I stare down at the sunflowers, still cradled in the crook of my elbow, their golden heads brushing my collarbone.
No pastries today.
Just flowers.
He listened.
No pastries.
The small absence carries more weight than all the white boxes before it.
It’s not about sugar or calories or restraint. It’s about him. About Xander Stone—the man who once steamrolled his way into my life like everything could be bought, solved, or seduced—pausing.
Listening.
Respecting what I asked for without turning it into a debate. Without teasing. Without testing my resolve.
It feels like trust. Or maybe the beginning of it. And it scares me how much that means.
I glance down at the sliver of leftover Danish on my plate and push it aside, my appetite suddenly dulled by something heavier. Something softer.
This version of him—the man who stopped sending pastries, who holds back when he used to push—is quieter. But no less intense. If anything, the restraint makes it worse.
Because now I can’t pretend it’s all charm and impulse.
He cares. He sees me. He knows me.
And I fucking miss us. Him.
Not the pastries. Not the grand gestures.
Him.
My phone rings, pulling me out of the endless loop of thoughts, pros-and-cons lists, and emotional swings.
“Andrew.” I sit down on the porch swing.
“Cora, sorry to interrupt your vacation,” my agent starts. “I’m calling with good news. I have two formal offers from publishers.”
My heart skips a beat. “That’s… that’s… oh my God, that’s wonderful, Andrew. Two?”
“Yes, I will forward you the details, so we can discuss the pros and cons of each of them. I do have two minor changes to the manuscript. Do you want me to email them?”
More changes? Jesus. “Let me take notes. Just give me a moment.”
“Sure.”
I fetch my pen and grab the sunflower notebook from my purse. Andrew gives me his ideas as I quickly jot them down.
“Oh, that’s nothing major. Let me play with it, and I’ll send you the new version later today.”
We end the call, and I collapse into the chair, smiling. Two potential publishers? This is really happening.
Mindlessly, I play with the corners of the notebook, letting the joy float through. The notebook flops open at the back.
Whatare these notes?
Own a private island — Tiny. Useless. Mine.
