I hand Becca the card.
She reads.
Her brows climb higher and higher.
Then she looks up slowly and says, “Okay, but that is… annoyingly good.”
I groan and sink lower into the pillows.
“Don’t.”
“I’m serious.” She reads the last line again. “‘You’ve been on my mind since the beach. You’re still there.’That is not stupid-jock writing.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s hot.”
“It’s manipulative and hot,” I correct.
She nods.
“Fair.”
Then her gaze drops to the flowers.
Then back to me.
“So what are you going to do?”
I look at the roses.
At all those colors.
All that softness.
All that effort from the exact man I least want to be emotionally affected by.
And the truth is, I don’t know.
Because I still feel Tristan’s hand on my face in that hospital room.
Still feel the warmth of that kiss.
Still want that to mean what I need it to mean.
But Drew—Drew did not have to do this.
He didn’t have to send beauty into my room and lace it with a note that sounded like a challenge and a promise and a warning all at once.
He didn’t have to remember the beach.
He didn’t have to let me know I stayed with him.
And somehow, against all logic and taste and basic self-preservation, that lands too.
My phone buzzes again.
Tristan.
