This is either the most romantic gesture I've ever attempted or the worst mistake of my life. Danny's words echo in my head:You keep trying until she believes you're sorry.
I take a deep breath and step into my living area.
The entire space has been transformed and I barely recognize my own home.
Flower arrangements with lilies and pastel pink roses are everywhere. They spill from elegant vases positioned throughout the living room and create romantic clusters on every available surface. The scent makes the air itself feel luxurious.
In my open kitchen, a chef in crisp whites works quietly.
The sliding glass doors are thrown wide open, and my usually minimalist terrace has been transformed into an intimate dining paradise. A small round table sits in the center, draped in ivory linens and set for two. More flowers surround the table, and a pianist sits at the baby grand I bought on impulse but rarely play, his fingers dancing across the keys in something soft and classical.
Hurricane lights line the full length of the terrace, their glass protecting the flickering candles from the evening breeze.
The city skyline twinkles beyond the railing. Central Park is a dark canvas dotted with lights. It couldn't have looked more romantic if I'd hired a team of Hollywood set designers. And there, in the middle of it all, is Liv.
She's wearing a stone-colored pantsuit, those heels that make her legs look endless, and her dark hair is pulled back in a chignon that shows off the elegant line of her neck. She's adjusting one of the flower arrangements.
When she senses a presence, she looks up with an instinctive smile. But the moment she registers that it's me, her expression shifts from professional warmth to complete shock.
"Blair? What are you doing here? You can't just waltz in and?—"
She stops mid-sentence, her eyes darting around the space. Then her gaze travels down and she notices I'm barefoot under my jeans and white shirt. I watch as understanding dawns, her lips parting while she pieces it together.
"Wait..." She turns back to me, her brow furrowed in confusion and growing realization. "Is this your place?"
"Yes," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets as I lean against the open terrace door. "I'm sorry about all this but it was the only way I could get you here for five minutes to explain myself." I shrug. "I was hoping you might consider having dinner with me too, but I won’t push my luck."
I pause, then add with what I hope is a disarming grin, "And don't worry; there's no officiant involved."
She doesn't laugh. She just stares at me, her expression cycling through disbelief, anger, and something else. I can see her considering her options—the set of her shoulders suggests she's about to storm out. But then our eyes meet across the candlelit terrace, and something in her posture softens. Her shoulders drop slightly, and she lets out a sigh.
"Okay," she says finally. "You have five minutes to explain yourself." She pauses, her gaze flicking over the romantic tableau. "But I'm not sitting down. Five minutes. We'll take it from there."
41
LIV
Iremain standing, my arms crossed tightly in front of my chest. The shock of seeing Blair so unexpectedly has messed me up—this setup, the flowers, the candlelight, the sheer audacity of it all. Part of me is cornered, trapped in this beautiful cage she's created. But another part—a part I'm trying to ignore—is flattered. No one has ever gone to these lengths for me.
Still, I can't let my guard down. Not again.
Blair just looks at me, her dark eyes intense and searching, like she's trying to figure out what I'm thinking.
"Okay, shoot," I say, glancing pointedly at my watch again. "You've already wasted thirty seconds."
She shakes her head as if snapping out of some trance. She takes a step closer and I take a step back. Being near her is dangerous—all I want to do is reach out and touch her face, kiss her until we're both breathless. But I have to protect myself. She lied once; she'll lie again. That's what people do.
"You didn't care who I was when we got on the plane that day," she begins. "You even said yourself you didn't care ifwhatever was in my file was the truth as long as we were on the same page?—"
I open my mouth to interrupt, to point out how everything changed the moment we got intimate, but she holds up a hand.
"Please," she says. "I need my five minutes."
I nod curtly and remain quiet.
"You're right," she continues. "I was bored when we met that day in the coffee shop. I've been feeling useless for a while, ever since I sold my company. Or rather, our company. My friend Dougie—my business partner—fell in love and wanted out to run a vineyard in Napa with his new flame. I thought maybe I wanted something different too, so it seemed like a good idea to sell at the time." She runs a hand through her hair.
"But then I just fell into this void. I had so much money and no idea what to do with myself, no idea how to fill my days. Every morning I'd wake up and think, 'Now what?' And then I saw you that day in the coffee shop, and I don't know what got into me. It seemed like a funny thing to do, I suppose—play some stranger's girlfriend for a weekend. And I liked you. I liked your feistiness and I found you very attractive."
