The Text God: Text and You Shall Receive ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  “Thank you for saying that because I wasn’t sure. He’s so nice to the customers but as soon as he has to talk to me … ouch,” she says. Lowering her voice, she adds, “I’m not sure how long I’m going to last, to be honest. I don’t think I’m cut out for this job. But I really need to make it work because I’m not sure if you know this, but New York is a really expensive place to live.”

  I chuckle and nod. “I’ve heard. Listen, if you want to keep this job, little tip—it’s The Asher Hotel, not the Aster.”

  She slaps her face with her right hand. “Shit! That’s the third time I’ve called it that.” Her eyes grow wide. “And I said shit in front of a customer. Oh, Zeus, strike me down now with a lightning bolt.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell,” I say with a wink.

  “Thank you. You’re the nicest person I’ve seen all day.”

  And you’re the prettiest person I’ve seen in years. Whoa! Where did that come from? “Umm … thanks. Well, I’m glad I stopped by.”

  She gasps. “Oh, no! I completely forgot to ask what I can help you with?”

  I should just tell her what I want so I can get back to work. The problem is, I don’t want to. She’s standing in front of me looking so adorably flustered, I don’t want to leave. “No, you didn’t,” I say, drawing the conversation out a bit longer. “But you did ask how you could make my day better.”

  “We have to say that,” she says with a grimace.

  “So, you didn’t mean it?” I’m smiling ear to ear like a schoolboy with a crush.

  She shuts her eyes. “No … yes, of course I did. I do. It just sounds …” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “a little cheesy to me.”

  “Agreed,” I say, leaning one elbow on the counter so I can nudge a little closer to her.

  “I’d help you check in, but I’m not allowed to touch anything.”

  “I heard.”

  “Right. I’m also not allowed to flirt with the guests,” she says, then she looks shocked at her words. “I don’t know why I said that.”

  “Is it because you kind of want to flirt with me?” I ask, putting on a cocky grin.

  “No! Not at all. I wouldn’t … I couldn’t … It’s not allowed …” she repeats as her eyes dart all over the elegant lobby. “I wonder what’s keeping Todd.”

  “The spa is a pretty far walk.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  I nod. “A few times, yes.”

  An awkward moment of silence passes before Jennifer’s eyes light up. “You look like the type of person who appreciates fine art. Perhaps strikingly colorful and happy watercolors?” She raises and lowers her eyebrows in an enticing way, even though it oddly reminds me of a really bad used-car salesman.

  I pause for a second and stare at her. What an odd, odd woman. Totally gorgeous, absolutely adorable, but so very strange. I’m compelled to know more. “How can you tell?”

  Her cheeks flush a bit. “Because you have a bright blue tie on and you’re quick to smile. I thought maybe you’d be in the market for some upscale paintings by one of New York’s hot new artists.”

  I lean in and lower my voice in case someone’s around. “Are you that artist?”

  She glances around and offers me a tiny nod. Part of me is expecting her to lift one of her creations up from behind the counter. I stifle a laugh at the image, not wanting to offend her. “And you’re trying to sell me paintings here at the front desk? While you’re on duty?”

  “Like I said, I don’t think this job is going to work out,” she says. “If I can find a buyer for a few pieces while I’m here—you know, before they fire me for incompetence -- it’ll help bridge the gap while I find something else.” This woman is so unsuspecting and sweet, she’s throwing off my equilibrium.

  “How do you know I have any money?” I ask her, keen to keep this conversation going.

  “I used to work retail. That suit must have run you about two thousand, and the shoes, at least six hundred.”

  “Maybe I’ve spent everything I have on this outfit and I’m flat broke,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her. I haven’t had this much fun in far too long.

  She stares at me for a second before shaking her head. “Nice try. You’re rich. You’re probably a doctor or something.”

  “Lawyer.”

  “I knew it!” she says, snapping her fingers. “A lawyer who needs a bunch of art for his massive but nearly-empty apartment?”

