Her eyes widen.
“No?”
I blink.
Then realize what I just did.
“I mean?—”
“You mean absolutely not, because now I’m interested.” She lunges.
“Give me the note.”
I hold it out of reach, which is unfair because she’s tiny and I am on bed rest but still technically mean.
“It’s from Drew.”
Becca goes silent for a beat.
“Football Drew?”
“Yes.”
“Massive shoulders, Drew? Cut-off hoodie, Drew?”
I close my eyes.
“Yes.”
Becca clutches her own chest.
“I am obsessed with this.”
“I am not.”
She stares at the flowers.
Then at me.
Then at the card.
Then back at me.
“You thought it was from Tristan.”
I don’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
Her face softens instantly.
“Oh.”
I look down at the roses because they’re easier than looking at her.
The room smells like fresh petals and expensive chocolate and the kind of romantic excess that should be making me swoon and instead has left me caught somewhere between annoyance and something far more complicated.
“I just assumed,” I say finally.
