Page 135 of On The Edge

There has to be fifty bouquets of dahlias filling up every surface in there. It’s a jaw-dropping display in every color and every species. They are simply stunning.

I move to them. I touch the petals. I remember those early days together. And I fight back the tears that threaten.

But it’s the note in the card on my desk that has the softest smile forming and a surge of hope filling my heart. My hand goes to my chest as I read it.

Madds—

It might take some time. But I’m going to win you back. I’m learning to be the man you deserve.

L _ _ _

—Cross

Every part of me who has dared to hope over the past few weeks feels like it has broken free from a glass cage with those three simple sentences.

He loves me.

He wants to make this work.

In the midst of my deepest despair, when I’d wish for sleep to come and then pray it didn’t—because I knew my dreams would be filled with him—this is what I wanted.

Tears well in my eyes and a lump of emotion burns in my throat.

I clutch the card in my hand but then read it again. L _ _ _?

What the hell does that mean? Does it matter? I know what it means. Clearly, he has a plan for what it means.

I can’t stop staring at the garden my office has become and once the delayed shock wears off, once this really sinks in and I know I’m not dreaming, I can’t get to my cell fast enough.

I sink into the sound of his voice on his voicemail and deflate simultaneously. It’s the time difference. He has to be asleep. Pick up the phone. “Hi. It’s me.” Why do I sound so tentative when this is what I want? Because I’m scared to believe this is real. “It’s good to hear your voice even if only this voicemail. Thank you for the flowers. They’re . . . gorgeous and overwhelming and—I miss you.” The first tear slips over. “That’s the main thing. I. Miss. You.”

I let the message record my silence as I try to figure out what else to say next but know that everything else left to say, I want to say it to him. Need to say it to him.

With the call ended, and as I sit in a sea of dahlias, I breathe for what feels like the first time in forever. And then I scramble to take pictures of this obscene scene in front of me to send Tessa.

She’s going to have a field day with this.

I hit send to her. No words. Just the pictures. And when my phone alerts a text back, I assume it will be her.

I’m wrong.

Cruz: I’ll earn the O. The V. And the E. Once I do, then you can decide if you want to forgive me.

Me: I already know the answer.

Cruz: I’m glad. It’ll make earning it that much easier. But let me earn it, Madds. Let me prove to you how much you mean to me. Let me prove that you make me a better man. You’ll know when to answer me when you see it.

I reread the text exchange over and over. A part of me wants to get on the next jet to Monaco—or wherever he is—and tell him he’s forgiven. The other part is standing in my office, a smile toying at the corners of my mouth, a heart bursting with every emotion imaginable, and a thought of, “yes, he needs to prove it. To earn me back. To show he values me and my heart.

But man, it would be so much easier to run back into his arms and just sink into the comfort of him.

I jump when my cell rings and I scramble to answer it. Yes, I should know it’s not him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hope otherwise.

“Girlfriend, that man has got it bad.”

My smile goes to a full-blown grin. “Tessa.”

“Did I tell you or did I tell you?”