  The sound of a throat clearing has both Jennifer and me straightening up. Todd comes to stand next to her and says, “Mr. Daly. A pleasure to see you, as always. I apologize for making you wait. I assume you’re here for Mr. Collins.” He sounds professional, but he’s looking at me like I’m a juicy apple that he wants to take a bite out of.

  I nod as he turns on Jennifer. “Certainly, you could have called up to Mr. Collins’ office and told him Mr. Daly is here.”

  “She could have,” I tell him with a decided chill, “but I didn’t ask her to.” I should probably just give Jennifer or Todd the envelope for Audra, but I don’t want to get her in trouble on her first day. Todd is clearly the kind of guy who would hold a personal transaction against her.

  He looks taken aback. “If I may be so bold, why didn’t you ask her to?”

  “I heard you rather forcefully instruct her not to touch anything—not very professional, by the way—so I thought it best not to ask her to do something that would get her in trouble.”

  Todd’s face flashes with shame and his eyes fill with fear. “Oh, I didn’t mean that,” he says, putting on a fake laugh. He turns to Jennifer. “You knew I didn’t mean that, didn’t you, Jen? I was just teasing her. Workplace banter and all.”

  Raising my eyebrows, I give him a glare. “I guess the joke went over my head. I’m going up to see Tony. Call him and tell him I’m here.”

  With that, I smile at Jennifer. “It was lovely to meet you.”

  Strange, fun, and weirdly exciting. But mostly lovely.

  Chapter Seven

  Jen

  It’s been nine months and four days since I went out on a date. How do I know that? I’m keeping track. I like to think that I don’t care about men, and that I have better things to do than dwell on my sorry love life, but my friend Aimée has recently fallen in love with some gorgeous English architect, and darn it, I’m a little bit jealous.

  The truth is, dating in New York is not easy. You’d think on an island with over seven million people, you’d run into plenty of potential suitors, and while there may be one here somewhere, how exactly are you supposed to find them?

  The last time I tried talking to a cute guy at the grocery store, he told me to step aside so he could grab some bananas. After that, I tried to flirt with a good-looking guy on the subway. He pulled out his junk right in front of me. One look at his tiny dingly-dangly, and I had to resist the urge to throw up. You’d be surprised how often that happens in a big city.

  It was in that moment that I decided to let love find me.

  Unfortunately, if you can’t meet the man of your dreams at work, and I’ve been instructed that’s not allowed here at The Asher, where am I supposed to meet him? I was roofied at the last club I went to and was lucky my friend Teisha saved me before the guy dragged me out of there. With my track record, it could be another nine months before I have a date again.

  I can’t stop thinking about Mr. Daly. I don’t know what his first name is, but I think he looks like a Dillon or a Hunter—something really manly. I would definitely go out with him if he asked. Yes, even if it meant losing my job. I suddenly have dating on the brain in the worst way.

  “Are you coming or not?” Todd’s nasty tone shoots into my daydream like a harpoon.

  “I’m sorry?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “It’s time for lunch. You and I have the same break time.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, no,” I tell him. He stares
at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I thought I’d walk across the street and pick up a hot dog.”

  “Just don’t leave through the front door,” he warns before hurrying away.

  As I don’t know where the back door is yet, I ignore him. Luckily, I put five dollars into my pocket this morning, so I don’t have to go down to the locker room first. Dresses with pockets are the best.

  As I casually stroll through the lobby, hoping Lavender or any other spies aren’t witnessing my escape, I run right into Mr. Daly. “Hello again,” I say with a good dose of excitement.

  “What’s a pretty lady like you doing in a place like this?” he asks jokingly.

  “I’m off to look for a hot dog vendor in the park,” I tell him.

  “Would you like some company?”

  “I would!” I answer with way too much enthusiasm. Trying to tone it down, I add, “That is, if you’re in the mood for a hot dog.”

  “I’m always in the mood for a hot dog,” he tells me, leading the way.

  Once we’re standing on the street, I confess, “I have a mad urge to run.”

  “Like a brisk jog around the reservoir?”

