Ian listened to his desk phone ring but ignored it while he typed details about the limitations of the customer requested heating system into the project’s specifications. He had a two o’clock meeting about this project and didn’t have time to do Penny’s job. As he had pulled in this morning, he felt somehow unexplainably disappointed that Mr. Dixon’s parking space sat empty. He had sort of hoped to catch a glimpse of a faded yellow Geo Storm parked there, which made no sense and had him wondering exactly where that thought even came from.
He had made it all the way up to the seventh floor today before remembering that Penny had the day off. The morning hours jumped from one crisis to another. For some reason, everything always erupted on Friday morning, as if everyone had sudden onset panic attacks over the prospect of no one working for the next two days. With Penny out, it made everything outside his office door feel like chaos.
As he finished typing, he didn’t even look up at the sound of a tap on his door. “Come,” he called, sending the print order for the specifications he’d just written to the print department before closing the lid of his laptop. He expected an intern or even his friend Al. When a large bouquet of flowers in the colors of fall came through his door, he raised an eyebrow, confident the person belonging to the legs he could see under the arrangement had come to the wrong office.
“May I help you?”
“Delivery for Sam Jones,” a squeaky teenage boy’s voice said.
Curious, he got up from his desk and removed the mammoth bouquet from the boy’s arms. “Okay. Well, thank you,” he said absently.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” the young man said as he ducked out of the office.
Who would send him flowers? More importantly, who would send flowers for him addressed to Sam? His grandmother? Definitely not her style, but maybe her assistant did it without guidance? She usually wouldn’t send such an elaborate bouquet full of sunflowers, mums, chrysanthemums, roses, dahlias, and gerbera daisies. He dug through the stems until he found the envelope that contained the card clutched in the prongs of a transparent plastic fork. The scent of the roses filled his senses as he opened the envelope and read the typed note.
Ian cleared his throat, a little embarrassed and uncomfortable at what he had just read. The last time a girl had so boldly asked him out was for high school homecoming dance senior year. How did he even respond? Should he respond? Should he just not show up?
Then again, maybe he should show up. Admittedly, he had thought of her more than once since their encounter and elevator ride yesterday afternoon. He had fleetingly entertained the notion of asking to give Calla a ride home and maybe treating her to dinner last night. Still, this seemed very forward on her part, much more forward than he would have expected based on their brief conversation. Highly unexpected, surprising, and a little bit unsettling.
What did one do with something like this?
Should he just ignore it all together? That felt rude. Should he return the flowers? Even more rude. She didn’t deserve rude. Maybe just shoot her a short email, or give her a quick call down in filing. Just let her know that he had appreciated the offer, but that the flowers and the gratitude they expressed were thanks enough. No. She had sent him flowers. His response had to be equal to that gesture and an email or even a phone call would seem too impersonal, really.
Besides, did he really want to decline? He found Calla very attractive. Also, and of equal importance in his mind, he assessed her as a genuinely nice person. What would be the harm in accepting her invitation? Even if things didn’t work out, it might get Al off his back for a while. That would be nice. Of course, she worked for the same employer as he did, and that could spell trouble in the future. Interoffice romances always came with extra challenges. He really didn’t have the time to deal with interoffice drama, much less any inclination.
Deciding he would have to speak to her in person, he glanced at his watch. He had a few minutes before his meeting began. He would stop by the file room on his way to the print department and politely respond to her invitation.
Even as he walked out of his office, though, he had no idea what he would actually say to Miss Calla Vaughn. As the elevator arrived on his floor, he decided that unless he saw some very compelling reason to join her for dinner, he would smile and politely let her down. Hopefully, she would take it well.
Calla strode, skipped, and hopped to the beat of the song playing in her ears, holding a file folder in each hand as she hummed, spun, and swayed to the tempo. Her eyes closed as she performed a stage-worthy pirouette then popped open a file drawer with a hum and a low whistle. She expertly inserted a red file folder into the drawer then rhythmically bumped the drawer closed with her hip and a Rockette flourish before dancing further down the aisle.
Halfway through a turn, she faltered, and stopped moving entirely when she identified Ian Jones standing at the end of the row of filing cabinets. She must have looked even more odd standing there in a frozen vignette pose with just her eyes widening and no other discernable movement, like a New Orleans street mime, maybe. How long had he stood there, watching her? Feeling her face flush with heat, she straightened, yanked the earbuds out of her ears, and cleared her throat. “Uh, sorry. Just, you know, keeping it fun.”
His right eyebrow sat higher on his forehead than his left, but the left side of his mouth curled into a dimpled half-grin. “Fun, huh?”
Her voice sounded weak to her own ears. “It’s, uh, kind of quiet and a little cave-like in here. Music makes the day go a little faster.” She shoved the earbuds into the shirt pocket that contained her phone and adjusted her glasses on her face. He just stared at her with that half a smile on his face.
“I see.”
