Hearing his soft, husky laugh again, which is coming more frequently these days, I peek from under the pillow. My eyes squint to make out his large frame in the dark shadows. “Why are you up so early anyway?”
“Going to the gym before a meeting.”
“Too bad. I was hoping to give you an in-person demo of my shower.”
“I’ll take a rain check.”
My head pops fully out. He’s over at the dresser with the flashlight of his phone shining. “Rain check, huh?”
“I seem to keep doing that.”
“Can’t say I mind.”
“I’ll call you.”
“K,” I mumble, drawing my head back under the pillow like a turtle.
Laughing again, he swats my butt and leaves.
And so our pattern continues for the next week, spending almost every night together and breaking ourno plans for tomorrowrule. A slippery slope, perhaps, but I’m not ready to kick Stiles out of my bed or my life.
On Thursday, Talon arrives at the team meeting ten minutes late. I ignore his rude lack of apology and sour mood to continue presenting my brainstorm about a fountain for the center square of the complex. I show a diagram of how the water would flow through the Friar name and light up at night. I brought in Mallory, our structural engineer, to provide guidance and ensure the fountain is eco-friendly.
We excitedly go over options. Even Talon brings some solid thoughts to the table on designing around the recirculation pump. It confirms my decision not to rat him out. I wish he weren’t such an a-hole, but I know when this project is complete, it’s going to beArchitectural Digest-worthy.
Shortly after we disburse to complete our respective assignments, Nori approaches my workstation and sets a rectangular brown box in front of me. “This came for you.”
I look at it curiously. “I’m not expecting anything.”
“I thought it might be personal, so I didn’t open it. Hopefully, it’s a special surprise.”
“Hopefully. Thanks, Nori.”
“No problem,” she says and gives me privacy.
I stuff the rest of a granola bar in my mouth and use a letter opener to slice through the tape. There’s a tiny fluttering in my belly that it could be from Stiles. But, of course, that’s a fool’s wish. Amorous gestures are not part of the rules. Still…
I lift the four flaps to find a top layer of brown wrapping paper. I remove it…and flinch.
Flowers.
Only these aren’t like the vibrant and beautiful bouquet from Stiles. These are a dozen red roses inside a clear plastic bag—limp, soggy, and dead.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I pick up the box and march over to Talon’s workstation. He’s at his computer wearing earphones. I rap hard on the half-wall, even though I know he sees me. Glancing up with an eye roll like a recalcitrant teen being interrupted by his mother, he pulls out one bud.
“What?”
I dump the box on his desk and spear him with a death stare.
He pulls the box toward him and snorts a sarcastic laugh at the contents. “How romantic.”
“I don’t think romance was on your mind when you sent these.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Do I look amused?”
“You look like someone who thinks I give a shit. Get over yourself, Jordyn. I wouldn’t send you flowers, alive or otherwise.” He puts his earbud back in and resumes working.
