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The last thing I want is to find out that I no longer get to spend time with him and to feel like I wasted it all on worries that don’t need to be top of mind at this moment.
One day, when he's doing and feeling better, I will level with him about my feelings for Emma. But not today.
Chapter Twenty-two
Emma
I'm sitting at my desk working on a case, when I hear a knock on the door. I assume it’s Clifton, though a second later I wonder why he’d knock.
It’s not Clifton. When I look up, I see a delivery man holding a large bouquet of beautiful flowers; white Chrysanthemums with pops of color from pink and purple daisies.
The delivery man flashes a handsome grin and asks me if I'm Emma. I nod, and he walks over to place the flowers on my desk. “These are for you,” he says before leaving the room as quickly as he came.
I'm surprised - and curious. Who would have sent me the flowers? I mean, Sterling thinks red roses are literally the only kind of flower in existence, so he’s out.
As I study the flowers, I'm impressed. They're beautiful, colorful, and smell delightful. I also have to give kudos to the flower company - the flowers are fresh, elegant, and cheerful.
Suddenly, I know how to tell who sent these to me. I search for a card and find one. The small, white card simply reads, I want to see you under the willow tree. While the words could be taken as an invitation or even an order, I sense they’re actually a clue to who sent them, and I know exactly who is at fault - Clifton.
There is no signature on the card, which makes sense. There wouldn't be because he doesn't want anyone at the office to know that he sent them to me. He’s keeping our secret while making sure I feel seen, loved, and important.
And it’s working.
As I sit with the bouquet that smells like spring, I wonder what to do next. I have been shutting Clifton down, but not because I'm not interested but because I'm not sure what to do next. The overwhelming doubt that I'm reading him all wrong and that a lot of his sudden warmth stems from his father nearly dying leaves me unsure if what he feels is real.
And I want to give things a try between us but not under false pretenses. I'd hate for him to feel obligated to me for weaknesses he had while his father was potentially on his deathbed. The thing is, if I'm going to assume that his chillier behavior had to do with his father I also have to assume his warmth comes from the same place. I don’t want that. I want him to make the choice to be with me with a clear head.
Maybe I’m being stupid.
And as I look at the beautiful flowers, that sensation grows.
“Beautiful,” Melly says, peeking into my office. “Who’s your secret admirer?”
I lift both shoulders, even though I know who sent them. “The card isn’t signed,” I say, because those words are not a lie.
She lets out a sigh. “So romantic. I wish my husband would send me flowers.” Despite her bright laughter, I sense she’s holding onto real pain. I make a mental note to reach out to her hubby and tell him to kick his backside into gear. Or maybe I’ll ask Clifton to do it so it’s a little less weird. Or Anton, because he’s so imposing.
“It is romantic,” I say with a sigh, touching the soft blooms with a fingertip.
I think about how uncomfortable I’d been when Sterling sent me flowers. Of course, he thinks red roses are the only flower in existence. But Clifton... he knows my love of flowers isn’t limited to one kind and color.
Clifton is a different breed; gentle, kind, and caring. And also my boss who has been worried his dad is going to die at any time. Even though he's been respectful of my boundaries, my privacy, and my feelings, I still worry that this all comes from a place of fear, not love.
“Maybe one day,” Melly says before leaving.
While I'm sure she was hoping for gossip for the rumor mill, I breathe a sigh of relief that Clifton was smart enough not to sign the card. Plausible deniability and all that.
I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't hear Clifton walk into the office we share. “Pretty flowers,” he says, and I smile over at him.
“They really are.” My heart does a somersault. Coming face to face with him, knowing that he sent these flowers leaves me with an odd feeling of warmth and closeness. I want to hug him.
I glance at the door, realizing that it's closed and there's no reason not to give into the urge to hug him. So I stand up and walk over to him, folding my arms around his shoulders.
“Thank you,” I whisper, wanting him to know that I have no doubt he's the one that sent the flowers.
“You're welcome,” he whispers back.
“They're gorgeous. You’re too good at this. Who told you?” I let him go and walk back over to the flowers to touch them once more.
