Page 77 of Charmed, I'm Sure
“Seven, actually.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.” I popped thepwith enough force to make it echo. “He’s been sending themto my house, too.”
“Geezums, Mags. What did he do that he thinks requires drowning you in flowers?”
I walked around the counter and buried my face in the petals. Roses the color of a sunset, deep-pink daisies, crimson chrysanthemums, and a few blooms I recognized but could never remember the name of, brushed against my cheeks. The floral scent was heady, intoxicating. Of all the bouquets so far, this one was my favorite.
“He ignored me for days,” I muttered, pulling the card from the center.
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips as my eyes skimmed the messy scrawl:I could totally go for some you right now.
Persistent didn’t begin to cover it.
“So, what? You’re ignoring him back?” Jae’s caramel eyes sparkled with mischief as she waggled her brows.
“Not exactly. But a little groveling never hurt anyone.”
“God, I love when you’re in your villain era.” She laughed.
Sliding the card back into its holder, I carried the flowers to the office. Just as I returned to the kitchen, my phone vibrated, Taylor’s ringtone spilling through the air.
“Do you own a monopoly on flowers or something?” I asked instead of greeting him.
“Hello to you, too.”
“Taylor, you need to stop. This is too much,” I chided lightly.
“Have you forgiven me yet?”
Had I?
I flopped into my chair, swiveling back and forth as I propped my elbow on the armrest. It had been a week since the incident—and the orgasm. I could understand freaking out over Addy confronting him. I might have done the same. But shutting me out afterward? That still stung. And no amount of flowers could fix it.
“I’ll take your silence as a no,” Taylor surmised. There was a lightness to his tone, though, one that told me he wasn’t giving up anytime soon. Against my better judgment, a small smile crept onto my lips.
“You can’t buy forgiveness, cowboy. And as pretty as the flowers are, they’re not really…me.”
“What do you need me to do, Mags?”
I exhaled heavily. “I need communication, and ours is absolute crap. If this is—ifwe’re—going to work, we have to talk.”
“So, there’s still a chance?” he asked animatedly.
I groaned, and the line went silent for a beat, then two, before he spoke again. “Sorry. I know you’re right. But it’s something we’ll have to work on—bothof us.”
“I know,” I admitted softly. I wasn’t blameless. I had my walls—thick, reinforced ones, built from a childhood full of letdowns. My sisters always said I was like a grimy window: people had to scrub away the dirt to find the clear glass beneath.
Maybe they weren’t wrong.
“Are you busy this weekend?” Taylor asked hesitantly.
“I have a catering job on Saturday,” I said, grateful for the work. Business at the shop had slowed to a crawl, and every little bit helped.
“What about Friday?”
“Prepping all day. Sunday?”
