The concierge, a wiry, balding man in a too-big blue blazer, looked up from his newspaper. “Can I help you?”
Sean patted the box. “Flower delivery for a Ms. Cassandra Mallory.”
“Okay, you can leave’em here.”
“No can do. My sheet said personal delivery only. She has to sign for them.”
“I can sign for them. We don’t like delivery people using the elevators.”
“Come on, give me a break. They barely pay me enough to cover my gas. I live on my tips. You’re not going to tip me, right?”
“Those flowers ain’t for me, so damn right I’m not.”
“Look, I’m just a working stiff trying to make a living. I got a dozen long-stems in this box and another fifteen deliveries to make before eight tonight. I’m busting my butt for chump change.”
“You look a little old to be schlepping flowers.”
“I used to have my own mortgage finance business.”
The man gave him a knowing look. “Oh.”
“So can you just call up and tell her I’m here? If she doesn’t want them, no sweat.”
The man hesitated but then picked up the phone. “Ms. Mallory. It’s Carl at concierge. Look, I got a flower delivery for you here.” He paused. “Uh, I don’t know. Hang on a sec.” He looked at Sean. “Who are they from?”
Sean riffled in his shirt pocket and consulted a blank piece of paper. “A Greg Dawson.”
Carl repeated this into the phone. “Right, okay, you’re the boss.”
He hung up and looked at Sean. “Your lucky day. She’s in Unit 756. Elevator’s over there.”
“Super. Hope she’s a good tipper.”
“You’re a good looking guy, so if you’re really lucky she might tip you something else.”
Sean feigned puzzlement before saying, “What, are you saying she’s a babe?”
“Let me put it this way, friend, when she saunters across the lobby I feel like I’m in a Playboy fantasy. Only reason I keep this crummy job.”
Sean rode the glass elevator up, staring out at an incredible view of the coastline. Cassandra must’ve been waiting by the door because it opened only a second after he knocked. She was barefoot and wearing a terrycloth robe that stopped mid-thigh. Her hair was damp; she might have gone for a swim or taken a shower.
“Flowers?” she said.
“Right, from a Mr. Dawson.”
“I have to say I’m surprised.”
Sean gave her the once-over. “Ma’am, you strike me as someone who gets lots of flowers from gentlemen.”
She flashed him a smile. “You’re sweet.”
“Just need you to sign here.” He held out his pad and a pen. While she signed, he opened the box. Inside were twelve long-stem roses that he’d bought from a street vendor for four bucks.
She held one and smelled it. “They’re beautiful.”
“You have a vase to put them in? Good to get water on them right away.”
She glanced up at him and her smile deepened. As she ran her gaze over his lean six-foot-two-inch frame and handsome face, she said in a throaty voice that made Sean feel suddenly unclean, “What’s your name?”