When I Let You Go (Let Me Book 6) Read online

  I nearly pass the understated storefront. It’s housed on the ground floor of a residential building that looks old and stately, kind of like the Dakota. There’s a small gold plaque with H&A Florist and Landscape Design inscribed on it. From the location alone I imagine they have a lot of upscale clients, but it comforts me to know they’ll definitely take a hit losing my business. And I want to personally inform them that they will never be considered for a vending contract for any business connected with Cole Industries.

  Take that, motherfuckers.

  I pause and take a deep breath before entering because I like to project an air of relaxed control at all times—can’t do that when you’re red in the face and foaming at the mouth. But I am livid. I can’t believe I’m taking time out of my day to deal with this trivial shit, and I’m fuming mad because someone obviously thinks this is funny—that fucking with Dylan Cole is funny.

  I’m taking deep cleansing breaths when five minutes have passed and no one has ventured near the counter to help me out. I was actually starting to feel slightly blissed out when I first walked in. There’s soft jazz music playing, it feels like I’ve wandered into some secret garden with clusters of greenery and colorful blooms filling the space, and the smell is incredible. But now I’m back on the warpath at Defcon level one.

  The sound of someone singing gets louder as I make my way towards the back. And to call it singing is being kind. She’s facing away from me, her hands busy arranging a towering bouquet of black roses. I’m transfixed for a moment, taking in the odd beauty of the coal-black flowers, appreciating how artistic the girl is, and simultaneously wondering what moved someone to order such a macabre arrangement. I’m also transfixed by her ass. She’s moving her hips back and forth slowly, head cocked to the side, wearing short shorts, a snug belly-baring shirt and she’s barefoot. It’s November. When she goes to hit a high note, butchering the Etta James hit, I’m snapped back to the present. And when she ignores my umpteenth Excuse me, I slam my hand down on a work table to get her attention.

  “Eeep!” she shrieks, spinning around and knocking the vase off balance with the motion.

  She looks startled and I’m rendered speechless.

  “What the eff?” she barks, narrowing those freaky cat eyes on me.

  “Gia?”

  “Who the hell is Gia? And are you stalking me, psycho?”

  “No, no…I’m not stalking you. I’m uh—”

  The shears are behind me. Reaching back, I slide one hand along the surface of the countertop until I’ve got them. I’m on Madison and Seventy-first, not exactly dangerous territory, but I’m a woman and I’m alone, and this guy is much bigger than I am.

  “I’m calling the cops!” I warn him as I swing my weapon in front of me, the pointy blades facing towards Mr. GQ. Holy hell, why do all the good looking ones have to be creeps?

  He takes a step back and puts his hands up to convey that he means no harm. At the same time his expression hardens. “I’ve been waiting up front for five minutes. Does anyone in this store understand the concept of customer service?”

  I don’t know why it feels so difficult to look him in the eye, but it does. It feels like he’s boring into me. The other night it was with this intense kind of interest, but right now he’s looking at me with something that borders on animosity, hatred even. In avoiding his glare, I’m now taking in what lies at my feet: the broken Simon Pearce hand-blown glass container and two dozen rare Turkish Halfeti roses, a few of them too mangled to salvage. Henry is going to lose his shit.

  “I’m gonna lose my job.”

  He shoves his hands into his front pockets, impatient. “What was that? You’re mumbling.”

  I bend down to pick up the roses, thinking about which vase will do, now that I have fewer flowers to make the arrangement look full. I already know that this customer, prissy fuck that he is, will be calling Henry to complain. He’s a well-known restauranteur and knows his stuff, flower-wise. He has a standing weekly order and likes what’s unique, expensive and hard to find. Henry used to insist on making his order personally, but recently began trusting me to design arrangements for his more demanding clients. And today Henry and Alex trusted me with the entire store while they check out a property in Rye. I really didn’t want to give them a reason to regret their decision.

  “Still can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

  Speaking of prissy fucks.

