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I set them down on the counter and took the card out with a trembling hand.
* * *
You’re all I’m thinking about.
—J
* * *
Cézanne read over my shoulder and did a little dance. “Oh boy, he’s in deep.”
My eyes were wide as I stared at the stunning blooms. They smelled amazing. They weren’t enough, but maybe they were a start. A sign that he was still thinking about me after what had happened. What girl could turn down flowers anyway?
“You going to forgive him yet?”
I set the card down with a sly smile. “Not yet.”
Tuesday was hectic.
I felt dead on my feet by the time lunch rolled around. How had Tuesday turned into such a Monday? I trekked into the cafeteria to find Cézanne. She waved me over.
“You’re late,” she accused.
I shook my head and yawned. “It’s been crazy.”
“Someone delivered pad thai from Thai Pepper for you,” she said. “I claimed it.”
I blinked. “Pad thai?”
“Yep.” Cézanne shot me the look. “No note though.”
I bit my lip in excitement.
I didn’t have to guess who had gotten it for me.
Neither did she.
“What do you think he’s going to send today?” Cézanne asked the next morning.
I rolled my eyes at her. “Nothing.”
“Psh, two days in a row, and he hasn’t called or texted? Boy has a plan. You’ll get something.”
“I don’t think so. If he wanted to make it up to me, he’d come here and apologize.”
“Would he? Or would he send you another dozen roses?”
“Shush,” I said, hitting her with my mask as I left the lounge.
Wednesday, unlike Tuesday, was dead in the ER. I never thought that was a real thing. It was always swamped. Not that the doctors let me slack or anything. I was thoroughly busy with the dreaded paperwork.
By the time I was off some blear-eyed twelve hours later, the sun was fully down, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and wait for tomorrow. Sutton had texted earlier to see when I was going to be home, which meant she probably wanted to hang out. I’d told her when I got off, but I really didn’t want to do anything.
I strode out with Cézanne at my side.
“I guess I was wrong.”
“How often do you say that?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “Often enough. But I really thought he’d do something.”
A woman jumped out of an idling Uber Eats car when we started down the drive. “Annie Donoghue?”
I furrowed my brows. “Uh, yes?”
“These are for you.” The woman passed me a white box with the Death by Chocolate logo on the top.
Cézanne smirked. “Never mind. I wasn’t wrong.”
I opened the lid and found a dozen chocolate-fudge cupcakes with chocolate icing. My favorite.
“Are you going to eat all of those?” she asked.
“Have one,” I offered.
She cackled. “And here we both thought that he wasn’t going to do anything.”
“I can’t believe he’s doing this. I really can’t.” I pulled out a cupcake and bit into it as we walked to our cars. It was as chocolatey delicious as I remembered. “God, these are good.”
“I can believe it,” Cézanne said. “And I’m so glad that I get to enjoy the spoils.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes at her. “You’re ridiculous.”
Carefully balancing the box of cupcakes on the hood of my car, I unlocked the door and then got inside with the dessert. My insides flipped at another day of presents. It wasn’t the same as him apologizing, but maybe this was right. Maybe a good grovel showed that he cared more than his words would. Especially after all the vitriol we’d spewed at each other.
I immediately sent a text to Sutton with a picture of the cupcake box.
Traitor. You could have warned me.
She sent back a picture of her winking.
Hopeless romantic.
Maybe Cézanne was right. Maybe he would send something else today.
“What do you think he’ll do today?” Jennifer asked excitedly from her seat on the sofa.
“I have no idea.”
“But you think he will do something?”
“Well, yesterday, I doubted him and then…”
“Cupcakes.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “So…I don’t know.”
Then the doorbell rang.
I jumped. I put down one of yesterday’s cupcakes that I’d been having for breakfast and hurried to the door. I couldn’t even believe this was happening to me. I’d never had a guy do anything like this. Once it was done, it was done. Yet, here he was, making an effort to apologize. Not with base words, but with actions.
I peered through the door and found a guy on a bicycle. I pulled the door open slightly. “Can I help you?”
“I have a delivery for Annie Donoghue.”
“That’s me,” I said, jittery and excited by the prospect.
He passed over a large cup with the letter J&B scrawled across it. Plus, a little brown bag. I took them both from him and turned back to find Jennifer had jumped off the couch and was running to see.
