*I messed up your bed ;)*

His reply comes back almost instantly.

*Without me?*

Giggling, I type:

*It was an urgent matter. I couldn’t stop thinking about last night and this morning and…well…something had to be done. I took matters into my own hands. Literally.*

Sliding my phone into my pocket, I remake the bed, already looking forward to messing it up again later. My phone vibrates.

*This is the first time I’ve EVER had a hard-on during a meeting. It’s long and arduous. The meeting, not my… Never mind.*

I laugh out loud, loving how he responds to my word games.

*My deepest apologies for inconveniencing you, Mr. Leary. But you should know, I’m not sorry.*

In the bathroom I freshen up before joining Mercy in the kitchen.

Logan’s response arrives:

*I imagine you’re not. I imagine you’re loving this.*

Followed swiftly by:

*Dammit, now I can’t concentrate. Last night/this morning was fucking AMAZING!*

I grin to myself, and then type back:

*Tonight will be better.*

*I don’t doubt it.*

Mercy slides a plate in front of me, and on it is the largest sandwich that I’ve ever seen.

“Eat up, you’ll need lots of energy for this afternoon,” she says.

Nodding, I take a large bite and then write one final message to Logan:

*I’ve got to go, baby. Your birthday present awaits! No, you can’t have any clues about what it is, but I’m looking forward to showing you later. Enjoy the rest of your meeting (haha). Love you x*

I set my phone down and dig in to the rest of my sandwich. Mercy takes a seat next to me and we get to chatting about this afternoon, but I can’t keep my eyes from darting to the kitchen clock. They’re late. Five minutes pass. They’re even later. Panic starts to rise within me…are they going to show up at all? Did I mess up the booking? What am I going to tell Logan?

I have premature excuses all ready to go when my phone rings, making us both jump. The number is unrecognised.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Bonjour, c’est Gemima Samuels?” a male voice asks. Is this Gemima Samuels?

“Oui. Et vous?” I reply. And you?

“Je m’appelle François. Je suis du Le Petit Paris Jardin. Je suis à l’adresse que vous avez fournie avec votre livraison,” he tells me very hastily. I’m François. I’m from the The Little Paris Garden. I’m at the address you provided with your delivery.

Still unnerved about their late arrival, I blurt out, “Vous êtes ici pour installer le jardin ainsi, n’est-ce?” You’re here to install the garden as well, aren’t you?

“Oui, Mlle. Samuels. Nous sommes prêts à commencer,” he says, his voice calmer. Yes, Miss. Samuels. We’re ready to begin.

I sigh in relief. Everything’s going to be OK, I tell myself. “I’ll be right down,” I say in English, before hanging up, giving Mercy an excited smile, and hurrying over to the elevator.

Downstairs I meet the three men on the busy road, where they’re double parked. I let them into the garage where they station their large van in the vacant spot next to my car. Then, first things first, I bring them upstairs to meet Mercy and the five of us congregate around the dining table. I lay out my design for the roof terrace in the middle of the table, and talk everyone through exactly what I want to create, before we move outside onto the terrace itself, and I repeat myself, realising that I probably should have started here to begin with. It’s easier for them to visualise what I’m describing when the blank canvas is right in front of them.

Water under the bridge, I tell myself, ignoring this minor management error and pushing down the tension-cum-excitement that is riddling my body. This is so much more nerve-wracking than I anticipated it would be. Why, I wonder. Because it’s for Logan? Because I have to present a report on the whole process to Amélie? Or because if this goes well, it might just be the inspiration that I need to begin looking for work in this field of design? Whatever the reason, I’m not accustomed to working with these sorts of nerves, and I really don’t like them.

Ten minutes after my workforce has assured me that they know what I want, the project manager puts me to work sweeping and washing down the cream slabs on the terrace, and I feel much better putting my hands to something. I give Mercy the task of photographing the various progressions of the transformation, which I need for the report for Amélie, while my hired help makes the first of many trips back down to the garage to begin unloading their van.

Once the terrace is completely clean, the first things to go in are the stylish wooden planter boxes which, due to their size, have to be manually constructed.

“They have lights on them,” I say, pointing out the unexpected addition of a lighting system. I can’t recall ordering something this high-tech.

François looks stressed by my comment. “Sont-elles différentes de celles que vous avez achetées?” he asks, almost timidly. Are these different from the ones you ordered?

“Elles sont parfaites,” I say hurriedly, not wanting to cause any fuss. They’re perfect.

As they continue putting the boxes together, I nip inside, phone in hand, and pull up my order confirmation email and then quickly check the company’s website. Yup, just as I thought — the boxes they’ve delivered, with their fancy lights, are significantly more expensive than the ones I paid for. I peer over my shoulder making sure I’m not being watched and then I close my web browser. Don’t say a word, I tell myself, internally celebrating this win.

The planters line the outer three edges of the terrace, leaving two sizeable gaps, one for a large circular seat, which will be the only point where the edge of the terrace can be reached, and one for a huge, ceramic plant pot that comes up to my waist. A few more smaller pots are put in next, filling the spaces between the French double doors on the outer wall of Logan’s apartment. They’re a deep, rich red in colour, bringing a burst of heat and passion into the contemporary colour scheme.

Next, it’s time for the reticulation equipment to be laid, and an initial, shallow layer of soil, before two labourers begin ferrying in the first round of greenery. Earlier I impressed, probably more times than I needed to, my intention to draw attention inwards creating a private, secluded retreat, rather than drawing the eye outwards to the hectic busyness of this business district, and these large, tall, and luscious plants deliver that intention instantly. They sit at the back of the planters, and it seems that before being planted fully, everything is going to be laid out for me to first approve. I like that method, I note. I give the thumbs up to everything that’s been done so far, however, once all the greenery is in place, work grinds to a halt. The array of colourful flowers that are supposed to sit at the front of the planter boxes are nowhere in sight, and the two men take a seat in the doorframe.

After a brief conversation with them I learn that the third member of my hired workforce has gone to retrieve the second van load.

“Vous avez commandé beaucoup de choses,” one of them tells me. You ordered a lot of things.

Good, I think, feeling grateful for the shopping splurge I went on last week. After all, I want this space to look abundant and full, and whilst hoping I don’t jinx anything, I can’t helping thinking — so far, so good. At least the plants will be abundant, but scanning the space I start to think that there may be room for more. Don’t second guess yourself, I repeat in my mind, not that it makes any difference, I second guess anyway.

Abruptly I come to the conclusion that parallel to the French doors there is definitely enough room for a table-and-chairs-set-up. As soon as this decision is made, excitement mounts within me at the thought of further shopping. It’s ridiculous how happy spending money makes me. I’m sure there are support groups for these sorts of things.