42
Monday morning rolls around, and I’m giddy. I can’t wait to see Weston again. I guess that’s what being in love is. I think about Mischa’s words. She’s right. I need to proceed cautiously. Love sometimes makes you blind, and I need to have my eyes wide open for Ethan. His happiness comes before mine.
Yet, I can’t imagine Weston ever hurting us. He’s too kind. He’s too good. But perhaps I’m wearing rose colored glasses. I just don’t know what to think anymore. I hear Mischa’s words. I see Weston’s smile. I hear Ethan’s laughter. I feel my own heart. I just don’t know.
I shake my head and fetch Ethan’s sweater. “It’s Monday,” I tell him. “Do you know what that means?”
He shakes his head as I slip on the sweater.
“It means grandma is coming over.”
He squeals. He loves his grandma.
I hurry to get him dressed, and feed him breakfast before Patricia gets here. He’s sucking on an orange slice when she finally arrives.
“Hey, little guy,” she coos. “I missed you.” She reaches for a hug.
“Well, I should be going,” I tell her. “I’m running a little late.”
“Mondays…” she says.
“Another day, another dollar,” I joke as I make my way out.
“You have yourself a good day,” she calls out.
“You too… thanks again.”
I scurry down the hallway, and blow out a long breath as soon as I step into the elevator. Mornings are such a rush, and I always feel so stressed, especially on Mondays.
I’m still flustered as I step into our office, and set my briefcase down.
Rosetta smiles up at me. “How was your weekend?” she asks with a playful grin.
“Fantastic,” I tell her. “How was yours?”
“Same old, same old.”
She’s still smiling, and I wonder what she’s up to. “Boss Man would like to see you immediately in his office.”
“Really?”
“Really…” she says. “The man must really like buttering your biscuit, Honey. Just go ahead… you’ll see.”
My nerves stand to attention. What is going on? I hurry down the hall of his office, and my breath hitches when I finally see him.
He’s beautiful in a dark suit, sitting on the loveseat. His smile is playful, but also a little unsure. He’s surrounded by about a dozen bouquets of red roses, and petals on the floor surround his shiny loafers.
“What is this?” I ask, confused. “What’s happening?”
He rises and stretches out his arm. I take his hand, and he leads me to the loveseat. I sit down, trembling a little.
“These roses are amazing.”
“Red,” he says. “A red rose is the deepest expression of love.”
I’m speechless as my gaze darts around the room. There are some roses on his desk, on the tables in the corners. There must be two dozen dozens.
He takes my hand in his. “I love you, Gretchen,” he says softly. “With all my heart. I’m not sure if I’ve properly expressed it before but I’m telling you now.”