She set the file folders on top of the closest cabinet and walked toward him. Thankfully, he hadn’t come three hours ago when papers, hole punchers, and files had covered the floor. “Oh! Can I do something for you? Penny usually comes for files, but I just remembered she’s out today.”
His eyes widened slightly. “You know Penny?”
She shrugged. “Well, I know all the assistants. They come here to get files and, you know, there’s just the four of us down here.” She kept a thin pad of paper in her skirt pocket and pulled it out with a pencil. “What can I pull for you?”
As she reached him, nervousness came over her that made her hand tremble a little around the pencil. Why, oh why, did she become such a bumbling, stuttering, fumbling idiot around this man? Why couldn’t she act poised and calm? Why couldn’t she look three inches taller and twenty pounds thinner? And maybe more classically beautiful. Without the glasses.
Ugh.
He just stared at her, with his head slightly tilted. She began to wonder if she had something on her face. Finally, she said, “Mr. Jones?”
He cleared his throat. “Ian. Please, just Ian. So, about dinner.”
She tilted her head slightly toward him, unconsciously mirroring the angle of his gaze, and raised her eyebrows as if trying to hear what he said better. Was he? No. She must not be understanding him. “Dinner?”
“Yeah, dinner. Tomorrow. Your place. Remember? Flowers? Invite? Won’t take no for an answer dinner?”
Flowers? Invite? Dinner? “Uh…” Suddenly, she realized.
Samuel Ian Jones. Sami Jones.
Oh no! Remembering what she’d put on that card, her whole face flashed with molten heat and she carefully set the pencil down on the counter before she dropped it. Oh no! “I, uh…”
“I just need your address. Not sure I can make six, but I can do my best to make six-thirty or so if you’re on this side of town.”
He was accepting an invitation to dinner from her? Not that she had actually invited him to dinner. Well, he thought she had invited him. Still. Why in the world?
Deciding not to sound like more of an idiot than she already had every time they’d spoken, she mumbled her address and confirmed that six-thirty would be great. He had the grace not to cringe about her wrong side of the tracks address. Out of habit she asked, “Is there anything you won’t eat?”
Ian’s face lit up in a smile. It made Calla’s heart thump against her chest so hard she thought he might hear it. “That’s really nice of you to ask. How about this? I promise I’ll eat whatever you put on the table. I’m not what you would call a picky eater. But I’ve never really been a huge fan of shellfish.”
Calla nodded and said, “Okay, so omakase is for sure off the menu.”
“Oma-what?”
“Omakase.” Calla said, carefully pronouncing the Japanese and bowing slightly. “It’s, like, the most expensive shellfish dish on earth. You can only get it in this one place in Tokyo… you know what? Chef joke. Never mind. No shellfish. Got it.”
She hadn’t thought his smile could get bigger, but somehow it did. He had very straight, very white teeth. He glanced at his watch and took a step back. “Can’t stay and chat. Gotta run by the print department and pick up some plans for a meeting I’m nearly late for. I’ll see you tomorrow, though. We can talk more then?”
“Sure,” she said weakly, “tomorrow. Dinner. My place. Looking forward to it.”
As soon as she was sure he wasn’t going to return, she rushed out of the row and told her supervisor she was taking a late lunch. Forget that hour of overtime she’d planned on, she needed to talk to someone!
In no time, she found herself on the eighth floor ensconced in Sami’s little office outside Brad Dixon’s office door. The big boss was with his dad in New Orleans, so she felt safe sitting down across from her desk. “You’ll never believe what just happened.”
Sami rolled her chair closer to the edge of her desk and leaned forward. Her bright green eyes shone out from under a metallic green gypsy scarf that she’d tied around her head. “Spill.”
“So, yesterday I called in and won flowers from Q103.”
Sami’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Cool! I won a gift card, once.”
“Yeah? Anyway, perfect timing because you’d just called me, offered to buy me dinner, and arranged for my car to be towed to the junkyard. You totally saved my life last night. Really. And I knew you would. So, I preemptively sent you a thank you bouquet.”
“Me?” Sami grinned. “Wow! Thanks! I hope I get them today!”
“That’s the thing. They were already delivered.” Nervous and edgy again, she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “To Sam Jones.”
A frown appeared between Sami’s eyes. “Sam Jones? Sam?”
“Yeah. Sam. Samuel Ian Jones.”
With wide eyes, Sami said, “Ian? The hot guy on seventh you’ve had a slightly obvious crush on since you started working here three years ago?”
Mouth dry, she cleared her throat. “Yeah. That Ian.”
Sami threw her head back and laughed. “So, he got your flowers. What happened next?”
“You mean after he read the card thanking ‘him’ for his help yesterday and demanding that ‘he’ come to dinner at my place tomorrow so I could thank him properly?” Calla used air quotes for the him and he. “Why, he came down to my little forest of metal filing cabinets to ask me for my address so he could come have dinner and get properly thanked.”
Sami’s mouth opened and closed twice before she said, “Seriously? Calla!” she said her name on a gasp. “Isn’t God good? That is amazing!”