  “Like to freedom, away from the stuffy people at The Asher.” I look up at his gorgeousness, all tall with his dark hair, chiseled jaw, and expensive suit. I momentarily allow myself to be swept away in the depths of his silver-grey eyes.

  “If you hate it that much, maybe you should just quit.”

  “I would,” I tell him, “but I really do need the money, and a friend recommended me. I don’t want to let him down.”

  He nods his head. “That makes sense.”

  We cross the street and stroll along the wide path leading into Central Park. Everywhere you look, there are kids clad in shorts and T-shirts running around on the lush grass while their moms or nannies sit on benches staring at their phones. It’s the perfect summer day—emerald leaves set against a flawless azure sky, and just a hint of a breeze to make you feel alive. We stand in line at the first hot dog stand we see, and Mr. Daly says, “I’d like to see your artwork sometime.”

  I’m so excited. I envision myself texting God a huge thank you, but obviously I can’t do that right now. “I’d love to show you!” I tell him while pulling out my phone. “I have some pictures if you want to look through them.”

  “Let’s get our hot dogs and find a bench first,” he says. Once we buy our lunch, I slather on enough ketchup, onions, and relish to get some vegetables into me. Then we sit down facing Central Park South.

  As soon as I take my first (and not exactly delicate) bite, he asks, “So, where are you from?”

  I point at my mouth and do that whole head-bobbing/eye-moving thing that’s universal for I can’t talk because I’m busy chewing like a horse.

  Mr. Daly says, “Sorry about that. I hate it when people do that to me.” He gives me a lopsided grin and glances at my hot dog. “Wow, that’s impressive. You managed to cram almost half of it in your mouth in one bite. I should have some too so you’re not chewing alone …” A mischievous look crosses his face while he strokes his chin. “But what fun would that be? I think I’ll carry on a conversation for both of us.” Raising his voice a little, he says, “I’m from Kansas.” Returning to his normal sexy tone, he says, “Really? Kansas? Did you move here to get away from all those tornadoes or was it so you could meet a guy who doesn’t wear overalls to formal events?”

  Damn, why did I take such a huge bite?! Now I’m trying to chew and swallow as fast as I can while also trying not to laugh which makes it so much harder to chew. I end up making a weird honking sound that mostly comes from the back of my nose. Then I start to choke for real. My chest heaves while I try to keep everything in my mouth. Mr. Daly is going to hightail it out of here faster than a mugger running from a cop if I spit my lunch out at his feet.

  He quickly sets down his hot dog, grabs mine, and places it next to his. “Quick! Put your arms up over your head!” he orders.

  When I don’t do it, he stands, takes my hands and lifts them high in the air while I continue to gasp and sputter. I’m going to die. Death by hot dog right here in Central Park. I’m not even wearing nice underwear. This is going to be so embarrassing.

  Thank God, I finally manage to swallow. Which is quickly followed by opening my mouth and refilling my lungs with oxygen. That’s when I realize Mr. Daly is still holding my hands, his handsome face full of concern. I hadn’t realized how badly I missed human touch. The feel of his skin on mine spreads a warmth throughout every cell of my body.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  I nod. “Thanks. How did you know to do that?”

  “I come from an Irish Catholic family which means I have a lot of nieces and nephews. Kids choke surprisingly often.”

  “Oh,” I say, absolutely mesmerized watching his mouth move. We’re still holding hands, which is the most intimate thing that’s happened to me since I moved to New York. I swear the mood between us shifts to something deep and powerful. We stay like this for a little longer, staring into each other’s eyes, before he seems to remember himself and lets go. “I’m really sorry about almost killing you. I shouldn’t have been trying to make you laugh while you were eating.”

  “It’s okay, it’s not your fault I eat like a starving dog.”

  Sitting back down, he says, “It’s my fault entirely. You’re not the only person I’ve almost killed with my incredible sense of humor.” He shakes his head gravely. “It happens all the time.”

  I let out a loud laugh while he picks up both of our hot dogs. Before he hands me mine, he says, “I promise not to talk until you’re done eating.”

