Cold Treatment

My phone buzzed and I looked at it, a message from my mother glowing on the screen. After opening it, I let out a scoff. There was no doubt that it was an image of the guy I was being set up with. Short, coffee-colored hair framed his pointy face, his eyes sharp and challenging. I recognized that look. It was the same one I used when I looked down upon someone.

Another text buzzed.

Carlo Eliseo, 25. Get his orchids, not roses. Went to Harvard. Do not wear jeans.

I locked my phone and resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I didn't need Spark Notes for a date. Especially considering I didn't care for said date. Then an idea hit me.

"Henry," I called.

Five seconds later he popped his head in, glasses sitting crookedly on his face.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Prepare a dozen roses for me tomorrow, by five o'clock."

He gave me a confused look. "Your mother requested a dozen orchids already."

I felt the corner of my lip rise. If I was the one dumped, my mother couldn't complain. "She made a mistake. I'll