I shoot up in bed and stare. There’s got to be at least three dozen of them here. Scratch that, four.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
How did they get in here?
It must have taken a few guys to move this much stuff, and I didn’t hear a thing. Oh god, a group of strangers was in my apartment, and I never even woke up.
What the fuck?
Seconds flow past, liquid and smooth, as I stare in awe around my room. My lungs soak in the smell— clean, subtle, fresh. I’ve never lain in a meadow, but I imagine it must be like this. I can practically feel the sun kiss my skin the way it does in my dreams, bathing me in warmth, holding me close.
I fling the sheets off, ready to run. Maybe I should check with Lincoln, ask him if there are cameras in the hallways. And if there are, does he have access to them? Because then we could at least find out who the hell did this.
My spiraling ends when my hand hits a note.
I’m prepared for some magazine clipped message foretelling my imminent death— which on second thought, I shouldn’t be in such a rush to read— but what I find steals my breath in a different way.
For yesterday, and all the dates who came before me, L x
That sexy, mysterious, British son of a… wonderful person. (Sorry, Astrid).
Throwing the note back onto the bed, I squeeze my way through the field of flowers. Oh god, they’re so beautiful. I want tohate him. How will I ever like anyone normal after this? I grab my keys and phone, and the first thing I can find to throw on, jumping into a pair of mustard-colored overalls, before sending a quick video to Emma.
Me: woke up to this! what is my life?
Fil is stepping out of his apartment as I lock up (not that it does anything to stop roving English would-be Don Juans). “What’s the rush?”
I’m already at the elevator. “I’m just going to murder our landlord.”
“Oh, cool,” he calls before the doors close. “Can you tell him my oven’s busted again while you’re there? Nice flowers, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I grit out. Because they are nice flowers. Really nice. All seven thousand of them. But they’re also trespassing in my apartment, because my lovely not-actually-my-boyfriend thought it would be romantic to traumatize me.
And the worst part?
I actually fucking love it.
It’s ridiculous and over-the-top and probably a massive violation of his authority, but it’s also the single most romantic event of my whole life, and I don’t even know how to contact the asshole to thank him for them.
Because, of course, he doesn’t have a problem sending me more roses than a closing performance ofPhantom of the Opera, but he couldn’tpossiblydo something as simple as tell me his phone number.
I’m either going to rip his dick off or blow him. I won’t know which until I find him.
So I start with the one person I know can help me.
“Tell me where your cousin is, or I’m never coming here again,” I say to Manny after I’ve thrown open the door to the bar. “Wait. Why are you here so early? It’s, like, eight in the morning.”
“They’re called deliveries, and I’m having a great day, thanks for asking. Now what is it you want with my cousin?”
“He saw fit to let himself into my apartment so he could leave a nursery’s worth of flowers in my bedroom.”
“He did what?”
A thumping knock comes at the side entrance, and Manny calls out a greeting, pulling a wad of keys from his pockets to open it. A slip of a man is waiting on the other side with a keg. “Just pop in the back. Thanks, mate.”
“Sure thing.” The guy nods, a short, sharp thing that reminds me of my uncle. “You should know, there’s a truck blocking me in. Says they’re delivering some art to the owner? I told ’em to talk to you.”
Manny sighs. “Yeah, all right. I’ll fix it.”
