But it had one thing going for it. From the balcony, I could see straight into Chloe's place.
For me, that was enough.
Chloe went back to work not long after the birth. The old lady who ran the flower shop offered to help watch the baby and show her the ropes. First-time mom, hands full—having someone like that was a gift.
I thought about offering to hire a nanny. I worked up the nerve, knocked on her door, but she shut me down before I could get a word out.
So every morning at eight sharp, I showed up at Ruth's flower shop. It was the only way I could get close to the woman I loved. The baby stayed in a makeshift nursery in the back, though. I hardly ever saw her.
I pushed through the door. Chloe stood behind the counter, apron tied neatly, hair pulled back, expression no different than it was for any other customer.
"What do you want?"
"White daisies."
"Twelve dollars."
"Thanks."
Four lines. Every day. Not a word more.
I paid, took the flowers, turned, and walked out. Next day, same thing. Third day. Fourth. Fifth. Same conversation, same expression, same distance.
At first, Chloe would deliberately ignore me. But Ruth and Noah were too curious. The second they started talking to me, Chloe would shove the flowers into my hands and push me out the door. Not that it worked. Ruth and Noah clearly knew by now that Chloe and I weren't exactly strangers. Noah figured it out fast after he helped Chloe once, brushed her hand, and caught my death glare. He backed off after that.
Seemed he was smarter than that bastard Liam.
But no matter how obvious it was, even if everyone knew Chloe's identity was strange, even if they could tell there was something between her and this guy who showed up every day, no one said a word. Chloe was happy to play dumb. She didn't want me using her real name. She liked this identity.
Fine. I'd let her have it.
Just being able to see her standing there, alive and breathing, was enough to make me happy.
Hell, it was the happiest I'd ever been. My life had never felt this good.
Two weeks passed.
At eight, like clockwork, I walked into the shop. The bell chimed when I pushed the door open. No one behind the counter.
I stepped forward. Heard sounds coming from the back room. The baby was crying. Chloe's voice, frantic, cut through the wails.
"Okay, okay, stop crying. Mama's here. What's wrong? Are you hungry? Did you wet yourself?"
The baby didn't care. She cried harder. I knew Chloe hated me getting near the baby, but hearing those sharp, desperate cries—I couldn't help it. Before I knew what I was doing, I was around the counter, standing in the doorway of the little back room.
Chloe held the baby in one arm, the other hand rifling through the bag on the table, looking for the bottle. Stuff clattered to the floor. Her hair had slipped loose from the tie, hanging half-down, apron smudged with some kind of white powder. She looked wrecked. When she saw me in the doorway, she froze. Her lips parted, closed. She probably wanted to say, "How did you get back here?" or "Get out", but the baby's screams drowned out whatever she might've said.
I walked over and took the baby from her arms.
Emily was so small. My two hands could hold her entire body. Her face was red, mouth wide open, sobbing in jagged gasps. I held her against my chest, one hand covering her back, patting gently, slowly.
I didn't know why I knew how to do this. I'd never held a baby before. But something guided my hands—how to support her head, how to angle her so she rested against my heartbeat.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was all those sleepless nights I'd spent flipping through Chloe's baby catalog. There was a page about soothing newborns, correct holding positions, illustrations included. I must've memorized it without meaning to.
Emily's cries softened. Her face was still flushed, but her mouth slowly closed. Her tiny fist grabbed onto my sweater collar, gripping tight. She pressed her face against my chest, made a few muffled sounds, then went quiet.
I looked down at her. Her lashes were long, wet, and clumped together from crying. Her nose was small, just like Chloe's. Herfingernails were smaller than grains of rice, but she held onto my sweater with surprising strength.
