“A peony.” I look up to see his perfect, honey eyes anxiously watching my reaction. “How could you have known?”
“Known what?” He tilts his head in question.
“I picked a favorite, in the hospital. When I was laying there looking at the flowers, thinking about all the ones you have given me. And the one arrangement next to my bed were those pink peonies you gave me.” I trace my finger over the cover, glancing up at him to find a huge, happy grin on his face.
“We found your favorite, huh?” My heart pounds in my chest, so hard and rhythmic I’m sure he can hear it.
“Yes, I guess that means you can stop giving me so many flowers now, doesn’t it?” I hug the notebook to myself.
“Open it,” Remington insists, raising an eyebrow.
I am excited to see my words written in his familiar handwriting, knowing that he spent his time giving me back a piece of myself.
Flipping open the journal, it nearly slips from my fingers when my eyes take in what is on the page. I gasp at the beauty. My journal entry is there, but he added to it?—
“Flowers,” I sob.
I keep turning pages and keep finding more. Every single one is different, stunning, thoughtful, tagged with a name and meaning at the bottom of each page. This is why it took him so long to give it back to me. He was not just simply copying what I had written, he was writing me his own love letter in return.
Iris.
Magnolia.
Dahlia.
Orchid.
Chrysanthemum.
Roses.
Plumeria.
Lotus.
“Oh my God! My perfect pie day, Remington.” Apple blossoms explode across the page.
I keep flipping, each page a new discovery of his talent and his affection for me.
Poppies.
Sweet peas.
Bluebells.
Violets.
Calla lily.
Buttercup.
Sunflowers.
They just keep going. There are so many flowers, so many hours of work. It’s going to take me just as long to look at each one and truly appreciate each detail.
“I can’t believe you did all this, Remington. It’s the most incredible thing I have ever seen. And you kept it a secret from me that you can draw? Not even doodles or stick figures, this is likedrawing drawing.” My mouth hangs open in awe with every petal he’s placed on the pages.
“Baby, nobody really knew I could draw. Only Eli and my family. Well, Keller, too,” he says, rubbing his strong hand up my thigh.