  He takes a regular-sized bite and I say, “I’m not some hick from Kansas, by the way. I’m from the bustling metropolis of Hickle Heights, right outside Omaha, Nebraska. I’ll have you know, we have one pizza place, a trading post/grocery store, and a blacksmith museum.”

  He swallows, grins, and wipes his mouth. “Impressive. With all that, I’m surprised I’ve never heard of it before.”

  “It’s one of America’s best kept secrets,” I say, then risk another bite—smaller this time.

  Mr. Daly opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, holding up a finger as if he’s reminding himself it’s not safe for me. We eat in silence for a couple of minutes, and every thirty seconds or so, he mutters things like “Not yet,” and “Almost there.” I love his sense of humor.

  Once we’re done, he takes my napkin and scrunches it up in a ball with his, then he executes the perfect shot from the bench into the garbage bin next to it.

  “Nice,” I say, wishing I had some gum to offset those delicious onions I just scarfed down.

  “Varsity basketball,” he tells me.

  “Really?”

  With a captivating smile, he answers, “No. I just thought that might impress you.”

  He wants to impress me? My heart is pounding like a jackhammer.

  I smile, then glance at the boating pond, feeling suddenly shy. When I look at him again, he has that slightly stunned look on his face. I wonder if he’s feeling the same connection I am. “You were going to show me your work.”

  Oh, right. I’m here for money. Not love. But maybe love too? I pull up my gallery on my phone. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “That’s a lily,” I tell him before asking, “What did you think it was?”

  “Oh, I … well … you know … it has some decidedly feminine lines. I thought it might be, you know … a lily,” he finally settles on.

  “This painting is six feet by six feet so it would make a really nice focal point in your living room.”

  “I can imagine.” I can’t tell if he sounds impressed or shocked by the idea. “What do you charge for a masterpiece like this?” he asks.

  “This one is thirty-five hundred,” I tell him. “But you should know that I have over a hundred and fifty hours into it plus materials, so that’s not
really a lot.”

  He nods his head. “I’m going to think about it. I’ll come back into The Asher and let you know if I decide to pull the trigger.”

  Shoot, and here I was hoping we’d exchange phone numbers. I don’t think I should ask for his number because he’s a friend of my boss and what if he tells Mr. Collins that I asked for his number? I’d be fired on the spot.

  His phone rings and a pretty blonde’s picture appears on the screen. He makes a little grunting sound, then apologizes to me. “Hi, Alexis.”

  There’s a long pause before he says, “That’s okay, I’ll see you tomorrow night then.” Pause.

  “Wednesday then, after my game.” Pause. “Sure, just let me know.” Pause. “You, too.”

  Nuts, I was hoping he didn’t have a girlfriend but the way he said “You, too” was an obvious reply to someone telling him that they love him.

  Of course, some lucky girl has already snapped him up. He’s completely perfect. All the hope I was feeling pops like an overfilled water balloon. I smile at him, praying my sadness doesn’t show. “Girlfriend?”

  He nods.

  “Well, you’ll probably need to see if she’d like my work then.”

  “She won’t,” he says, then quickly adds. “Not because it’s not beautiful. It’s just that she’s a little … less adventuresome in her taste in art. She’s more of a still-life sort of person.” Pointing to my astonishingly pink lily, he says, “This might shock her.”

  “Ah, gotcha. So it’s a no then, obviously.”

  “It’s not a no,” he says. “I decide how to decorate my home. She does hers.”

  Oh, so they don’t live together. Maybe it’s not serious.

  Okay, Jen, stop that. He’s got a girlfriend and you are not one of those women. Now, get yourself away from the incredible man you want to beg to marry you before you say or do anything dumber than you already have.

  I stand up quickly and announce, “I should run. We only have thirty minutes for lunch.”

  “I have to get back to the office too.” He stands and holds out his right hand. We shake like two business associates, but I swear it feels like so much more. Smiling, he says, “It was a pleasure to have lunch with you, Jennifer. I’ll make sure to let you know what I decide about the painting.”