Page 47 of Coming Up Roses

He gently places his end down, then turns and immediately strides back to the door, leaving me slack mouthed and confused, my hair falling from its ponytail. Is he leaving again? Why’d he come back if it was only to move a single table?

“I’ve got dinner,” he says, picking up two plastic containers from the long bench seat running along the wall just inside the door.

He hands one to me, along with a paper towel. “Sorry, I don’t have actual napkins.” He drops his gaze to the box in his hands. “It’s also not much. But it’s something.”

“Thank you, Flynn,” I say. I feel like I’m always thanking this man. I feel like I already owe him so much. And after I was so rude to him, he went and made me dinner. I don’t deserve a friend like him.

I lower myself to sit on the bench and stretch my legs out in front of me. It’s a relief to sit for a few minutes.

I wasn’t expecting to be under so much pressure because I’d ordered the flower arrangements to come fully formed.I never would have coped without Flynn, and I was a bitch to him regardless.

Then he turned up to feed me.

I pry the lid off the container. Inside is a thick parcel wrapped in tinfoil, a pot of yoghurt, a banana and a couple of slightly melted chocolate biscuits. There’s also a spoon for the yoghurt.

I slide the tinfoil package out of the container and unwrap it to find a toasted sandwich, but not a basic one like I usually make. Flynn has used thick bread and the cheese is still warm enough to ooze out the sides. There’s relish and bacon and a fried egg.

“Oh my god, this looks amazing,” I say, fighting the urge to groan. “Smells amazing too.”

Flynn lowers himself to sit beside me and opens his own container. His mouth is curled into a soft smile as he watches me take an enormous bite.

This time I can’t stop the moan from slipping past my lips. Lunch at the main house feels like weeks ago.

Flynn’s eyes are on my mouth as I chew, and his expression looks like he’s at war with himself.

“Do I have food on my face?” I ask after I swallow.

He shakes his head, his curls dancing with the movement. “No,” he murmurs, still watching my mouth.

I wipe my face despite his assurances because the way he’s looking at me is like he wants to say something, but isn’t sure how. At my movement he startles, snapping his gaze away and taking a bite that’s almost half the sandwich.

We eat in silence, and once we’re done, Flynn helps mearrange the tables and chairs. Then we spread tablecloths and place our flower arrangements in the centre of each one. I lay out cutlery while Flynn unpacks wine and water glasses. Plates are stacked ready for the buffet, the boxes of alcohol that were delivered this afternoon are stored in the cooler after the bar fridge is stocked.

We work side by side and together we smash out every task I had on my list for today.

Finally, when Flynn has walked around every table and straightened every knife with perfect precision, he turns to me. “What’s next?” His hair is dishevelled, his eyes tired and his posture is drooping. The poor guy did a full morning of physical farm labour before spending all afternoon and night helping me.

“Nothing,” I say. “We’re all done.”

“Are you messing with me?” he says.

“Nope, we’re done. Well, until tomorrow.” I give him a grin. “We did it.”

“Fuck yes we did. Of course we did. Why do you sound like it’s a miracle?”

I laugh, the sound a little delirious now I’m coming down from the adrenaline high I’ve been running off since lunchtime. “Because it feels like one.”

I head for the stairs at the back of the room and Flynn follows me into my office. I need to grab my bag, then I’m heading home for a shower and some sleep. I collapse onto the couch in the office and let out a groan as I realise my mistake. Maybe I’ll just be sleeping here tonight. I tilt my head back and close my eyes.

“God, I’m tired,” I mutter.

“Don’t get mad at me for saying this,” Flynn says, and I crack my eyes open watch him squirm as he stands in front of me. “But I don’t think you should drive home tonight.”

“I don’t have the energy to be mad,” I say. “Might just sleep here.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at me. “No.”

“Stop trying to tell me what to do, Flynn,” I mutter, trying to glare at him but failing because it feels like too much work. Instead I close my eyes again and let myself sink further into the couch.

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