On day ten, I open the door to face ten red roses, perfectly formed and arranged in a beautiful crystal vase. As always, I try to return them, but when he goes to place it on the ground next to the steps, I stop him. That vase is too exquisite to sit in the dirt. So, I walk up the stairs carrying the gorgeous arrangement.
When I enter the apartment, Penny looks up from her position on the couch. "Things heating up then?" She eyes the flowers.
I place them on the coffee table, since I’ve run out of space in my room, then survey the blooms.
"They’re gorgeous," she murmurs.
They are. And the numbers and colors are symbolic. He’s done his research, I’ll give him that. He’s trying his best to get me to forgive him; he’s trying to tell me that he wants me to be his, that he has feelings for me, that he won’t let anything stand between us. The flowers are beautiful, and I can feel myself thawing, a-n-d that’s the problem. Like it or not, the flowers remind me of him. And I haven’t had the courage to throw away the blooms. But I’m not ready to forgive him... Yet.
I open the envelope and read the note with the sorry message. With each new note, my level of anger has receded, until it’s lodged as a ball in my chest. I slide the note back in the envelope and drop it on the table.
"What am I going to do about it?" I sigh.
"What do you want to do about it?"
"I don’t know." I drag my fingers through my hair. "I want to tell him to stop, I guess."
"So, tell him to stop."
"Bet, that’s what he wants." I wrap my arms about my waist. "I reach out to him, and it means I’m opening a line of communication with him, and before I know it, he’ll have found a way to see me face-to-face."
"He can’t make you do anything you don’t want."
I laugh. "You have no idea the influence he has over me. One look at that beautiful face of his, and I lose all perspective."
"Hmm." She scans my features. "You don’t sound as angry as you were a few days ago."
"I suppose I’m relieved that he’s well enough to send me flowers. The fact that he’s being persistent means he’s probably back on his feet. So, the wounds he sustained protecting me have healed."
"You’re worried about him?"
I shuffle my feet. "He did take a knife for me."
"And the doctors did tell you that the wounds weren’t life threatening."
I push my hair off my face. "Not that I don’t believe them, but a part of me wishes I’d had the courage to look in on him and assure myself before I left. But since I didn’t, the sending of flowers is proof that he really is on the mend."
"You still have feelings for him?"
"I do. I can’t help myself." I sink down into the chair on the other side of the coffee table and pull my legs up. "I wish I didn’t. I wish I could turn them off and move on, but—"
"You’re human. And he had an enormous impact on you. You can’t simply wipe the slate clean and forget about him."
"No kidding."
"So, what are you going to do?"
I glance at the flowers, then at her. "Nothing."
Outwardly, at least, that’s the case. I go through each day, focusing on the assignment I’m working on for Ava. I’m in touch with Zara, who studiously avoids any mention of Cade, for which I’m not sure if I should be grateful or not. It reminds me of how Knight has always avoided mentioning Cade when talking to me. Why does everyone think I’m so fragile? Why have I allowed this one person make me look so weak? At least, I haven’t asked her about him, which is a score in my favor. But then, she sends me a picture of her son James, and I swear, I can see Cade’s features shining through him.
That was a few hours ago, and for some reason, it’s disturbed me more than it should have. I’m not able to focus on the social media plan I’m drawing up for Ava, so when the intercom buzzes, I’m already more put out than usual. I march down the steps, throw it open, then stare. It’s a bunch of red roses today. All perfectly formed. All placed in another beautiful cut-glass vase. The bouquet is so massive, I can’t even see the delivery guy’s face.
“I’m assuming that’s thirty roses?” I grumble.
I can’t see him nod, but I’m sure he does, for I’ve been receiving a steady upgrade of roses each day for the last thirty days.
I stay there for a few seconds, not saying anything, when: "Uh, Miss, this vase is rather heavy. Perhaps, I can take it up to your apartment?"
I silently lead the way up to the apartment and direct him to place it on the kitchen counter, since all other surfaces are taken up with the other flowers. Then I tip him generously. He half-bows, pockets the money, and walks off whistling. I stare at the flowers and something inside me splinters. I march into my room, pick up my phone and shoot him a message.
50
Cade
My phone pings. I’m half-way into my next sit up, which I abandon, and pick up the phone I’ve placed next to me on the floor of my home gym. "Yes!" I jump to my feet and open the message, then scowl.
Sparrow: Mr. Kingston, you need to stop sending me roses.
Mr. Kingston? What the fuck? I scowl at the screen, then type out the message.
Me: Mr. Kingston was my grandfather.
There’s silence. I snatch up my towel, mop the sweat from my face, then begin to pace. I should take my gaze off my phone and continue with the workout schedule the team physician and the physical therapist have laid out for me. It’s the only way I’m going to get fit in time for the next tour. The fact that I’m lagging behind on my fitness regime means the coach is not happy with me, but that’s too bad. My priority is no longer my career. My focus is on wooing her back; and I’d almost given up hope with the flowers. Not that I don’t deserve it, and if she didn’t reply today, I’d continue with my efforts—which I’m going to renew anyway, after this message. But still, a text from her. It must mean she’s thawing a little. I pace back, forth, back, then manage to get in two more sit-ups, before I snatch the phone and shoot off another message.
Me: Did I ever tell you why I took the surname Kingston while my father’s surname is Chopra? Like Zara’s.
Me: I had a big fight with my father when I was twelve and swore to him I didn’t want anything to do with him or his family or his surname.
Me: Of course he didn’t believe me. None of them did. So when I turned eighteen I applied to change my name. My Dad was so pissed but that didn’t stop me.
Me: When I turned up with my new passport he couldn’t believe it. He didn’t talk to me for months. It’s only after my mother interceded on my behalf that he finally relented.
Me: You’d think my mother would have been at least secretly happy that I was taking her surname but she never gave any indication of it. The two of them were always a unit. Zara and I often felt it was us against them you know?