  Through clenched teeth I ask, “Can I help you with something or are you just here to screw with my head?”

  His jaw tenses as he looks around. “I’d rather speak to a manager.”

  “Well I’m all you’ve got.”

  “This is your shop?”

  “No. I’m in charge today, though.”

  Taking my own statement to heart, I take a deep breath, muster up a quasi-smile and gesture for him to follow me to the front. I wince in pain as I take another step towards the register, knowing that a sliver of glass is firmly wedged in my left heel. Why the hell did I take off my shoes? Catching a glimpse of myself in one of the many mirrors that line the store’s walls, I shake my head, taking in the getup I’m sporting. I look like I should be pumping gas instead of tending to customers in one of the most exclusive zip codes in Manhattan. Usually I change before opening up for business, but I was excited early this morning when I saw Henry’s notes on the black rose arrangement. I dove right in, feeling creative.

  Mr. GQ looks uncomfortable now, taking me in as I hobble along, careful not to let my left heel hit the floor. “Are you all right?”

  I wave him off. “I’m fine. Just not the way I like to start out the morning. You startled me and I, well,” I look down at my clothes, shaking my head, “I didn’t even realize it was past ten.”

  “Look, maybe I should come back tomorrow when your boss is here.”

  “No! Look, I’m sorry if I was rude before but really, I can handle your order or any concern or issue or whatever it is.” Great, now I’m rambling. “I just…This is a weird coincidence. It is a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  He gazes at the ceiling as if he’s asking God for patience. “Of course it is. I certainly didn’t track you down and follow you to your job… I mean your second job.”

  Without meaning to, I mutter, “My third.”

  His eyes are kinder now. “You’re industrious.”

  “Why did you call me Gia?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “I have no idea. I was pretty drunk the other night. I thought that’s what you told me.”

  “I never told you my name.”

  “I never asked,” he shoots back, smiling now.

  “It’s Veronica.”

  “That fits.” He pats the countertop. “Hop up. I’m pretty skilled at removing glass.”

  When I hesitate, he takes me by the waist and deposits me onto the counter. He takes my foot in his hands and I feel the sensation zip from my heel to the very top of my inner thigh. He doesn’t notice my reaction. He’s intense as he inspects my foot, then reaches into his suit jacket to pull out a pair of reading glasses. I try to stifle a giggle but fail. He looks like an insanely hot version of Clark Kent.

  “No making fun of the old guy allowed,” he says without taking his eyes off my foot. “Just wait until you turn thirty-five. One day you can read the newspaper, next day you can’t.”

  “You wear them well.”

  Before I can even register what he’s doing, I feel a breathless rush. He’s crouched down and licking a path across my heel. Oh. My. “What’s that for,” I rasp.

  “It must be small.” He licks again and then swirls his tongue around one small spot. “Got it,” he says, raising my foot up again and peering at it as he pushes both thumbs against the spot. “Hold still.”

  Hold still? Not a problem. I can’t even breathe.

  He looks at me triumphantly as he holds out his index finger, the tiny shard perched on the tip. “It’s amazing that something this small can cause so much pain.”

/>   “Thanks. Let me guess…You’re a surgeon, right?”

  “Not even close, but maybe I missed my calling.”

  The air shifts between us again, the tension from before returning. He takes a step back and I hop off the counter, thankful when I locate my shearling lined slip-on boots.

  “So, um, how can I help you?”

  “I’m having a problem with my weekly delivery. I’ve had the account for years so I’m not really sure what’s going on.”

  “Your name?” I ask nervously as I boot up the computer. I’ve been taking on more of the day-to-day operations lately, making the arrangements and scheduling the deliveries, so if there was a screw-up it was probably my screw-up.

  “Last name’s Cole. The delivery is to the San Remo. Seventy-fourth and—”

  “Central Park West. I know it.”

