Emerson shifted forward. “She asked for space. Respect that.”
Mathew looked from one to the other, anger, panic, and regret tangling so tightly in his chest he could barely sort one from the next.
Finally, he thrust the flowers toward Emerson. “These are for her,” he said. “The florist said they should last a while as long as someone changes the water.”
Emerson took them without comment.
Mathew turned and headed for his car before anyone could see just how badly his hands were shaking.
Bad.
Then worse.
That was how his day had gone.
He was dead tired, but all he wanted was to pull River into his arms, kiss her temple, and tell her he’d fix this somehow.
24
RIVER
River stared at the flowers on her countertop, her chin in her palms as her elbows rested atop the smooth laminate. She was mentally debating with herself, for what felt like the hundredth time, whether or not she should read the note.
How many times had she reached for the little card, only to pull back like it might burn her?
Countless.
She’d seen Mathew holding the flowers when she’d run into him and his wife.
Ex-wife, as she now knew.
Rose had filled in enough of the story for River to understand the broad strokes of what Mathew’s relationship with Victoria had been.
Even thinking the woman’s name left a bad taste in her mouth.
Her nose wrinkled as she shoved the memory aside. It had only been a week since the scene in town, and she’d managed to avoid Mathew ever since. She hadn’t gone into town once, sending Emerson instead whenever she needed anything. She buried herself in work and rarely came up for air. By the time she dragged herself upstairs each night, she was so worn out she usually fell asleep almost immediately.
The tears had long since dried up.
Her muscles ached from the extra hours she’d been putting in.
And yet, here she was, staring at those flowers. The ones that Emerson had called ridiculous.
They were beautiful flowers.
She’d never seen anything quite like them. They were perfect. Just her style. And the fact that they’d come from Mathew made it impossible to miss the care behind them. When Emerson had mentioned they were supposed to last longer than a standard bouquet, River had almost melted on the spot.
She’d never been one of those girls who expected or wanted flowers. The truth was, she barely had any experience with being given flowers at all.
The first bouquet from Mathew had felt sweet. Like a nice gesture.
But these were different.
These weren’t flowers picked out for just any woman. They’d been chosen with her in mind, and that somehow made them harder to look at.
The thought should have brought her some comfort. Comfort knowing that someone had seen her clearly enough to know what she’d like.
Instead, it hurt.
