Free Make Me Sin by J. T. Geissinger Page A

composed almost entirely of cut phalaenopsis orchids, one of the most expensive flowers available. Renee’s dropping trios of white roses wrapped with wire into little blue bud vases for the desks of the attorneys at a law firm.
    I’m impressed; they obviously started early. “You guys are awesome!”
    Trina says, “You’re here! I thought you were sick! How’re you feeling?”
    “I’m okay. Better now. Thanks for handling the market, Trin, you saved my behind.”
    She waves off my thanks. “No worries. When I got your text, I texted Renee to see if she could come in a little earlier since we’d be down a man. I’m happy you’re here, though. Mrs. Goldman left a message that she’s having a lunch at Spago and she needs flowers for it.”
    “Another lunch at Spago? Doesn’t the woman eat anywhere else? Or cook?”
    “Apparently not. Fifteen guests today. She needs it delivered by eleven.”
    “Of course she does.” I drop my purse on the desk, make myself a coffee, and get to work.
    Two hours later, Jeff, our driver, arrives, and starts loading up. I can finally take a break.
    I’ve been distracted all morning. On the back burner of my mind simmers everything that happened yesterday. My parents, Eric, A.J.
    Especially A.J.
    I remember leaving the bar with him and getting on his death mobile. I remember parts of the ride home. There’s also a hazy, patchy memory of being carried, though it has the quality of a dream, so I’m not sure if it’s real or not. That’s about it.
    I distinctly do not remember giving him my home address.
    I check my phone. There are six missed phone calls, all of them from Eric. He hasn’t left any voicemail messages. I get a sick feeling in my stomach when I realize I’m going to have to tell him that I left a bar with a guy he’s never met. Who then drove me home on his motorcycle.
    Who then may or may not have tucked me into bed.
    Idi spat, laskovaya moya.
    Ghostly and indistinct, the strange words appear in my mind like a warm breath blown on a cold pane of glass. I don’t know what they mean, but I do know that the tone they were spoken in was anything but angry.
    The tone was tender. Almost . . . loving.
    I’m tempted to think my mind is playing tricks on me. But there’s something . . . I don’t know. There’s something that tells me it wasn’t a drunk dream. Something tells me I really heard those words, in those sweet tones.
    I’m staring off into the distance, lost in thought, when Trina comes up behind me and nearly scares me out of my skin.
    “I forgot to tell you—jeez, jump a little, why don’t you?”
    “Sorry.” I put a hand over my thundering heart. “I was just spacing out. You surprised me.”
    She peers at me. “You okay today? You’ve been spacey all morning.”
    I clear my throat. “Just . . . yeah. Still not feeling a hundred percent. I’ve got that . . . er, flu that’s going around.”
    The wine flu, Kat calls it.
    “What’s up?”
    She holds out an order form. “That order Big Daddy sent—”
    “Oh no, not you, too,” I interrupt, grimacing.
    She grins. Behind her trendy glasses, her big brown eyes sparkle. “Yeah. I heard your brother call him that and thought it was totally apropos. That dude is just a big ol’ huggy bear of a man. Grrrr!” She makes a growly bear noise and sticks her butt out like she’s awaiting a slap on it. “Hey Big Daddy Bear, Little Baby Bear has been baaaaad! She needs a spankin g !”
    “Please never do that again, or I’ll demote you to bucket scrubber.”
    Straightening, Trina laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s not me he wants to spank anyway.” She gives me her signature you know what I’m saying, girlfriend face, which is a bizarre combination of pursed lips, wiggling eyebrows, head nodding, and hair tossing that always manages to make her appear as if a blood vessel in her brain has just burst.
    I’m too busy rewinding what she’s said to fully appreciate it. “What? Who? Me ?