  I made those arrangements and with care, goddammit. The last one I made was my favorite to date: deep purple peonies packed together with boxwood stems adding some deep green contrast. It was simple but luxe. His order had a big budget: three-fifty a week for a basic home delivery, so I always had lots of room to let my imagination and creative streak run wild.

  “You didn’t like the last arrangement?”

  “It’s not the flowers…Tell you the truth, I don’t even look at them.”

  Ok, asshole.

  He stares down at me then, jaw set. “I need to know who’s writing the notes.”

  I’m sure I’ve taken on a deer in the headlights-look. “What’s wrong with the notes?”

  “Someone’s taking the liberty to write whatever the hell they want.” He looks angry enough to spit nails. “I have an order. There’s a standard note with that order.”

  Holy shitcakes. “It was me. I just…Henry said it was, um, a guy who sends flowers to his, uh, wife every week. You have a wife?”

  Mr. GQ looks away, digging his hands deeper into his front pockets. Guilty much?

  “I’m cancelling the order, effective today.”

  I stare at the computer screen, taking in the size of the order. In total, between the corporate and residential deliveries, this guy was shelling out roughly eight grand a month. He was basically covering the store’s monthly operating expenses. If I fucked this order up, even my cousin Alex wasn’t going to save my ass if Henry wanted to fire me. Hell, if I owned the shop, I’d fire me.

  “Please don’t do that. I make your arrangements. I wrote the notes. I just thought—”

  His eyes were cold when he snapped, “You didn’t think.”

  “The original note just sounded so lame. I figured I’d spice it up.”

  “How old are you, twelve? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You don’t stick your nose into someone else’s relationship.”

  His words stung for just a moment before I had the urge to laugh in his face. My anger flared as I pictured his clueless wife at home, while her husband, this jerk standing in front of me, spent his nights trolling the clubs for barely legal cooch. I wanted to tell him that his note—To my darling wife—was bullshit, something only a guy with a giant stick up his ass would write. I wanted to tell him that only a phony, only a cheat would write that. But I held my tongue. Alex and Henry trusted me and I wasn’t about to let them down.

  A minute passed before I said, “I never meant any harm.”

  He looked embarrassed, and dammit, he should look embarrassed. Was he recalling his borderline lewd behavior from the other night? Trying not to stare at my tits, but failing miserably as he sucked on the lime from his tequila shot for way longer than was necessary? At the time, I’ll admit I thought he was funny, beyond hot and even a little sweet. But now? Now he was just another creepy married guy stepping out on his wife.

  “Probably better if I take my business elsewhere.”

  “I’m asking you not to do that. This was my mistake.” I had to pause for a deep, steadying breath. God, I hated groveling. “I made the mistake and I’ll make sure the orders are correct moving forward.” I could tell he wasn’t going for it so I threw myself a Hail Mary. “Please, I need this job.”

  He looked at me for a moment and then lowered his head. “Look, I know you think I’m a jerk. I just,” he shook his head and stood there in silence before continuing. “I don’t think you really understand…You couldn’t possibly understand my life.”

  Was he joking? Didn’t this guy realize he was anything but complicated? He was a dime a dozen. Another cheating husband—nothing more, nothing less. A preschooler could understand his game. But the customer’s always right, isn’t he?

  “You’re right. Just like you couldn’t possibly grasp the crap I have to deal with on a daily basis.” Like I said, groveling is not my strong suit. “So, can we let bygones be bygones, Mr. Cole? You don’t cancel your order or go to my boss, and I won’t wax poetic ever again.”

  I was trying to act cool and unaffected, but in truth I was kind of desperate.

  He kept me waiting for a long moment before nodding. “Okay.” Then he looked up, sheepish. “Maybe the note should say something like: Thinking of you.”

  “Done.”

  He flashed me a smile that was more shy than cocky as he turned to go. “This is the weirdest morning I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Take care of yourself, Gia,” he said as he walked out the door.

  Thinking of you.

