“I fucked it up with the woman I intended to marry, and I fucked up some kind of bad. I don’t know if she’ll even talk to me, let alone walk down the aisle by the deadline dictated in my father’s clause.”
Harris hesitated another eerily long beat before speaking.
“We’ll be prepared either way, sir.”
He didn’t push, didn’t probe any deeper. He was just… compliant, like always. But something in his tone felt off to me. It felt… too polished, but I shook it off, attributing it to paranoia from the pain and the clock ticking down to Vivian’s arrival.
“Good. Send a crew member here, please. I want them to grab a selection of these roses and deliver a bouquet anonymouslyto a woman named Irene Carlisle at Bayview Hospice. The card should say: ‘For the woman who raised the kindest soul I know. Wishing you warmth this holiday’.”
“Of course, sir,” he said smoothly. “It’ll be done within the hour.”
He hung up. I pocketed the phone, focusing on the crates, loading the last few of them.
The skeleton crew guy I’d requested for the flower delivery showed up twenty minutes later, wide-eyed at the haul of flowers. He grabbed a bundle of white roses for Granny Irene at the hospice, nodding at my instructions before peeling out. I watched him go, a small weight lifting off my chest. Chrissy poured everything into Granny Irene. This would show her that I saw that and cared about it.
I stripped off the bloodied gloves, thorns leaving red welts on my skin. The gesture was set. Now, all I had to do was deliver it.
I changed in the lodge’s staff quarters, throwing on a hooded flannel shirt, jeans, and a pair of boots scuffed enough to pass for a working guy. It was my old Jacob look: scarred but approachable, the groundskeeper she’d trusted before the truth shattered everything. Throwing the hoodie up to shade the worst of my face, I almost looked like any average delivery driver hauling a big surprise.
The truck bed overflowed with crates full of flowers as I drove to Chrissy’s building on Hospital Street, the scent of roses thick enough to drown in. Her car was gone, so I figured she was probably still at the hospice, or grabbing groceries, or getting dinner. Perfect. That would give me time to get into her place and get the flowers all staged.
The lobby was dimly lit, an older lady at the front desk flipping through a magazine. I hauled in a sample vase — overflowing with reds and pinks — and set it down with a thud.
“Evening,” I said, voice low and easy, using Jacob’s drawl. “I’ve got a massive flower delivery for Chrissy Jones in apartment 6A on the ground floor. It’s way too many flowers to just leave them out here, honestly. Would you mind letting me set it up inside her apartment instead? I don’t want to ruin the surprise for her.”
She peered over her glasses at the truck through the window, her eyes widening at the crates of flowers piled high in the truck bed.
“Lord, that’s a lot of flowers. For Chrissy? Poor girl’s been run ragged lately with her granny and the way her family is no help at all. Alright, I’ll grab the super’s key. Follow me.”
She led the way, unlocking the door with a jingle. The apartment smelled like Chrissy, all lavender detergent, faint citrus from her shampoo, and the slightest hint of her rosy perfume. The apartment was small and tidy, but worn at the edges, like she’d stretched everything far too thin for too long. My chest tightened. This was her world, and I was about to fill it with flowers.
I thanked the lady as she left, then got to work. Crate by crate, I hauled them in, muscles burning, stitches protesting with every lift. I placed vases on every available surface: counters crowded with bursts of color, shelves lined with pinks and whites, petals scattered in a winding path from the door to her bedroom like an invitation to something real. The air grew heavy with their scent, sweet and overwhelming, transforming the cramped space into a wild garden.
As a centerpiece on the kitchen table, I’d placed a glass dome over a single red rose, thorns gleaming sharp, my note leaned against the dome on heavy cream paper.
Chrissy,
These came from the lodge garden, wild and overgrown, like the parts of me I hid from you. Thorns drew my blood as I harvested them, but it’s nothing compared to the pain I caused you, I know. You saw past my scars once. Please try to see past this mess to the man who’s done hiding from you, now. Lucia’s safe. Henry’s with her. I’m okay, but my life is bleak and empty without you in it. Marry me by midnight on the twenty-fourth… or don’t, if that’s not what you want. Either way, please know I love you. And this love? It’s the real kind, the kind that stays… the kind that fights for what it really wants when things get hard. One more thing I can promise you is no more games.
Ben
I stepped back, surveying the chaotic beauty I’d created. It was grand, and maybe a little invasive, but it was honest. More that that, it was proof I was willing to bleed for her over and over again, and willing to turn her world upside down in the best way.
The door rattled suddenly and I sucked in a breath, steeling myself for her reaction. A key turned in the lock, and a woman in her early twenties pushed her way into the apartment, but it sure as hell wasn’t Chrissy. She had brown hair like Chrissy’s but her dark eyes were sharper than Chrissys, and far colder. Alice, I realized. My mind called up the things from Chrissy’s file. This was Chrissy’s little sister, the one who’d sent those passive-aggressive texts, guilting Chrissy for choosing Granny Irene over bullshit family drama.
She froze in the doorway, purse slipping from her shoulder as she took in the roses. “What the…? Holy shit, this place looks like a florist’s exploded.”
Her icy gaze swept the room, landing on the vases, the petals, the dome on the table. She stepped inside, kicking a stray petal aside, and her eyes narrowed on me in the far corner of the living room, taking in my flannel, hoodie shading my scars, looking like some random guy caught mid-setup.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, crossing her arms. “And what’s with the rose apocalypse? You her boyfriend or something? Because if this is your idea of romance, it’s serious overkill.”
I kept my voice steady, temper on a tight leash. No need to escalate, especially not here, not with Chrissy’s space already invaded by my gesture.
“It’s a flower delivery for your sister.”
Alice snorted, circling the table like she owned the place. She picked up a pink bloom, twirling it dismissively before tossing it on the floor like it was trash.
“Delivery, my ass. Nobody sends this many flowers unless they’ve royally screwed up. What’d you do? Cheat? Lie? Ghost her? Because let me tell you, Chrissy’s been in a shitty mood for days now. She’s been standoffish, snapping at everyone, dodging calls for days on end. And now this?”
