Page 42 of Accidentally Hitched (Unintentionally Yours #1)

Callum

“ I think it’s safe to say that flowers are not Amanda’s love language.” Noah walks into my office sniggering at the dozens of vases around the room. “I will say though, if losing her has cost Hardin any money, you could totally start a floral pop-up shop in here and probably breakeven–”

“Shut up,” I spit out. Noah snaps his mouth shut, loses the smirk and his expression softens. He watches thoughtfully as I pace the room, hands in my pockets.

“I have sent her bouquet after bouquet. I’ve tried different colors of roses.

I’ve tried peonies. I’ve tried tulips. Carnations.

Lilies. Fucking irises. And every single batch she got rid of.

But she didn’t throw them out. Oh, no. Amanda had them sent to my office,” I motion my hands around the room at the obvious.

“Every single batch is a slap in the face. A reminder that she does not in fact want to have anything to do with me.”

“I think she might just need a minute,” Noah says.

“How do you know what she needs?” I snap. “You may have more notches on your hotel bed posts than anyone else at this company all because of your long hair and your boyish smile but I don’t see you in any long-lasting relationships.”

It’s a blow beneath the belt, I know. But I’m hurting right now. I never hurt. I never allow myself to hurt. It’s kind of the side effect of your mother walking out on you as a child. But I have reached a new low and I’m coming to terms with it.

Noah rubs the nape of his neck. “Because I’ve talked to her.”

My attention whips over to him. “You’ve talked to Amanda? About what? And you didn’t tell me?”

“You do know she is still writing for us, right? Out of the make-shift studio in her apartment. January is still working with her, and someone has to manage that.”

“I AM the manager of that!” I bark out. “I should be the one doing it!”

Noah holds face. He’s used to this version of me. “Well. She doesn’t want to work with you. So, Hiram asked me to do it. We can’t lose this artist, Callum. You know that.”

I do know that. And it pisses me off.

I swallow hard– my emotion. My pride. All of it. “So how is she?”

“Stubborn,”

I snort out a scoff at that. “Yeah, what’s new?”

“Upset. Feeling betrayed.”

“I never betrayed her,” I argue.

“And she never betrayed you. Do you really think that child is not yours?”

“No. I just…it was sprung on me, and I reacted badly and now it’s like I have to pay for it for eternity all because I was reactive in a moment of chaos.”

“That is usually what happens. We have to take responsibility for our actions.”

I let out a persecuted sigh. “And I am trying to do that. But she won’t talk to me.”

“So, try something else. Shit I think I would have switched lanes after the first bouquet flopped. Flowers say two things when given to a woman– I love you. Or I fucked up. She knows you fucked up. More flowers don’t fix that. You need a new angle, brother.”

I flop down into my desk chair and steeple my hands, staring at the floor in front of me. I feel like fucking Winnie the Pooh right now tapping my temple like a braindead idiot. Think, think, think.

“Maybe I make her dinner. Or set up a date to go somewhere fancy. Something to make her feel valued.”

Noah cringes. “I hate to say it bro, but as much as the girl loves a fun place to eat, she can’t be bought with food. I don’t think she can be bought at all. A curveball, I know.”

It is a curveball. The problem with Hardin men is we have a tendency to just throw money at anything that’s broke. Noah is right about that not working with her.

“What about a spa treatment?” I ask. “She should feel pampered, don’t you think?”

“Again. I just don’t think she is going to accept anything that feels like a buyout. Even if she really would appreciate a massage right now.”

“So, if she won’t talk to me and she won’t accept anything from me, how the fuck am I going to get through to her?

! It’s like I need some way to just broadcast the way I feel about it in a way that is so obnoxiously loud she can’t ignore it.

In a way that pierces her soul and finds its way through the barbed wire around her heart. Something–”

“Like music.”

Noah says the words and I stop. I stop talking, breathing, blinking, everything. I sit up straight in my chair as the dots connect in my head. “Music.”

“Yeah. Okay so hear me out!” he leans in, and I am all ears. “You write a song. And you play it. Somewhere she will hear it.”

“Where would she hear it? This isn’t exactly the 90s. People don’t turn to their local radio station when they want to listen to music. They stream it.”

Noah bites his lips and paces the floor in front of my desk for a minute. But the idea comes to me first.

“You give it to her.”

Noah stops and looks over at me. “What? Me?”

I grin. “Yes, you. You’re working with her right now.

And we both know she isn’t exactly accepting anything from me.

I’ll record the song and put it on tape.

She fucking loves tapes. She claims they sound better.

And you give it to her. Tell her…it's a new artist that we are considering and want her feedback on.”

Noah laughs. “Jesus brother, that's brilliant. You think she’ll actually listen to it though? Once she figures out that it’s you?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I have to try. It’s a Hail Mary at best.”

“And a gorgeous one at that,” he smiles. And for the first time in weeks, I feel a spark of hope.