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I won’t answer them until I’m far enough away they can’t talk me out of this. Still, I feel guilty as hell.
I type a message to my sister. Since she goes to school in Boston, I’m six hours ahead of her.
Me:
Hey, Savannah. I’ve got some good news! I got a job this weekend that will put me right over the edge for my savings goal. Girl, I’m coming home sooner than we planned. WOOT!
Savannah:
Oooooh. OMG I am so excited!!
Me:
Right? I can’t wait to be back home with you.
Savannah:
Same! YESSSSS! What’s the job??
I pause. I will never tell her what it is I do. Ever.
Me:
Oh, just some consulting work.
Savannah:
Yayyyyy
I reach my door as my phone buzzes with another text. Hope soars, then plummets again when I realize it isn’t him.
What the hell.
What’s going on with me?
My pulse races when I put my key in the lock. I can’t forget what happened yesterday. My throat tightens when I realize my sanctuary—the one place I go to so I can be safe—is gone. Yes, this is the place where I do my business. Yes, I work hard at keeping it impeccably clean and comfortable for guests. But it is my home, and now something that mattered to me has been stolen.
I clench my fists at the thought. Some asshole tried to violate me. He took advantage of me. He would have assaulted me and taken what didn’t belong to him in a way that might have scarred me forever.
And Fabien—no matter what they say about him—was the one who sought justice on my behalf.
And that matters.
I’m glad I’m taking a break. I’m glad I’m getting away. And no matter what, I will grin and bear it and make damn sure that I earn this money.
I ignore the way my hands quake when I go to open the door. He isn’t here. The guy who tried to hurt me is probably dead if my friends are to be believed. Still, I wish I’d taken someone with me when I came back here for the first time.
I push open the door. It’s dark in here, but a light, flowery fragrance nips the air. What is it?
I flick the light on and gasp.
Oh my God.
The entire living room table overflows with stunning pink roses. They’re gorgeous, large layers of silky petals clustered in vibrant pink swirls. I walk unsteadily toward them. What if this was a mistake? What if they delivered these to the wrong room?
How did they get in here? I look over my shoulder, but I’m still all alone. Did… how… there’s only one way to find out.
I reach for the little heart-shaped card with scalloped edges.
A little something to brighten up your room with an apology for what happened earlier. ~Fabien
What happened earlier? Does he regret asking me to go with him? My heart gives a great lurch when I realize that he wants to take it back.
No. No, no, no! I just decided I would go for this, that I would earn that money.
Why would he change his mind? And why on earth would he send me flowers to apologize?
He doesn’t want me after all.
My nose tingles, and my eyes burn. I thought I’d gotten over the searing pain of rejection, but I was wrong.
I take out my phone. I have his cell phone number… The logical voice in the back of my head tells me to wait, not to act irrationally, that I need this money. But I ignore it and swipe open my texts.
Still nothing from him, and I’m not sure why that bothers me because he doesn’t owe me anything.
Me:
The flowers are lovely, but I’m not sure why you regret asking me to go with you. Are you no longer interested, then? I guess I shouldn’t pack my bag. I’m not sure why you are so regretful, but I’ll have you know I’m not a fan of being toyed with.
He responds almost instantly.
Monsieur:
What are you talking about?
Huh. What?
I look down and notice a few petals on the table. Did they fall earlier? I wasn’t home last night…
Wait. When did he send these?
I pick up the card again and notice yesterday’s date.
Ah, okay. Wow. He sent these yesterday. After the incident. The apology, then, was because of the assault.
Me:
Oops. Forget I said anything.
Ugh. Lame.
Monsieur:
I don’t think so. We’ll talk about this later.
Oh, will we?
I clench my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut and wish I could shake myself. I can’t let my pride get in the way.
I can’t.
I have to do this.
Ugh, what is going on here? I need to get my shit together because I need this money. I need this deal. I can’t go messing this up because I’m getting ahead of myself.
I shove my phone in my pocket, grab a bag, and start packing. It takes a few minutes before my hands stop shaking.