  Every time I saw the cards, I thought of her. Now they peeked out from very simple, drab arrangements. The fiery colors, the stark contrast of bare branches, the lush greenery spilling out over the lip of the packed vase—all of that was gone. The compositions were now sterile. Lost that loving feeling, if you will. This week it was yellow roses and that cheap crap they stuff in between. Baby’s breath, I think they call it. And the card, once hand written, was now plain white cardstock with a preprinted message in Times New Roman font.

  Gia.

  Veronica.

  I don’t think she had a hand in making the flower arrangements anymore.

  I left the office early after that debacle at the flower shop because as far as productivity goes, I was useless. I had my driver take Madison that afternoon even though it took us out of the way. Had him pull over across the street from the shop, making some lame excuse about needing a minute to type out a few emails. It took just ten minutes before I was rewarded with a glimpse of her. She was fussing with something in the front window display and then walked outside to see it from the sidewalk. Gone were the cutoffs and tank. She was now in a sleeveless bright red sheath dress that ended mid-thigh. The girl obviously didn’t feel the need to dress for the weather. She still had on the short fuzzy boots, but all I could see was leg, long ass legs. Her hair was pulled up now, showcasing her neck. Made her look older but it didn’t change the fact that she was young—too young.

  I wanted to see her again but I wasn’t a fool and I wasn’t weak. After that day I banned myself from driving down Madison Avenue and I banned myself from late night drinks at the club that was once my favorite.

  I had my mother on speaker as I stood and put on my jacket, ready to call it a day. “I’ll be there.”

  “Your father and I can’t make it, Dylan, so I appreciate it.”

  “What’s up with you two lately? Lots of trips, getaways…Is it like second honeymoon time?”

  She let out a cheerless laugh. “Nothing like that.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Of course, sweetie…Just so busy. You know your father, so many obligations.”

  No, I didn’t know. I’d basically taken on all of my father’s business-related obligations. Nowadays my father came into the office three times a week, max. I really didn’t know what he was doing with all his free time. Christmas at their house was weird this year, now that I think about it, with my father ducking out to take calls every hour or so and my mother pouring the chipper on extra heavy. I didn’t give the distance between them even a passing thought at the time, but
now her tone was making me uneasy. “You sure nothing’s up?”

  “You would know better than me, dear. You see your father every day. I’m lucky if I get one dinner a week and a few hours on Sunday after he saunters in from playing golf.”

  I clammed up. I knew firsthand that my parents’ relationship wasn’t perfect, no relationship was, but this sounded different. Margot sounded angry in her own passive, controlled way.

  “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?”

  We had a standing Tuesday dinner date at some little hole in the wall Italian place on the East Side. Sometimes having to carve that time out of my schedule was a drag, but now I was feeling like a serious sit down was in order.

  “Would you mind terribly if we skip this week? I’m thinking of heading up to the Vineyard. There’s a yoga retreat I’ve been hearing about and they have a spot that just opened up last minute.”

  “You and Bunny getting all Namaste?”

  “I’m going on my own. It’s more of an individual thing.”

  “I get it,” I said, even though I so did not get it. Margot never did anything alone. She raised the troops and was always the one-woman planning committee for girls’ getaways, family vacations and dinner plans. I wanted an explanation, but I kept myself in check. “Sounds good. How long will you be gone?”

  “Just five days. I’ll be back on Monday so keep next Tuesday night open.”

  “You, me and Dad?”

  “Just the two of us, Dylan. Tuesday night is our thing. It’s the only time I get you all to myself.”

  Something was most definitely not right in Colesville.

  “And remember to keep this Thursday afternoon free. I’ll call your secretary and give her all the details.”

  “Yep, I’ll be there.” I felt the need to add, “I love you Mom.”

  By Thursday afternoon I was on edge. My father spent two hours in the office on Tuesday, didn’t show at all on Wednesday and left before noon on Thursday. I caught up with him Thursday morning to ask how my mother’s yoga retreat was going. He tried to cover, but I knew he had no idea what I was talking about.