttered again. Why did his name feel so intimate? As if she were whispering it in a cathedral.
Or a bed…
In a bed? Her face heated. Now she was sort of fantasizing about a man who’d suffered a
serious loss and hadn’t proven himself to be particularly eloquent when speaking. Not that she blamed him. Who would be, after enduring what he had?
So much for skipping Loki’s. She’d be visiting the sports bar as usual on Saturday, and she had a feeling she wouldn’t be particularly choosy when one of the regulars showed her some attention. Clearly she’d gone too long without sex. Ibiza and the crazy fling she’d had there seemed like a lifetime ago, especially right now.
“Yes, I do, Rory.”
Her name in his husky, brittle voice made her even worse off. Was he a smoker? Did he have allergies? That rasp did wicked things to her body, and it shouldn’t have. Bottom line, she had no morals and no sense. What had she become? Some sort of ambulance chaser, except she went after widowers who wrote billboard sonnets?
“Well, ahh, I’ll just let you go then. I really am sorry. She was a lucky woman, your wife.”
He didn’t thank her for calling. In fact, he didn’t make any sound at all for a long, disturbing moment. “What time do you take your lunch break?” he asked finally.
“Lunch? I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.” She flung a glance at the bruised apple on the corner of her desk she’d rescued after a collision in the break room yesterday. Connor Clydesdale—Aunt Pamela’s ex-husband no less—had touched her boob but he’d pretended he only wanted to grab her apple. She hadn’t been fooled.
“But you will be eating lunch today?”
“I guess.” Why did he care? More importantly, why was he still talking? She’d expected the dial tone after her last fumbling expression of sympathy.
“Maybe we could meet. We’ve talked for so long.”
Yes, they had. Too long. Long enough she’d somehow started adding little hearts next to his name in her mind, when she had no right and no reason to do so.
“Just for lunch,” he added, as if they were on Skype and he could see her dubious look down at her breasts, currently showcased in a tight raspberry sweater. “It’d be nice to get out for a while.”
Had he been stuck inside all this time, imprisoned by his grief? Maybe she would be his only contact with the outside world all week. And maybe she was reaching, but she didn’t know what to make of any of this.
Probably the guy just wanted some lunch. Why not have it with an emoticon-free, reasonably friendly woman? One who would have to change out of her pink sweater, because that was hardly what someone wore when lunching with a man in mourning. Even someone as emotionally clueless as she was knew that.
“Rory?”
“Yes, sorry. I’m still here.” Would he please stop saying her name? She’d do just fine if he didn’t. “Lunch sounds lovely. Where would you like to go?”
Not Loki’s. That wouldn’t be appropriate. Not when he was grieving. People cheering and yelling and throwing around popcorn definitely would not fit the mood.
