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"Delivery for Abigail Warren?"
I pause, then ask, "Who is it from?"
There’s silence then, "They’re flowers, miss. I can’t tell who they’re from."
“Flowers, huh?" I place my cup of tea on the coffee table, then slide my feet into ballet pumps. I could buzz him in, but since that run in with the stalker, I prefer to go to the front door and accept my deliveries, no matter that I have to carry them up the stairs, and no matter that I know he’s dead so there’s no way he can trouble me again. I just feel safer this way. I head down the flight of steps to the front door. As I approach the glass security door, I’m greeted by the sight of a single white rose in a vase.
The delivery guy—who looks nothing like my stalker—holds it out, so I open the door and take it from him. I glance down at the perfect blossom, each petal exquisitely formed, the color so pristine, it deepens to blue at the edges. It’s so perfect, it might well be unreal. I touch the petal and the velvety smoothness sends a shudder of lust spiraling down my spine.Huh?I glance up to find the delivery guy already astride his bike. Before I can call out to him, he takes off. I close the door and walk up the steps and into the apartment. I place the vase with the single bloom on my bedside table, then stare at the envelope taped to it—my name in bold scrawl.Is it from him? Do I want it to be from him? Why is my mind immediately going to him?I rip open the envelope and pull out the card inside with trembling hands.
Sorry!
-Cade
I crumple up the card and throw it aside, then promptly pick it up, smooth it out and stare at the one word.Is that it? He’s supposed to say sorry, and I’m supposed to forgive him? He’s supposed to be apologetic, and I’m supposed to take him back? Just because he remembers that roses are my favorite, I’m supposed to go all gooey inside?
Anger flushes my skin. My pulse rate ratchets up. Adrenaline laces my blood, and I drop the card next to the rose. Then I pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans and pull up the dating app again. Then close it.Why can’t I bring myself to start dating again?It’s not like he meant anything to me, not after everything he did to me. Not after how he lied to me about Knight asking him to take care of me.Who would do something like that? A man who had no qualms… A man who would do anything to get what he wants… A man who was desperate…
I shake my head. Cade Kingston was never desperate. He had too much ego to be desperate enough to not be thinking straight. Nope. This was typical Cade, thinking only of himself and no one-else. I shake my head, then pick up the card again. This time, I tear it up and throw the tiny pieces in the waste-paper basket.
* * *
The roses don’t stop there. The next afternoon, the delivery guy arrives with two yellow roses, the day after with three pink ones, then four blue ones, then five orange, then six red, and after that, they stay red. The number goes up every day. And with each delivery, the card is a hand-scrawled one that says ‘sorry’ with Cade signing his name.
On day ten, I open the door to face ten red roses, perfectly formed and arranged in a beautiful crystal vase. As always, I try to return them, but when he goes to place it on the ground next to the steps, I stop him. That vase is too exquisite to sit in the dirt. So, I walk up the stairs carrying the gorgeous arrangement.
When I enter the apartment, Penny looks up from her position on the couch. "Things heating up then?" She eyes the flowers.
I place them on the coffee table, since I’ve run out of space in my room, then survey the blooms.
"They’re gorgeous," she murmurs.
They are. And the numbers and colors are symbolic. He’s done his research, I’ll give him that. He’s trying his best to get me to forgive him; he’s trying to tell me that he wants me to be his, that he has feelings for me, that he won’t let anything stand between us. The flowers are beautiful, and I can feel myself thawing, a-n-d that’s the problem. Like it or not, the flowers remind me of him. And I haven’t had the courage to throw away the blooms. But I’m not ready to forgive him... Yet.
I open the envelope and read the note with the sorry message. With each new note, my level of anger has receded, until it’s lodged as a ball in my chest. I slide the note back in the envelope and drop it on the table.
"What am I going to do about it?" I sigh.
"What do you want to do about it?"
"I don’t know." I drag my fingers through my hair. "I want to tell him to stop, I guess."
"So, tell him to stop."
"Bet, that’s what he wants." I wrap my arms about my waist. "I reach out to him, and it means I’m opening a line of communication with him, and before I know it, he’ll have found a way to see me face-to-face."
"He can’t make you do anything you don’t want."
I laugh. "You have no idea the influence he has over me. One look at that beautiful face of his, and I lose all perspective."
"Hmm." She scans my features. "You don’t sound as angry as you were a few days ago."
"I suppose I’m relieved that he’s well enough to send me flowers. The fact that he’s being persistent means he’s probably back on his feet. So, the wounds he sustained protecting me have healed."
"You’re worried about him?"
I shuffle my feet. "He did take a knife for me."
"And the doctors did tell you that the wounds weren’t life threatening."
