By five o’clock, my task list for the day is complete. The only thing left to do is find Anderson and start getting his feedback. I fight off the disappointment that comes when I realize he hasn’t once come to check on me today. After giving me the flowers, I was certain that he would.
I’m about to give up waiting for him when I hear feet padding down the hall. I hop out of my seat and smooth my pale-pink dress down to my knees.
“Hey,” I say the moment he comes into view.
He’s already frowning in typical Anderson fashion. “Your lunch is still sitting in the staff room. Didn’t you get my text?”
I look down and spot my phone then bat my eyes back at him. “It’s off. I do that sometimes when I’m trying to focus.” I tilt my head. “You brought me lunch?”
“Well, yeah,” he says, his brows heavy. “Feeding you is kind of in the contract. And I didn’t know if you ended up eating last night.”
I wave a hand away, not wanting to go back to that dark memory. “It’s okay. I had coffee and a banana this morning and was so into what I was doing, I didn’t even think about food.” My stomach rumbles, and I laugh. “Until now.”
Anderson almost smiles. I can feel it even though his expression is still downturned. “I’m headed to the cafeteria now. I can deliver something to your room if you’d rather eat there.”
Panic kicks in my chest. “Can’t I eat with you?”
Shock registers on his face. “Of course. I just thought…” His eyes flicker to the bouquet of two dozen long-stemmed roses still sitting on my desk, and his expression changes. “I almost forgot about those.”
“What do you mean you almost forgot?” I laugh. “They’re beautiful, Anderson. Thank you.”
He opens his mouth, closes it again, and then his frown deepens. “Those aren’t from me, Hope. Now, I wish they were, but it wasn’t me. They were delivered early this morning.”
Embarrassment sweeps me under its riptide as a new realization dawns on me—a possibility I never once considered. Dexter.
I reach into the roses, and my fingers immediately touch a card I hadn’t thought to look for earlier. And then another realization hits me. I never thought they could be from Dexter because I desperately wanted them to be from Anderson.
Wow. What a complete and utter fool I am.
The note is simple, just signed with Dexter’s scribbly name that I recognize from the hundreds of documents I’ve watched him sign over the past year. And then I turn back to Anderson, the giddiness I’d felt minutes before now morphing into embarrassment.
I let out a laugh and shake my head. “I’m sorry. How silly of me. Of course these aren’t from you. You’re not exactly a hearts-and-flowers kind of guy, are you?” I laugh, trying to cover up my humiliation, but it only feels like it’s getting worse.
“I sure as hell would never buy you roses.”
My eyes snap to his. “Wow. You’re really laying it on thick today, aren’t you?”
He scrunches his face. “That’s not what I meant. I always thought you were more of a hydrangea kind of girl.”
The fact that he thinks he knows me so well makes me want to show him just how much I’ve changed. “I guess it depends on the occasion. Hydrangeas are pretty and fun, but roses are elegant and beautiful and romantic.”
“Romantic, huh? So, then who are they from?”
My brain churns with all the possible explanations. The one thing I can’t tell him is the truth. He can’t find out I’m sleeping with my boss. He just can’t. And telling him the man who sent them is a fling who wants more, but I’ve yet to make up my mind, doesn’t sound right either. I don’t even want to know what Anderson would think of me if he knew the truth.
Anderson shifts, bringing my attention back to him. “Is it a secret?”
“Does it matter?” I snap.
He shrugs, not at all affected by my drastic mood change. “I’m curious, that’s all.”
Choosing a different approach, I pluck a rose from the bunch and bring it to my nose while meeting his eyes in a challenging stare. “I suppose my boyfriend misses me, is all.” The lie feels bitter on my tongue, because while Dexter is the only one I’ve been with over the last few months, we have yet to take that official next step.
Anderson’s expression morphs into shock, confusion, and what might be dread. “Your boyfriend?”
“Is the idea of me having a boyfriend that surprising?”
“No, but you haven’t mentioned him.”
I shrug and stick the rose back into the vase. “It hasn’t come up.”
He blinks at me, face blank, stare unwavering. “Then tell me about him now. What does he do? Does he treat you well? How long has it been?”
I hold a hand up like I can control the rate at which he’s firing questions. “Whoa there, Bexley. Your curiosity is a little overbearing.”
He glares back at me like he isn’t taking no for an answer. “C’mon, Hope. Who is this guy?”
I shake my head. “Nope. We’re not doing this. It doesn’t even matter.”
He raises his brows as though I gave him an answer to his rapid-fire questions. “Then it must not be serious if you don’t like talking about him.”
I fold my arms and narrow my lids. “As a matter of fact, it’s very serious. We’ve been seeing each other for months now, and he’s… he’s very”—I swallow hard—“charming.”
The tan on Anderson’s face seems to fade some. “I see. And he makes you happy?”
“Very.” My words are quick and as convincing as possible.
“Well, if he makes you happy, then I guess I’m happy for you.”
The coldness in his tone doesn’t evade me, but pain still strikes my chest. I wish I was numb to these reactions by now, but I’m clearly just as vulnerable to them as I was when I lived here. “Thank you,” I tell him, my voice weaker than it had been moments ago. I clear my throat and straighten my posture, deciding to do the only thing I know how to do to avoid my real emotions.
Work.
“Since you’re here, I’d like to show you a few things.”
Anderson studies me for a second before dropping into a chair and folding his arms across his chest. “All right. Let’s do it.”
He seems to be playing into the whiplash conversation as I am, which feels like a relief after our last exchange. I drop into the chair beside him and open my laptop on the desk. I take him through the logo options, layout and design updates for his website, and then the solid social-media calendar I mapped out to start getting the word out.
He’s a good sport, paying attention to all the options while ultimately letting me make all the decisions. It’s the typical Anderson and Hope way. Before long, the tension in the air has settled some.
“I’m going to head to the cafeteria. Still want to join?”
The way he asks it, like he has to, makes me rethink my earlier request to join him. Finally, I settle on my response. “I’ll heat something up in the staff room and head back to my cabin. It’s been a long day, and I’m pretty tired.”