“So, this is an all-encompassing apology?” Heather confirmed.
“Yes.”
“You need more chocolate.” The door slammed in his face.
He let out a long breath and knocked again.
She opened the door and raised an eyebrow in that way women always did when he fucked up.
The expression effectively killed the trouser timber pressing against his zipper.
“Babushka has her own way of doing things, that’s for sure,” he said.
She did the eyebrow thing again.
“Look, she doesn’t always remember things. The last few years have been harder on her than she’ll admit. I worry about her.”
“Or maybe it’s hard for you to admit that she’s stronger than the rest of us.” Heather’s hand rested on the edge of the door, clearly ready to slam it in his face when the time was right.
He stepped forward and got a whiff of her—a mix of lavender and Heather. No woman had ever smelled so good. Never made him want to nuzzle her neck and stay there all night. Never made him lose his mind like he was doing now.
“Is that all?” Heather asked.
He shook away the lingering effects of being around her. “What?”
“You said that already. Apology accepted. You’re absolved.” She did a little hand wave that was adorable. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too. I should’ve tried harder to keep Babushka out of there. I should’ve kept driving when I saw where we were going.”
“She would’ve convinced you to turn around.” Now that his mind was clear, he was sure of it.
“You’re probably right,” Heather conceded.
“You gonna invite me in for chocolate?” He jerked his chin toward her apartment. “I can do girls’ night with the best of them.”
She let out a heavy sigh. “Do I have a choice?”
“There’s always a choice.”
“Are you going to buy a ticket to prom?”
Now it was his turn to heavy sigh. “Absolutely.”
She paused, thinking a little too hard. “Claire, Velma, Jase wants to come in,” she hollered behind her.
“Does he have more chocolate?” Velma called back.
Heather gave him a questioning look.
“Nope, but I have a Visa and the desire for a Beau Jo’s pizza delivery,” he replied.
“No more chocolate. No more funsies,” Claire shouted. “And we can’t talk about him when he’s here. So, move along, Mr. Florist.”
“I guess not.” Heather’s forehead crinkled.
“Listen, I’d really like to help you out with the prom thing. I know you’ve been wanting help, and I’ve been thinking. I have some ideas.” His sneakers squeaked against the polished floor when he stepped toward her.
She gave him a look that was not a vote of confidence. Vulnerability passed over her expression. Fleeting, but it was there.
“Why?” she finally asked.
