“Then he sentthat,” Sage said. She gestured to the roses, which seemed to loom even larger under scrutiny.
Vivian approached, assessing the bouquet. "Right then," she announced, reaching for the expensive flower arrangement. In one swift motion, she lifted the bouquet and marched toward the office kitchen.
The sound of flowers hitting the bottom of the large trash bin was unmistakable. Vivian returned to Lauren's desk, wiping her hands with satisfaction.
"That's sorted," she said briskly. “I believe Zoe said we were taking you to lunch.”
“We can't all just leave," Lauren protested weakly, but she was already being pulled to her feet. "What about?—"
Vivian, Muse Magazine's formidable editor-in-chief, put her hand on Lauren’s shoulder. “We can fix the January issue later. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 17
Tom
Tom satin his car outside Muse Magazine, watching the glass facade for any sign of Lauren. He should probably be at his own job, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything but his wife right now.
A delivery van pulled up, and Tom straightened in his seat. The guy who got out was carrying a bouquet—Tom's roses.
Any minute now, she'd call. Or text. Thank him for the flowers, maybe suggest they meet for coffee to talk things through.
Tom adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. How long did it take to get to her office?
The delivery guy emerged from the building, hands empty, mission accomplished. Tom watched him drive away, already picturing Lauren's face when she'd seen the arrangement.
Why wasn’t she calling him?
Tom pulled up Lauren's number, thumb hovering over the call button. He'd give her a few more minutes. Let her process thegesture. Maybe she was showing them off to her colleagues first, taking a picture to send to him.
Tom was still holding his phone when the building’s glass doors swung open, and a group of women emerged onto the sidewalk. His breath caught.
Lauren.
She was in the center of the group, surrounded by the women—each one model-tall and editorial-perfect. But Tom's eyes were only on his wife.
God, she was beautiful. Even from this distance, even bundled in her old wool coat, she took his breath away. The way she moved, the tilt of her head as she listened to something one of the women was saying—everything about her was achingly precious.
One of them had an arm around her shoulders, another was gesturing emphatically as she spoke. They were all clustered around Lauren like a protective barrier. He watched as she smiled.
Tom's chest tightened with jealousy so sharp it was almost painful. He wanted to be the one with his arm around her shoulders, offering comfort and support. He wanted to be close enough to smell her perfume, to brush that strand of hair away from her face. He wanted to be the one making her smile.
But even through the jealousy, relief flooded through him. Someone was taking care of her. These women—with their sharp hairstyles and designer coats—were surrounding his wife with a kind of fierce female solidarity. If he couldn't be the one comforting her right now, at least she wasn't alone.
The group moved down the sidewalk.
Watching his wife walk away from him made Tom's heart ache with longing and confusion.
Did she like the bouquet? Why hadn’t she texted him?
Tom watched until they disappeared around the corner, then sat in his car for a long moment, trying to process what he'd just witnessed.
Lauren, surrounded by women who clearly adored her.
Lauren, without his flowers.
Lauren who didn’t need him.
Tom’s handswere tight on the wheel as he merged onto the nearly empty road. Christmas displays were still strung up, icicles, reindeer, inflatable Santas slumped over in the cold. Lauren would have cooed at every single one of them.
