Page 81 of The Games We Play
I nodded, pulling out a dining chair and sinking into it gratefully. “As far as I know.”
Sandy pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, the crochet club ladies just sent over a last-minute request. They want to hand out free flowers to moms at the park tomorrow.” She paused. “Sweet, right?”
“It’s a lovely idea,” I said, smiling warmly.
“It is,” she agreed, but there was hesitation in her voice. “Thing is… between the regular orders, the walk-ins, and now this one, I don’t think you and I can handle it all ourselves.”
She glanced down at her sneakers, then up at me through her lashes, sheepish and hopeful.
“You need another set of hands?” I offered gently.
Her whole face lit up. “Oh, sweetheart, that would be wonderful. I didn’t want to burden you, but I was starting to feel a little overwhelmed.”
“You could’ve just asked,” I chuckled softly.
She waved a hand as if to saywhere’s the fun in that?And gave a dramatic shrug.
Fortunately for her, I already had someone in mind. Someone who loved flowers almost as much as I did—and who just so happened to be free this weekend.
As I opened my mouth to tell her, Sandy tilted her head slightly, eyes drifting past me. She squinted toward the dining table, then nodded approvingly.
“Well, aren’t those just the loveliest things?” she cooed, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
I turned to see what she was talking about—and froze.
The ceramic pitcher on the table now held a bouquet of fresh, vibrant roses. When I’d left for work that morning, the arrangement had looked tired, its leaves drooping, the petals starting to brown. But now? They looked brand new. Dew-kissed. Like they’d just been plucked from a garden an hour ago.
I spun back toward the doorway—but Sandy was already gone and the door was now shut.
Her retreating footsteps echoed softly down the stairs, followed moments later by the cheerful chime of the shop door below.
“This woman,” I muttered with a shake of my head, making my way toward the pitcher.
There was only one person who knew how to get into my apartment. One person who knew I rarely remembered to lock the door.
As I walked back to the table, I paused in front of the pitcher. The roses were flawless. Fresh, soft petals curled open just enough, their red edges deepening toward the center. My lips curved into a smile, and something light and fluttery stirred in my chest.
A dozen roses. Always the same amount. Always the same flower.
They were from Mac. I didn’t even have to question it.
Bending down, I rifled through my purse until I found my phone. His number wasn’t saved, but I knew exactly which one was his. Without a second thought, I hit the FaceTime icon.
It only rang twice before the familiardingechoed, and his face filled the screen.
“What’s up, Penelope?” he asked casually. His phone was propped up somewhere on the bar. Behind him, the soft glow of the bottle wall cast light over the space.
“You know,” I said, making my way toward the kitchen, “it’s technically a crime to break into someone’s apartment, even if you’re just leaving flowers.”
“Is it really breaking in,” he replied, smirking, “if she leaves the door unlocked?”
I laughed, the sound bubbling up before I could stop it. “Touché. You got me there.”
I set the phone on the counter, still grinning, and opened the fridge. A cold wave rushed out and stopped me in my tracks.
It was full.
Apples. Iced tea. Pre-made salad kits. Even a few of my favorite chocolate bars, tucked neatly on the top shelf. None of this had been here this morning.
