Page 59 of A Billion Dollar Romance

She wasn’t mine.

But I wanted her to be.

I would tell her.

CHAPTER30

Edie

There wereflowers at my desk.

Roses.

Dozens–dozens–of them.

“I was going to ask how the conference went,” Peter smirked over his herbal tea. “But seeing those… I don’t think I want to know.”

“They could be apology flowers,” Margaret said. “Not… we-don’t-want-to-know flowers.”

I grimaced. It was worse: if I had to guess, they were a little bit apology, a little bit thank-you-for-the-sex flowers.

Tucked into a clump of deep red blossoms, there was a note. I picked it up.

Dinner tonight at seven. Love, James.

Love, James.

Love, James.

Love. James.

My heart beat in my throat as I read and re-read the signature.

Love, James.

“But really, how did the conference go?” Margaret asked, as we settled into our desks side-by-side. “Was it interesting or was it just…business?”

“Both,” I acknowledged. “For me, it was interesting. But I wasn’t there to work, you know?”

“Right,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “You were just there as arm candy.”

I rolled my eyes, gesturing to my sweater set and work pants. My hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. “Exactly.”

“I saw the picture of you at the ballet silent auction,” Margaret contradicted. “You clean up nice, Edie, and I’ve never heard of a man like Mr. Martin sending a girl flowers for her brain.” Her smile softened the sting of her words. “Now me?Imight send you some flowers if you finish that proof today…”

“No flowers needed,” I said, sliding the printed manuscript from my desk. “I finished over the weekend. Just need to transfer to digital.”

“You’re a dream, Edie,” Margaret said, lifting the document from my hands. “And I’ll do that, I don’t mind. Now that I know you were taking time out of your romantic weekend to proofread…”

“It was a work conference!” I protested, laughing.

“That’s what you say, Edie, but six dozen red roses say otherwise.”

* * *

There had never been, in the history of work days, a longer Monday. I caught up on emails, got coffee for the senior staff, proofread a dozen pages of a sci-fi thriller that failed to distract me from my seven o’clock date, ate a light lunch at my desk (Peter glared as I turned down his invitation), and watched the clock, my eye drawn like a magnet to the corner of my computer screen every few minutes.

When I saw the numbers click over to 5:30, I leaned back in my chair to get Margaret’s attention. “I’m heading home.”