I laughed despite my nerves. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I know you. You always look beautiful when you let yourself be happy.”
We hung up just as my doorbell rang.
My heart jumped into my throat. He was early. Or exactly on time. I glanced at my phone—six p.m. exactly.
Punctual. I liked that.
I grabbed my purse and walked to the door, taking one deep breath before I pulled it open.
And then I forgot how to breathe entirely.
Archie stood in my doorway looking like every old movie I’d ever loved. Dark slacks, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly messed up in a way that looked deliberate. And in his hands, an enormous bouquet of flowers—peonies and roses and something else I couldn’t name, all wrapped in brown paper.
He looked nervous. And beautiful. And so much better than I remembered that I had to remind myself to actually speak.
“Hi,” I managed.
“Hi.” His smile was tentative, “These are for you. I know it’s old-fashioned, but I saw them and thought—” He stopped, looking suddenly uncertain. “Is this too much? It might be too much.”
I took the flowers from him, their weight substantial and real in my hands. I brought them to my face and breathed in—sweet and fresh and overwhelming in the best way.
“They’re perfect,” I said, and meant it. “Come in. Let me put these in water.”
He followed me inside and I was suddenly very aware of my tiny apartment, of how different it probably was from wherever he lived. But I was pleased that at least it was clean to perfection.
And Archie didn’t look uncomfortable. He looked interested, his eyes taking in the details—the framed photo of me and my mother on the bookshelf, the plant Sam had given me that I’d somehow kept alive, the case files organized neatly on my desk.
I filled a vase with water and arranged the flowers, trying not to let my hands shake. When had I last received flowers? Never, I realized. I’d never received flowers from anyone.
And I’d just discovered that I liked old-fashioned guys.
“Thank you,” I said, turning to face him. “Really. These are beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.” He was still standing near the door, hands in his pockets, looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.
I set the vase on my kitchen table where I could see it, where it would make me smile every time I walked in. Then I grabbed my purse and turned back to him.
He surveyed my apartment with genuine interest, not judgment. His gaze lingered on the photo of my mother and late father, on the stack of legal briefs on my desk.
“Ready?” I asked.
He looked back at me and nodded. “Ready.”
CHAPTER 9
Archer
Saturday afternoon,I stood in a flower shop in Chelsea.
Tonight I was supposed to tell Gianna the truth. That was the plan. Pick her up, take her to dinner, explain everything before this went any further.
But I’d spent the last hour choosing flowers anyway, because apparently I was committed to being a coward with excellent taste.
“The peonies are fresh,” the florist said, watching me with the patient expression of someone who dealt with indecisive men regularly. “Mixed with roses, maybe some eucalyptus for texture?”
“That sounds good.”
