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Someone left me a white orchid.
It was him. I know it was him. There’s only one person who would have any reason to leave me a flower, and it’s Emerson, and…
He knows. He knows where I live. He was standing down in the gallery when I came up.
I followed you, this flower says.
I stand over it on the doormat, my hands shaking. If I pick it up, does that mean I’m accepting what happened last night? That makes me want to crush it in my fist, take it down to the sidewalk, and throw it to the concrete.
A distant buzz comes from inside the apartment.
My phone.
I swipe the orchid from the doormat and rush in. Slam the door. Lock it tight. It’s a pure, delicate flower. White as snow. Flawless. It feels so fragile in my hand. There’s a warmth to the stem. Like he was holding it in his big palm.
The phone’s still ringing when I get to the bed. Eva’s name is on the screen. “Hi.” I sink down on the side of my bed, trying not to sound out of breath. “Why are you calling so early?”
And then I can’t help it. I bend my head to the petals and take a deep breath in. Soft petals. Delicate. Pure. I’m hoping for a trace of him, for the fresh-air scent of him. I want it more than I can say.
I want him more than I should ever want a rich asshole who wants to buy me.
“Hey, Daph.” Eva sounds tired. More than tired—exhausted. Afraid, almost. My stomach drops. All those days she didn’t text feel different now. And the way the security apartment was all lit up, all week. “Are you at home?”
“Yeah, of course I am. It’s barely daylight.” I force a laugh. “Are you at home?”
“No, actually. I’m at the hospital. New York-Presbyterian.”
“Are you serious?” Blood rushes out of my face. It was hot a few seconds ago, but now my cheekbones feel frozen.
“Listen, everything’s all right. I should have started with—it’s fine. Everyone is going to be fine. I wanted to call and let you know.”
“What’s happening?” I try to sound as cool and collected as possible, but not knowing is terrible. “Was there an accident?”
I can’t bring myself to ask about one person or another. Our family is too big. There are too many chances for something to go wrong.
“There wasn’t an accident.” Eva takes a deep breath, and I can’t understand why she’s having to steel herself if everything is going to be so, so fine. “I’m here because Leo is here.”
Panic sets in. This is why she’s trying to be so gentle about this. “For what?”
“He’s going to be fine,” she says. “That’s the thing I need you to know. They patched him up, and he’s going home tomorrow. Okay? I would have told you earlier, but he didn’t want you to worry.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“He got shot, Daph.” All the air squeezes out of my lungs. Eva keeps talking, but the words bounce off me and slide down to the floor. Something crumples in my hand. It’s the orchid. My nails have bitten through the soft petals. The flower’s ruined now.
Chapter Nine
Emerson
As it happens,a man can’t have iron-willed control over everything in his life. Most things, but not everything. I’m willing to admit to myself that Daphne Morelli might be the exception to the many rules I have about emotions and their place in a man’s mind.
I intended to leave several days between the showing and my first visit. Untenable, staying away that long. I didn’t want her to wonder if I’d forgotten. Or worse, think that the kiss in the gallery was nothing to me.
It was not nothing.
It clarified an error I’d made in my thinking. Somehow, because I’m a fucking fool, I thought it was simple. I wanted to witness the transfer of emotion from her body to canvas. I haven’t stopped wanting that. But I want something more, something that has less to do with art and more to do with the woman herself. Now that I’ve had my hands on her, all the things I want run riot around my head.
I want to see her fear and her desire and her darkness on her. Not in a representation. On her skin. On her face. Between her legs. I want to let my feelings for her loose on her. Scrawl them on her skin. It’s a visceral want. It makes my hair stand on end and my flesh hot and my heart pound.
