I think about it for a moment. Any other time I get put in this situation, either my family intervene or I say no.
But I’m done with saying no.
If I’m ever going to find my future husband, or have any children, I need to put myself out there.
And what better way to do it than with a beautiful stranger, one that helps a klutzy female pick up her belongings.
I paste on a bright smile, my stomach rolling with nerves. “I’d love to.”
CHAPTER ONE
CHARLOTTE
A yawn slips free as I push the heavy oak doors to the library open. The smell of books immediately hits me, and I begin to relax. Books are life, and this place is my dream. Being here soothes a restlessness inside of me.
Tonight, I’m not meant to be here, but Marlene—my newest member of staff—called me as I was leaving the family to say she had locked up and I had a parcel waiting for me on my desk. I had to come to see what it was since I knew we weren’t expecting deliveries, and I hadn’t ordered anything.
I flick on the office lights, my lips parting at the bouquet of Hyacinths in a square glass vase placed on my desk. A smile lights up my face as I reach for the card attached.
Maybe this is Scott’s way of saying he’s sorry he couldn’t make it to another family gathering. I desperately want them to meet him, and he them.
It’s the first time he has bought me flowers though, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. If he wants to be forgiven, it has worked—not that I can begrudge him for long.
However, I’m unsure why he bought hyacinths. They represent a lot of things: death, sorrow. But this particular colour—yellow—means jealously.
I unfold the note, my brows pinching together as I read over the words.
Beauty wilts at every hour.
Once plucked, the countdown begins.
Neglect will rot such delicate petals without their sturdy roots.
But love and care can slow the clock down and allow beauty its time in the sun.
Does it mean, I’m the flower and I’ve been plucked? Does he mean, our countdown, our life, has just begun?
Or is the note telling I’m going to rot without his love or because of his love?
Whatever the meaning, the thought was still there. I lift the vase up, bringing my nose down to breathe in the flowery scent. I savour the moment, warmth blossoming inside of me as I clutch the vase to my chest.
My first ever flowers from a guy who isn’t family.
Maybe not attending the family gathering earlier had upset him more than I realised. He did say he felt bad but it couldn’t be helped. I had been so consumed with feeling let down once again that I hadn’t stopped to think about how he would feel.
He told me he isn’t in a rush to meet my family, he likes having me to himself, and that family complicates things. And my family really do tend to complicate things. It isn’t just about that though; his job keeps him from making his personal life public. He’s a guy working his way up into politics, so I can understand that. It’s just hard because I hate feeling like my world is split.
With that in mind, I flick the office light off, needing to get back. He hasn’t messaged me but I’m hoping, at some point, he will, or that he will show up at mine. I make my way back out of the library, locking the large double doors behind me.
Today might not have been the best start, but it’s most certainly looking up. Flowers. He got me flowers. Beautiful ones too. The green glitter bow sparkles under the streetlamp as I walk around the corner, heading up the path—mindful of the potholes—to my home.
I love this house. It’s different from all the modern homes, which is what made it stand out to me. The only thing I’d change is the driveaway. There’s a cul-de-sac of houses further up, and although most own their homes, the driveway isn’t owned by any one of us. The council explained that we need planning permission, but refused to pay for the funding, and paving a road this big isn’t something I can do. I am planning to fight and appeal their decision. The road is only wide enough to fit one car up at a time, and it’s hard when you need to get through or avoid a pothole.
Clutching the vase in one arm, I use the other to search my pocket for my keys. I begin to hum a tune I heard earlier on the radio, wishing I knew what the song was called and who the artist was.
Fingers clasping around the cold metal, a triumphant smile lights up my face.
“You’re back then,” Scott declares, and the vase and keys slip free from my grip, both dropping to my feet.
I clutch my chest, staring down at the broken mess of the flowers. It’s shattered. “Scott. I didn’t see you there.”
“Where did you get those flowers from?” he asks, his tone aggrieved.
I bend down, picking up the large chunks of glass and moving them to the side until I can come out with a broom. Tears gather in my eyes as I clean up the broken present. “They’re from you, aren’t they?”
He snorts as I pick up the flowers and keys. I put the key into the lock and push open the door.
“They most certainly aren’t. For one thing, they are tacky as hell.”
I flinch and my chest constricts. They aren’t from him? “But I thought—”
“You thought you could lie to me?” he rumbles, shutting the door behind me. I place the flowers on the side table and turn to him.
“Scott, I thought they were from you. They were delivered to the library.”
His gaze scans over my body, and I nervously tug at the hem of my jumper. It’s cold out, and this is the thickest one I have. It has a pink kitten on the front. I know he doesn’t like it when I wear things like this. I duck my head, feeling embarrassed and ashamed.
His lip curls. “What are you wearing?”
“I’m washing my… my other clothes,” I admit. I want to impress him, to feel sexy and grown up, but every time he looks at me like that, I feel anything but. And I only have so many of my other clothes; clothes that make me feel stiff and uncomfortable. But for him, I wear them.
He runs his fingers through his hair, his blue eyes boring into me. “What are we doing, Charlotte?”
“What do you mean?”
He points to his chest, then to me. “Us. Is this going anywhere?”
“I—”
“Because I want more than this. I’ve been more than a gentleman in giving you time, but now this…” he states, pointing at the flowers.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” I tell him, my voice low.
“We’ve been seeing each other for a while, and although the foreplay has been okay, I want more. And now I come back after spending all day in the office and you’ve received flowers,” he spits out.
I rush forward, placing my hand on his chest, but he smacks it away, averting his gaze.
Tears gather in my eyes. “Scott, no. I don’t know who these flowers came from. I swear. You know how I feel about you.”
He pushes my hand away again when I go to reach for him, and my heart begins to crack. I’m losing him.
“Then why won’t you let me fuck you? Why do you constantly push me away if there isn’t anyone else in the picture? I’m trying here, Charlotte. I really am. I’ve been patient.”