I sign some autographs, so it takes me a while to reach her. A girl asks if I can sign her breast. Lilly scans the interaction, eyes incinerating her.
“Sorry, my girl wouldn’t like that.”
“Okay,” she pouts, as if that grimace will change my mind.
I flick my wrist for her to decide already, impatient to get to Lilly. “Then my arm.”
I do that, excusing myself quickly.
Face-to-face with my flower girl, I smirk. “I’d like to order something.”
“You’re incorrigible,” she says, but gets behind the counter.
TWENTY-THREE
LILLY
He’s persistent,and I grow weaker, feeling lost without him.
I’ve been stranded on Misery Island since we returned from Bali. Even though I see him daily like clockwork, it’s not enough. Our separation is gruesome, tearing me apart.
I am at home, putting all the lilies between the empty pages of a notebook I bought to safeguard them.
Every day, I catch myself almost slipping and say screw this.
Food has lost its taste and the bed is uncomfortable. All day long, my mind drifts to him, craving more of him, more of us together.
Staying strong seems like a losing battle. My heart wants to wave the white flag to end up being the casualty in my war of wills.
Every time I tell myself we can pull off the friendship thing, facts remind me it would be a lie.
Every time I steal a glance at him in the elevator, my hands itch to touch him, missing the soft but unyielding press of his mouth on mine.
Everything in me misses everything in him, not only as my friend but also as my lover, my man.
I am in limbo, and it’s excruciating—need, want, love weakening every bit of resolve I gain overnight.
I want to tell him so badly about my day, but I remain resolute. It would be admirable if I didn’t hurt myself in the process. But I hold on to the reminder of my dad praising him once again. His head is where it should be, back in the game.
I fall asleep with longing; I wake up with thoughts of him. I am so used to this routine that I’ve become almost desensitized.Almostwill be the cause of my insanity.
The moment I walk out of my door, I feel him watching me.
I pick up the lily and put it in a vase—it’s routine by now. He waits for me because he must enjoy my turmoil.
“Morning,” he says with a disarming smile.
“Morning,” I say, sounding wary.
He leans against the wall, his eyes trailing up and down my body, heating me up.
“You look spectacular.”
I roll my eyes at him, but damn, that fiery gaze does things to me. I think even if I wore a damn burlap sack, he would still look at me as if I were the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
“How much longer?” I mutter.
“Until you give our friendship another chance,” he says matter of factly, pushing himself off the wall.
