Page 85 of What's Left of Us

She stares at the polished piece of gold before slowly looking up at me in stunned speechlessness.

I slide the engagement ring on with a small round diamond in the center. It’s nothing extravagant. Nothing flashy. But her eyes water all the same.

I kiss her, keeping my lips on hers as I start pumping into her again. “I know I’m not the most romantic guy. I know I can do better. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’remine,” I rasp against her mouth, swallowing her moans as I pick up the pace with each thrust.

Our fingers interweave.

I feel the ring as I press her hand into the mattress and listen to the bed frame squeak with our quickening movements.

“Mine,” I say as I bite her throat.

“Mine,” I repeat as I bite her breast.

Each nip leaves marks in their wake. But nothing claims her like the ring on her finger.

And then she utters one word that makes me lose control, coming before I even have the chance to pull out.

“Yours,” she whispers, her hand tightening around mine as she comes on my cock. “Yours,” she says again, bowing her back as I fill her.

It’s not an admission of love.

Yours.

But it’s close enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lincoln / Present

Arose getsshoved in my face as I walk down Main Street, and if it weren’t a middle-aged woman, I’d probably hit the person who crowded my personal space. “Buy your sweetheart a rose.”

“No thanks,” I grumble, sidestepping her and ignoring the wafting scent of the flower left behind. The woman who used to run the flower shop passed away a few years ago. The person who bought her out kept the name, but as my relationship with Georgia started deteriorating, so did my trips to the flower shop.

Turns out, flowers didn’t fix everything.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” she calls out after me. “I picked and trimmed them myself. Five dollars for two, ten dollars for five.”

My eyes go to the flowers in the bucket by her front door that’s still full. I’m sure she’ll get a lot of last-minute shoppers who forget what day it is, like I used to. I tried being good about proactively doing things for Georgia, but my work schedule tended to crowd my memory. “I don’t have anybody to give them to.”

A dubious look twists the stranger’s wrinkled face. “A man like you? I don’t buy it. No, no. You have somebody. I have a sixth sense about these things.”

Great. A flower-selling psychic.

“I’ve got carnations too,” she notes, gesturing toward the basket of white flowers I’m all too familiar with.

My nose wrinkles as old memories resurface. “Pass.”

She walks over to me and passes me five roses. “Eight dollars for the man with sad eyes.”

Sad eyes? “I’m not sad,” I tell her, looking down at the red roses in her hand. Sighing, I pull out my wallet and pass her a ten. She knows damn well what she’s doing. “Keep the change.”

Before I walk away, she says, “You have people in your life. Today is the day of love. It doesn’t have to be romantic.”

Chuckling dryly, I grip the flowers in my palm. “It’s a commercial holiday marketed to couples. It isn’t about love at all. It’s about money.”

The woman smiles at me. “I suppose that’s why you think you don’t have anybody then. You’re confused about what this day is about.”

I’m sure a lot of business owners are saying that to get a few more sales. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

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