Page 7 of Lone Star

It took him a while to come up the two flights of stairs. Axelle had just decided that her kindly – but meddlesome – landlady must have waylaid him to ask what business he had here tonight, when a knock sounded on the door. Three quick strikes, soft…but sure. Polite, but not, she thought with a fraction of relief, hesitant.

One more breath – and an aborted attempt to smooth her hair, because she was beingstupid– and she opened the door.

And was met with a mass of pink roses.

He’d brought her flowers.

Oh.

The bouquet was, honestly, obscene, at least two dozen roses, that frilly white filler stuff – she’d look it up later, on her phone, and find that it was called baby’s breath – and some green waxy leaves on long stems – eucalyptus – that smelled fresh and sweet in a way florists’ greens didn’t usually.

The bouquet tipped to the side, and Albie peeked around it, which she would have found adorable if she wasn’t freaking out about the fact that he’dbrought her flowers.

He said, “Hi.” And he might have blushed, at least a little.

Axelle said, “That’s a whole lot of roses.” And then wanted to kick herself. “Um, I mean – come in?” She stepped back and motioned awkwardly.

As he passed her on his way inside, she caught a whiff of something pleasant that wasn’t the flowers – a woodsy, leather-and-citrus scent that must have been his cologne. She didn’t remember it from London.

He’d brought her flowers, and worn cologne.

She took a second, after she’d shut the door and thumbed the lock, to stare at the wood grain, scrambling to get her thoughts in order.

Why the hell was she freaking out about this?

When she turned around, she saw that Albie had moved to stand awkwardly in the center of the room, behind the couch, roses held as carefully as a baby – or maybe a bomb. From behind, she could see that he’d made some efforts with his appearance: clean, new-looking jeans, and a button-up black shirt, tucked-in. His belt and boots gleamed, faintly: polished.

He’d brought her flowers, worn cologne, and dressed as nicely as he was probably able, given his wardrobe and profession.

That made itreal, somehow. That made it a date and not just acquaintances having dinner. Which was what adults did. “Hanging out” was for kids afraid of commitment. Adults made an effort, brought gifts, anddated.

She could do this.

First things first: the flowers. Flowers needed water.

She headed for her kitchen. “Here, we can…” A quick look confirmed her fear that she didn’t own a vase. She cringed when she found a vessel big enough: a plastic pitcher she’d bought at Target with the intent of making sweet tea. She filled it with water at the sink, and tried not to wince too dramatically when she set it on the island and said, “They can go in here.”

Albie considered the pitcher, and then the flowers, the plastic wrapped around them crinkling. “I think you’re supposed to cut them, first.”

“Cut…them?”

“The ends. They came with this little packet of nutrient stuff you’re supposed to put in the water. And then cut them.” He juggled the bouquet into one arm and made a snipping motion with the fingers of his other hand. “Diagonally. That’s what she said.”

It took a team effort, both of them nicking their fingers on thorns; Albie accidentally shooting the rubber band that held the paper in place across the room. They nearly overfilled the pitcher, and, loose from the band, fanned out in a great, dramatic spray, Axelle felt sure that the slightest nudge would send the lightweight, now top-heavy pitcher crashing sideways.

They stared at their handiwork – or lack thereof – for a long moment.

Axelle finally groaned. “God, why is this so weird?”

Albie blew out a breath, shoulders slumping – but something like relief touched his face. “I don’t know. I guess it just seems…really official, now, or something.”

They looked at each, finally, fully. Solid eye contact.

Albie smiled, crooked but true, and she felt her lungs expand a much-needed fraction.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she said. “I should have said that the second you walked in.”

He shrugged, charming and easy this time. And it wasn’t for effect; she found him charming, whether anyone else did or not, and that was what mattered. “I won’t tell anyone we’re hopeless at this if you don’t.”

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