Read Online Evening Storm by Anne Calhoun - Free Book Online Page A

woman. She didn’t want to like her, because Simone could see Ryan settling down with a woman composed and self-aware, but like her she did. “If I could see the gown, perhaps? I’ll send my assistant to get it.”
    Ryan held up his mobile. “I’ve already texted the driver.”
    Simone rose. “Excuse me for just a moment,” she said, and went back into the showroom. Lorrie hustled down the stairs and returned with a dressmaker’s bag held high to keep it from dragging on the floor. “I’ll take that,” Simone said with a smile.
    â€œThe driver said he was double-parked, so he was going to move the car, and to text when he needs him,” Lorrie added, and left.
    Simone carried the dress through to the workroom, hung it on a hook by the three-way mirror, and arranged a folding screen to give Daria a measure of privacy while she changed into it. Daria declined an offer of help, and disappeared behind the screen.
    Lorrie poked her head into the workroom. “There’s a delivery for you.”
    â€œI’m not expecting a delivery,” Simone said.
    â€œIt’s a bike messenger,” Lorrie said, and closed the door behind her.
    Ignoring Ryan, Simone stood at the edge of the three-way mirror. “Ms. Russell, excuse me for a moment, but I need to take a delivery.”
    â€œNot a problem,” Daria said from behind the screen. Simone heard the
whoosh
of denim against skin as she took off her jeans.
    The showroom was busy but Lorrie seemed to have things under control. The bike messenger who had delivered Ryan’s outrageous tip stood in the doorway, dressed in his helmet, blade shades, cargo shorts over tights, and a skin-tight bike jersey. Blond scruff glinted against tanned skin. He wore a messenger bag slung across his body and cradled a plant in his arm.
    Not just any plant. An enormous, lush arrangement of orchids drooped and trembled in the messenger’s arms.
    â€œOh, pauvre petite plante,” Simone said as she approached him. “You didn’t put that poor thing in your bag, did you?”
    â€œNo, ma’am,” he said. His smile was quick to arrive and just as quick to disappear. “The florist was only a couple blocks away. I walked this pretty thing on over.”
    While he held the plant, Simone gently touched the velvety flowers, admiring the intricate shape of the petals. Five stems surrounded by green leaves and white rocks arced from a white bowl. Each stem bowed under the weight of flowers the color of twilight, more than Simone could easily count. There was no personal card tucked into a plastic holder or the ribbon wrapped around the pot, just one from the florist explaining that another arrangement would arrive every four weeks for the next five years. She mentally revised her estimate from “expensive” to “the height of extravagance.”
    â€œWho sent it?” she asked, her brain alternating between displaying it on the showroom counter and covetously keeping it in her apartment.
    â€œI’m just the messenger, ma’am,” he said. “The florist might be able to tell you that. Sign here.”
    Simone signed for the plant and took it from the bike messenger. He shifted his shoulders, rolling them back, a movement that seemed automatic to Simone, the kind of thing people did to ease an ache that was never actually going away. She did the same thing with her hands, massaging her palms and wrists in slow, steady motions, the way Ryan did when he told her about Jade.
    Ryan, who now stood in Simone’s workroom with an actress that stole this year’s Best Actress Oscar as a dark horse in a field of thoroughbreds. Ryan, who had taken her hand in his and massaged the aches away, following them up her forearms to her elbows, where the tendons and muscles had tightened into intricate knots.
    â€œCan I get you anything?” she asked the bike messenger. “Water, or a pain