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I push my hair off my face. "Not that I don’t believe them, but a part of me wishes I’d had the courage to look in on him and assure myself before I left. But since I didn’t, the sending of flowers is proof that he really is on the mend."
"You still have feelings for him?"
"I do. I can’t help myself." I sink down into the chair on the other side of the coffee table and pull my legs up. "I wish I didn’t. I wish I could turn them off and move on, but—"
"You’re human. And he had an enormous impact on you. You can’t simply wipe the slate clean and forget about him."
"No kidding."
"So, what are you going to do?"
I glance at the flowers, then at her. "Nothing."
* * *
Outwardly, at least, that’s the case. I go through each day, focusing on the assignment I’m working on for Ava. I’m in touch with Zara, who studiously avoids any mention of Cade, for which I’m not sure if I should be grateful or not. It reminds me of how Knight has always avoided mentioning Cade when talking to me. Why does everyone think I’m so fragile? Why have I allowed this one person make me look so weak? At least, I haven’t asked her about him, which is a score in my favor. But then, she sends me a picture of her son James, and I swear, I can see Cade’s features shining through him.
That was a few hours ago, and for some reason, it’s disturbed me more than it should have. I’m not able to focus on the social media plan I’m drawing up for Ava, so when the intercom buzzes, I’m already more put out than usual. I march down the steps, throw it open, then stare. It’s a bunch of red roses today. All perfectly formed. All placed in another beautiful cut-glass vase. The bouquet is so massive, I can’t even see the delivery guy’s face.
“I’m assuming that’s thirty roses?” I grumble.
I can’t see him nod, but I’m sure he does, for I’ve been receiving a steady upgrade of roses each day for the last thirty days.
I stay there for a few seconds, not saying anything, when: "Uh, Miss, this vase is rather heavy. Perhaps, I can take it up to your apartment?"
I silently lead the way up to the apartment and direct him to place it on the kitchen counter, since all other surfaces are taken up with the other flowers. Then I tip him generously. He half-bows, pockets the money, and walks off whistling. I stare at the flowers and something inside me splinters. I march into my room, pick up my phone and shoot him a message.
50
Cade
My phone pings. I’m half-way into my next sit up, which I abandon, and pick up the phone I’ve placed next to me on the floor of my home gym. "Yes!" I jump to my feet and open the message, then scowl.
Sparrow: Mr. Kingston, you need to stop sending me roses.
Mr. Kingston? What the fuck?I scowl at the screen, then type out the message.
Me: Mr. Kingston was my grandfather.
There’s silence. I snatch up my towel, mop the sweat from my face, then begin to pace. I should take my gaze off my phone and continue with the workout schedule the team physician and the physical therapist have laid out for me. It’s the only way I’m going to get fit in time for the next tour. The fact that I’m lagging behind on my fitness regime means the coach is not happy with me, but that’s too bad. My priority is no longer my career. My focus is on wooing her back; and I’d almost given up hope with the flowers. Not that I don’t deserve it, and if she didn’t reply today, I’d continue with my efforts—which I’m going to renew anyway, after this message. But still, a text from her. It must mean she’s thawing a little. I pace back, forth, back, then manage to get in two more sit-ups, before I snatch the phone and shoot off another message.
Me: Did I ever tell you why I took the surname Kingston while my father’s surname is Chopra? Like Zara’s.
Me: I had a big fight with my father when I was twelve and swore to him I didn’t want anything to do with him or his family or his surname.
Me: Of course he didn’t believe me. None of them did. So when I turned eighteen I applied to change my name. My Dad was so pissed but that didn’t stop me.
Me: When I turned up with my new passport he couldn’t believe it. He didn’t talk to me for months. It’s only after my mother interceded on my behalf that he finally relented.
Me: You’d think my mother would have been at least secretly happy that I was taking her surname but she never gave any indication of it. The two of them were always a unit. Zara and I often felt it was us against them you know?
I stare at the screen, waiting for a reply, which never comes.Shit, she really is not making this easy on me, eh?
Me: Also those women you saw photos of me with when I was on tour. I never fucked any of them. They were photo-ops. That’s all. I never stopped thinking about you Abby. Not for a minute.
The seconds stretch. There’s no response from her. I glare at the screen until black spots crowd my vision. Only then, do I lower the phone to my side.Fuck, fuck, fuck.That last message? That was me trying to get some kind of response from her. I hoped if I put her mind at ease about the women I was seen with, she’d definitely respond...And say what? Thank you?
I should have come clean about this to her a long time ago. As usual, I hadn’t managed to pull my head out of my arse in time. Anything else I tell her is only going to make things worse. Maybe, I shouldn’t have messaged her. Maybe, I’ve already made things worse.