“What am I going to do?”
“What do you mean, what are you going to do? You’re going to do what you do in the kitchen and make something amazing. I have no doubt.”
“Yeah. Sure. In my dinky one-bedroom apartment that doesn’t even have a table! I was planning on making you spaghetti and garlic bread. Cheap. Easy. Filled with love and gratitude that you would have understood. Him? He wears a watch that cost more than my car is worth! How am I supposed to cook for him?”
Sami started to answer, but her phone rang. She held up a finger and answered the call. She scribbled a few notes and said, “Yes, Mr. Dixon,” she paused, “right. Give me five minutes.”
She hung up the phone and turned to her computer, bringing it out of hibernation. “I can’t think right now, Calla, but I have a table you can borrow. We’ll cover it with a beautiful cloth, and you’ll do something amazing. I’ll be over at ten in the morning.”
“Sami!” Calla pleaded.
Sami shook her head. “Honey, this is a good thing. A very good thing. Stop worrying. It’ll be fine. Now shoo. Let me work.”
Calla stood as Sami began maneuvering through the files on her computer. She lifted a hand to wave goodbye as she left the office.
Ian shifted under the weight of his end of the dresser and waited for Al to guide the way. His feet remained steady on the gold-colored shag carpet as they maneuvered the massive chest through the little World War II era cottage.
“Step at the door,” Al announced, and Ian started expecting the feel of the metal threshold that would clue him to take a step down. As soon as they cleared the doorway, they turned sideways and moved with more precision and speed, soon setting the dresser into the moving van.
Al, a well-muscled six-five electrical engineer who dedicated four mornings a week to the gym, looked like he’d barely broken a sweat. Four inches shorter and a good thirty pounds lighter, Ian felt the strain in his arms as he rolled his head on his shoulders.
“Bedroom’s done,” he said to Daniel, the leader of his church’s men’s ministry. “Are the guys ready to start loading the kitchen boxes?”
“Pretty sure,” Daniel said, using a handkerchief to wipe the sweat at his white hairline. “Let me go check with Marlene and I’ll let you know. Why don’t you two get some water and take five?”
Ian wouldn’t admit to how relieved he felt at the suggestion. He followed Al over to Daniel’s truck and grabbed a bottle of water out of the cooler in the back. As he twisted the cap open, he sat on the open tailgate. He looked up through the branches of the live oak tree and saw the vivid blue of the Atlanta sky. The dry seventy-degree temperature made it a really lovely November day.
“Want to grab a pizza after?” Al asked. “Georgia’s playing at seven, and that place in Decatur’s going to show it on every screen.”
Fast friends since the first day of engineering school at Georgia Tech, Ian and Al spent most weekends doing something together, either sharing a meal or two, catching a movie or a football game, or something casual and relaxing of the sort. However, right now Miss Calla Vaughn dancing to the tune in her ears floated across his mind. “Actually, I have a date.”
“A date?” Al’s teeth looked bright white against his chocolate colored skin as he grinned at his friend. “Well, well, well. About time. With whom, may I ask?”
“Calla Vaughn. From work.”
Al frowned and muttered, “Calla Vaughn? Is she in the architectural division?”
“No. She’s one of the file clerks down on the second floor.” He took a long pull of water. “I helped Jon push her dead car out of the way of the gate reader Thursday afternoon. She’s cooking me dinner to thank me all proper like.”
Al threw his head back and laughed. “Your grandma would love that one.”
Ian pressed his lips together as his rather blue blood heated. His grandmother, old member of Atlanta high society, would certainly not find amusement at Ian’s dating anyone other than a crowned princess, perhaps. Or maybe a president’s daughter. Depending, of course, on whether said president drank red or blue Kool-Aid.
“It’s not that bad,” he lied.
“Oh, please,” Al said, “she’s the reason you don’t ever date.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t deny it. It was just easier not to date than to try to find someone who would pass inspection and gain the reluctant approval of the family matriarch. “Yeah? What’s your excuse, then?”
Al’s face sobered, and he cleared his throat. “Like you don’t know.”
Feeling like a cad, especially as the brother of the woman who so thoroughly broke his best friend’s heart two years ago, he immediately apologized. “Dude, sorry.”
“No sweat.” Al looked up when the door to the house opened, and a very small, frail woman carefully maneuvered her doorway with her walker. “Need help Mrs. Manchester?” The church men’s group had volunteered to help move Mrs. Manchester’s belongings into storage while her son got her settled into his spare bedroom.
“You boys get on in here and get yourselves a sandwich,” she ordered. “I made egg salad. Even managed to toast the bread before the toaster got packed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ian replied, standing.
“Did you make some of your sweet tea?” Al asked, a hopeful sound in his voice.
“You better believe it.” She turned and carefully lifted her walker back into the house. “Ain’t nothing like egg salad and sweet tea.”
“No, ma’am,” Al agreed. Ian laughed while he followed them slowly into the house.