Page 67 of Wicked Design
“Usual time. We’re ordering Castillo’s for a late lunch. Want to drop by? We’d love to have you.”
“Thanks but no. My head’s splitting. Late night.”
“I should have guessed. Van Gogh’s bags have bags.”
Even tired, he was a hunk. “Is he wearing his new black shirt?”
“Nope. A dark blue tank top.”
He must have run home to change clothes then dashed to the parlor. No wonder he hadn’t stuck around to clean up, leave her a note, or buy food. Time to pull on her big girl panties and act like a reasonable adult. “Don’t tell him I called. I don’t want to distract him. I’ll send a text. Have a good one.”
Clover ended the call and wrote her text, not exactly speaking from the heart as she would have liked, but at least she was honest about how much she wanted him.
Missed u this afternoon like mad. Can’t take much more.
Dinner? My place? 10:30?
I’ll get deli. All ur faves.
Given his customer, she didn’t expect an immediate answer and didn’t get one for several hours.
No cookin 4 u. I’ll buy.
Give me till 10:45 2 get there.
She’d waited a lifetime for him and could manage a little longer.
Showered and dressed, she tidied up her place, made a drugstore run for rubbers, a grocery visit for beer, apple juice, Hostess cupcakes, and other essentials, then killed the remaining time with work. Absorbed with her Clover Cuffs that resembled a man’s fingers, aka mancuffs, she troubled over the sculpting and forgot the time.
She checked her phone and gasped. Eleven thirty.
Clover shot to her front door. He wasn’t in the hall, cooling his heels because she’d been too preoccupied to hear him knock.
She hung out her front window. A lone guy glanced up. He waved. She ducked back into her apartment and checked her phone. No calls or texts from Van Gogh.
He couldn’t have been run over or mugged. Lauren, Jasmina, or Tor would have called with the awful news unless Van Gogh was sprawled somewhere injured and bleeding, either unconscious or too hurt to tell passersby his name.
She grabbed her house key and ran down the hall to the stairway.
He lifted his face and stopped midway up the steps. “What are you doing out here?”
“What are you?”
“Coming to your place.” He lifted his bag, a local deli’s logo emblazoned on it. “Got everything you like.”
She slumped against the railing. “Did a senior citizen tour bus stop there for food? The line wrapped around the block? Everyone in front of you couldn’t decide what they wanted?”
“No. Besides me, there was only a couple with their teenage kids and the deli staff. Why?”
He honestly didn’t know? “Did your client run late at the parlor?”
“Uh-uh. I worked on designs the last hour I was there and then we closed when we usually do. Why?”
She flashed her phone. “See the time? You said you’d be here at 10:45, not close to midnight. I thought a car had hit you or you’d been mugged.”
He bounded up the steps and cradled her cheek. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. Time slipped away. That’s all.”
“With work?”
