Read To See You for Free Online

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    Ugh.
    This wasn’t the time to get poetic. Or to mix metaphors.
    I would have to add an ice cream on the street ( maybe eat it first? ) to my Chinese splurge.
    Flowers? For me? I was the one who should be apologizing, not him.
    And the champagne glass? He really seemed to know the way to my heart.
    Not to mention his voice, which rang in my ear all the way home. I took the subway in an effort to drown out my imagining his sandpapery voice reading his note aloud. I stood there, clutching my floral arrangement over my bag across my chest, thinking a cab would have been better but I needed the distraction.
    It didn’t work, though. In my mind, Layton’s eyes were fixed on me and really seeing me, checking my reaction. His inspection of me felt real, sending tingles over my skin and need clawing down my spine. I itched to see Layton in real life and not only in my mind, which was so strange considering I’d only met him once.
    Finally, we arrived at my stop. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks as the bustle of exiting the subway station and holding on to my present was enough to put an end to my overactive imagination.

 
    I sat on my patio, my feet up on the table and a beer in my hand, the night quiet except for Harriette’s rustling around in the yard. I shut my eyes and breathed in the salty air.
    Why did I have to go and send flowers? And I don’t mean calling up 1-800-Flowers like some dumb bachelor. No, I’d googled for the most highly recommended boutique florist in New York City and called them up myself.
    “I need something special for someone . . . unique,” I’d said over the phone. “A one-off, rich in colors and, hmmm, let me think. In a champagne glass?”
    The guy with an accent told me he could work with that, and set about e-mailing me a picture of an oversized champagne glass and a quote. I’d responded right away with an affirmative.
    Okay, before you start handing out awards for “Dude of the Year,” I must admit, I’d seen this move in a movie. It was a romantic dramedy where the guy never seemed to get the girl he wanted until . . . he really tried.
    Story of my life, really.
    I’d had a ton of women. Gingers, brunettes, and even a few Asians. I liked them all. They liked me too. I was funny and I set them at ease. They weren’t perfect. Too skinny, heads covered with overly curly hair, they loved the Jedi Force or enjoyed graphic novels—those were my kind of girl. Around me, they felt good about themselves, at ease and confident. They complimented me and meant it.
    I was self-made, successful, and a bit of a romantic. All those characteristics were in my favor. And my personality wasn’t so bad, I’d been told. I listened to people, really listened, and I was generous. In and out of bed.
    Although I’d been told this, I’d never gotten the girl , the one everyone else wanted. And the minute I saw Charli walk onto the plane, I knew she was that kind of girl. The one everyone wanted.
    Yeah, she tried to hide behind the bitchy attitude, the New York snobbery, but for a minute or five, I broke her down. I saw behind her prissy shell and couture armor, and I wanted that. All of that.
    “I did, my pretty lady,” I said to my only true girl. “I saw it and broke her down.”
    Actually, my one-and-only sat at my side, panting from chasing after her ball and dripping drool onto my knee. I shifted in my seat, wincing when my cargo shorts bit into my ass, and sighed at the sight of my T-shirt clinging to my stomach—a reminder of why my dog was my only girl.
    On a long exhale, I told myself I should settle for one of the women who found me appealing, inside and out, rather than chase the unattainable. But I couldn’t stop my mind from conjuring up images of Charli, or running away with the idea of seeing her again.
    I had a plan.
    If she’d only e-mail me back.
    Harriette looked at me like What the fuck? Her soft doggie eyes were so droopy and inviting, and even though she