Sighing, he set it aside unopened and flopped back on his hotel room’s leather sofa. Outside, the sun glowed orange-red, and he had yet to accomplish anything of significance. He’d taken a nap, showered, checked the stock market, and flipped through the notes he had on Miles and Jennifer Cooper’s case.
His gaze pulled to where his cell phone lay on the coffee table—again. He needed to call Miles. If he could keep Cassie from making rounds through his head, he might actually get something done. But she refused to stay locked in a corner.
His stomach growled. Brainstorming a solution Miles and Jennifer would both agree to would go so much faster with pizza. For two.
He snatched up his phone and fired off a text message to Cassie: Am I still a slimeball?
His phone remained silent. Sighing, he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. This was insane. She’d given him a clear red-light. He should let her alone and leave her be. Why he couldn’t, he didn’t understand.
Nor did he care to think about it.
His phone vibrated, and he glanced down at the lighted screen.
I haven’t decided.
A beat later his cell vibrated with another incoming message from her.
The flower’s pretty.
So she had found it on her doorstep. He’d begun to question the wisdom in leaving it behind, but given her determination to keep things professional between them, her silence hadn’t particularly surprised him. That she was mentioning the rose now, however, did. He stared at his phone, debating how to acknowledge her remark. Or if he should at all.
She’d probably take any mention of it as him trying to push her again. He chose to let the subject rest. As he debated what to respond with, his gaze slid to where her folder rested on the cushion beside him. He’d rather just see her—blindfold or not. To hell with it, she might be angry but confessing might afford him the opportunity.
His fingers moved across the keys again. You left your notes in the conference room. I grabbed them on my way out. Dying for food. I’ll bring pizza…
Brad resisted the sudden urge to pray she’d say yes. But dear God, he wanted her to accept.
He nearly forgot how to breathe when the phone buzzed against his palm.
You have my folder. That’s convenient for you.
Great. He sighed and shook his head. Not that he could blame her—he’d be suspicious as well. But what to say to assuage her irritation?
Before he could come up with anything appropriate, his phone buzzed again.
Only if you add anchovies.
Anchovies? Brad blinked. So not what he’d expected. He’d take it though. She wasn’t telling him to get lost or calling him a slimeball again. Maybe miracles did happen.
I can do anchovies. On my way in 10.
Before she could change her mind, or tell him she hadn’t been serious, he shut his phone completely off. If she did send a message backing out, he could honestly say he hadn’t received it when he showed up on her doorstep anyway.
In five minutes flat, he had her folder on the passenger seat and was behind the wheel, heading for the Papa Murphy’s—build it yourself, cook it at home—pizza shop that he’d seen on the corner, three blocks away. It took another twenty for the employees to get his raw pizza put together and packaged, but before the sun could fully sink behind the horizon, he was heading up Cassie’s mountainside road.
He drove slower than he had on his mad race to her door this morning. Took his time studying the landscape. As he pulled into her drive, the warm light seeping through her windows gave off a feeling Brad could only describe as cozy. It was the last place in the world he could ever imagine he would like. But there was something about this little house in the woods he found significantly appealing.
He shut off his car and took the pizza to her front door, then returned for his briefcase and her notes. When he had everything sitting on her porch, and the pizza back in his hands, he rang the bell. His pulse ticked away like he’d just run a marathon while he waited for her to answer. With his luck lately, she’d answer the door, snatch her folder, and send him back to the hotel.
The irrational surge of nerves annoyed him. Get a grip. He told himself it didn’t matter if she did send him away, that there were plenty of women in New York he didn’t have to coerce. Sure, they didn’t offer the same freedom to be himself that one night with Cassie had, but they at least appreciated his company. And it wasn’t as if he was looking to stick around. This was temporary pleasure. Definitely not permanent.