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“So good.” I groan in relief.
His gentle touch works wonders, melting away the tension. The rhythmic motion lulls me into a tranquil state.
“You might want to ask your questions while I’m under the influence of your magic touch,” I warn him.
Given my current state of calm, I’ll likely answer almost anything he asks.
“I’m going to take a wild guess that whoever sent you those roses is the same person who sent you those late-night texts.” Cash sets my foot back on his lap and gives the other one the same treatment.
“That wasn’t a question,” I retort.
“No, it’s a statement. Most guys who do something wrong start with a text or call. If that doesn’t work, they resort to sending flowers. The bigger the screwup, the bigger the bouquet.”
“Are you saying you’d do something different?” I peek my eyes open, wanting to see his response.
“When I do something stupid, which will happen on occasion, I’ll apologize in person and make it up to you with toe-curling sex.” I gasp as he pushes on a pressure point at that exact moment. “When I bring you home flowers, it’ll be to brighten your day, not because I need your forgiveness. And it won’t be one bouquet—it’ll be an entire roomful to show how much I care.”
I try to calm my racing pulse as I process my fake husband telling me he’s going to fuck me and dote on me endlessly. His eyes are blazing with lust, and I have to redirect this conversation before we end up naked on this couch.
No matter how enticing that sounds.
“My ex-fiancé, Landon, sent the flowers.” I take a piece of lint from the couch as a distraction while speaking. “I called off our engagement two years ago when I caught him cheating, but that hasn’t stopped him from sending texts and calls whenever he gets it into his head that there’s a chance we could get back together.”
“Have you told him you’re married?” Cash frowns.
“I texted him a few days ago and told him I’ve moved on,” I say defensively.
“Well, clearly, that didn’t work.” He gestures to the bouquet in the kitchen. “Why don’t you like roses?”
When he’s finished my massage, I sit upright and curl my feet underneath my legs. I’ve kept the memories locked away, avoiding the pain of old wounds. But with Cash by my side, I find the courage to share it.
“My dad used to bring my mom jewelry and a bouquet of two dozen red roses after every business trip. The year before their divorce, the jewelry he brought home was more expensive, and the flower arrangements larger.” I take a deep breath as I collect my thoughts. “My mom became suspicious and hired a private investigator to follow my dad, and that’s when she found he was cheating. When he came back from his next trip, she hurled the vase of roses he brought with him across the room. It shattered on impact.” I shudder at the memory. “My dad left a week later.”
The combination of my mom’s unpredictable behavior and my dad’s selfish tendencies was a recipe for failure. My parents never physically caused each other harm, but it was painful to watch the love they once shared shrivel away until there was nothing left but decay.
“What kind of flowers do you like?” Cash asks in a husky tone, pulling me away from the somber memories.
I offer him a soft smile, grateful that he doesn’t press me for more details. “Daffodils. They’re my favorite.” They’re vibrant and cheerful and symbolize the fresh start I desperately crave.
“Daffodils,” he repeats. “Noted,” he adds with a mischievous grin.
I’m not sure whether to be excited or concerned about what he’s plotting.
17
EVERLY
IT’S BEEN ANOTHER LONG DAYat the office after a brief reprieve last night, complete with a foot massage, gourmet pizza, and a pleasant conversation with Cash. It’s past lunchtime, and my stomach is growling in protest.
After a meeting with a client in the conference room, I step into my office and freeze when I find Landon sitting at my desk. His hair is disheveled, his eyes bloodshot like he’s been sleep-deprived for days, and his white button-up shirt is wrinkled.
He’s a far cry from the sharply dressed, accomplished lawyer I fell for. Now, my feelings have turned to pity and frustration at his insistence on trying to hold me back from moving on.
“What are you doing here?” I sigh, hanging my purse on the coat rack in the corner.
He gives me a weary smile as he jumps out of the chair to approach me. “You’re back.”
“How did you get in?”