Page 5 of Starting Over with Her Billionaire Boss

As the two were finishing up their conversation, a floral delivery van pulled into her cracked driveway, beneath the comfortable shade of a large oak tree. Mrs. Putski excused herself to head back inside, while Kinsley stood at the fence, staring toward the delivery van with curiosity. The logo on the side of the vehicle was worn and weathered.

Its engine rumbled like a low growl as it idled. A short man hopped out and walked to the back of the van for a minute, returning with the largest bouquet Kinsley had ever seen.

“Family of Rose Vaughn?” he asked gruffly, reading the name off the card.

“Yes.” Kinsley walked toward him, glass of lemonade still in one hand. “Who is this from?”

“It’s on the card,” he said, his tone cold. “I just deliver.” It was the most straightforward ‘I don’t know, I just work here’ comment Kinsley had ever heard. He barely looked at her as he thrust the bouquet forward. His clipped tone and lack of eye contact gave her the distinct impression he couldn’t care less about condolences. She grabbed the bouquet, struggling to cradle it as she balanced her lemonade.

Before she could say anything else, he’d hopped back in the van and was already backing out of the driveway. Kinsley slowly walked back onto the porch, the old wood creaking under her bare feet. Setting down her glass of lemonade on the smalltable between the chairs, she carefully adjusted her grip on the bouquet and managed to open the door. She grabbed the lemonade and let the old screen door swing shut behind her.

She walked into the dining room. With everything set down on the table, she could get a better look. The fragrance of the all-white bouquet was overwhelming—a mix of sweet roses and sharp lilies that tickled her nose. A small card poked up from the middle of the arrangement. It read: “To the family of Rose Vaughn, we are deeply sorry for your loss and the grief you face. May you find comfort in your cherished moments and strength from those around you.”

It was signed “Westerhouse Investments Group.” The name rang a bell, but Kinsley couldn’t quite pinpoint why. Her stomach clenched. Why would an investment group send flowers? Kinsley frowned, her grip tightening on the card. Something about this felt off. Was this their way of softening her up for a future conversation? Was this the company buying up all the houses on the block?

Granny would’ve hated this.To have an oversized arrangement from some company, as if they knew her or cared? It was borderline pathetic. Granny had always valued personal connections, not flashy gestures from people who only saw dollar signs.

The rest of the evening, it nagged at her. There was something coldly calculated about the gesture, as if the flowers weren’t a simple condolence, but a step in some grander plan. Kinsley shook the thought off before bed. It didn’t matter what Westerhouse Investments wanted; the house wasn’t for sale.

Daegan’s phonebuzzed with Thomas’s update: “The flowers were delivered earlier today.” While Thomas was helpful, he had his own projects to focus on. What Daegan really needed was a personal assistant to take care of matters like this, but he’d been so overworked without one that he didn’t have the time to draft up a list of requirements for HR.

He stretched back in his chair. The stark living room stretched around him, all sharp angles and clean, empty space. Monochromatic gray walls rose to meet a high ceiling, broken only by floor-to-ceiling windows which offered little warmth despite the fading sunlight. His Italian leather sofa—one of the few pieces of furniture in the room—stood like an island in a sea of polished light wood flooring.

It was pristine silence. Daegan called it home, but the truth was, it rarely felt that way. More like a carefully curated display of success, with none of the warmth he remembered from his childhood.

Daegan responded with a brief “thanks” before catching up on the other texts he’d overlooked throughout the day.

“Sir, your Aunt Tilly called earlier,” Stewart said quietly from the living room’s threshold.

Daegan hadn’t even noticed his butler’s approach. “I’m assuming she left some sort of cryptic message.” He set his cell phone on the end table, swinging his legs off the sofa.

“Yes, sir.” Stewart looked down at the paper in his hand. Stewart had worked for him for nearly a decade; Deagan knew he was in for a treat when Stewart had to consult a note. “First, she wanted me to tell you she and your mother send their love.” He paused. Normally stoic, it was visible that Stewart was trying to fight a grin. “She also wanted me to tell you she had a dream.”

Furrowing his brow, Daegan whispered under his breath, “Here we go.”

“In this dream, she saw a beautiful rosebush. Next to the rosebush, she saw a kitten. Next to the kitten, she saw a crown. She claimed the rosebush aged, while the kitten never grew and soon left. The crown, however, stayed bright.” Stewart flipped over the note, fighting to maintain his carefully curated composure. “She said the crown was put upon a woman’s head. She didn’t see her face. But there was a separate crown put upon your head.”

Daegan sat stone-faced. “Her interpretation…”

“Is that you are meeting a lover.” Stewart finished before clearing his throat. “A lover that is connected to roses and a…a cat,” he clarified.

Daegan tapped his fingers across the smooth leather arm of the sofa; it was cool to the touch. “I love her dearly, but she is batty.” He glanced toward the wall where a picture of his aunt and mother hung. It was from a trip the two had taken to Singapore the year prior. Despite brushing it off as nonsense, Daegan couldn’t shake his unease. As absurd as they seemed, there had been many times when Aunt Tilly’s cryptic visions had lined up a little too well with reality.

“She certainly has some,” Stewart paused, choosing his words carefully, “interestinginsights. Though I will admit, when I met her a few years ago, she told me I would find something I had thought lost.”

Daegan’s eye shot back to Stewart as his own lips cracked a smile. “And what was it you found, Stewart?”

“My lost sock, sir.” Stewart’s cheeks tugged toward a smile as his lips stiffened.

“A sock.” Daegan always loved this story. “She predicted you would find…your sock.”Wonderful.

Stewart broke into a smile. “It was my bacon-print sock, sir.”

Daegan laughed as he shook his head, though Aunt Tilly’s words still lingered like an unfinished melody. Roses, a kitten,and a crown. It was ridiculous, yet she’d been right more times than he cared to admit.

“Is there anything I can get you, or do for you, before I retire for the evening? A drink, perhaps? Or a slice of pie?” Stewart asked.

“Pie?” Daegan may not have had much of an appetite lately, but there was always room for pie.

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