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“They were from you? Why didn’t you say so?”
Mr. Bexley bellows again, more annoyed. Josh continues to ignore him and impales me with his glare. “You should have had Danny stay with you. Not me.”
“He’s . . . We’re just . . . It’s . . . I don’t know. He’s nice.” Olympic-level floundering.
“Yeah, yeah. Nice. The ultimate quality in a man.”
“It’s right up there. You were nice to me on the weekend. You were nice to send me roses. But you’re back to being a total fuckwit.” I am hissing like a goose by this point.
“Doctor Josh,” Mr. Bexley interrupts from his doorway. “My office, if you can possibly spare me a moment. And mind your language, Miss Hutton.” He huffs off.
“Sorry, boss, I’ll be right there,” Joshua says through gritted teeth. We’re both blazingly frustrated and mere seconds away from mutually strangling each other. He sweeps past my desk and whips away the rose.
“What is wrong with you!” I make a grab for it and a thorn drags across my palm.
“I only sent you those fucking roses because you looked so cut-up after our fight. This is why I don’t do nice things for people.”
“Ow!” I look at my palm. A stinging red line is forming. I’m holding drops of blood. “You scratched me!”
I catch him by the cuff and squeeze his wrist in a death grip.
“Thank you, Nurse Joshua, you were wonderfully kind. And thank your gorgeous doctor brother.”
He remembers something. “I have you to blame for the fact I now have to go to his wedding. I’d nearly gotten out of it. That’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“If you hadn’t been sick, I would never have seen Patrick.”
“That makes no sense. I never asked you to call him.”
He examines the line of blood I’ve left on his cuff with a look of complete and utter revulsion. He stuffs a tissue into my palm.
“Just wonderful,” he tells me, tossing the ruined rose in the trash. “Disinfect that.” He disappears into Mr. Bexley’s office.
I open my inbox and see our interviews have been scheduled for next Thursday. My stomach makes a little heave. I think of my rent. I look at the empty desk opposite me.
I then lift up my mouse pad where I have hidden the little florist’s card from the bunch of roses. I’d peeked at it last week whenever Joshua wasn’t looking.
I stare at the card and wonder how I could have ever thought it was from Danny. It’s Josh’s handwriting; but I didn’t notice the way the letters slashed and swooped.
You’re always beautiful.
There’s one red petal on my desk and I press it onto the pad of my thumb and breathe it in deep while the daisies blur at the corner of my eye. My palm stings and itches. Josh is absolutely right. I’ve somehow injured myself due to my own carelessness.
I sit and breathe in the scent of roses and strawberries until I can trust myself not to cry.
Chapter 12
I feel childish as I look at his rolled-up white c
uffs, one of which now contains my DNA. He’s glowering at his computer screen and has not spoken a word to me in hours. I’ve royally fucked up.
“I’ll dry clean your shirt,” I offer, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. “I’ll buy you a new one. I’m so sorry, Josh—”
He cuts me off. “Did you think it’d all be different today?”
I feel a lump begin to squeeze in my throat. “I’d hoped so. Don’t be mad.”
