Page 105 of Mine to Love

It isn’t an apology, and it doesn’t change what he did. For my own sanity, I drop the note into the trash.

I’m proud of myself for not pulling it out or even peeking at it the next morning. When I leave work that evening, there are two roses and another note. This time I don’t smell the roses or open the envelope. I toss them in my front seat and speed home, cursing the twenty-minute commute.

It wasn’t until I showered, made, and ate dinner that I add the two roses to the one from yesterday. After washing the dishes and doing a load of laundry, I settle on the couch and turn on mindless television.

The envelope calls to me like a lighthouse beacon on a stormy night. When I get up to make a cup of peppermint tea, I eye it again. Damnit! If the water didn’t take so long to heat up, I wouldn’t be tempted.

Carefully, I open the envelope and take out the folded cardstock.

Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?

No. No I won’t. There’s no way I can pretend everything is fine and dandy, stare at him for an hour, and then go back to work and function like a normal adult. No matter how much I don’t want to care, I do. I wanted him to be the one.

His work comes first, and then he squeezes in time for sex. Well, I’m not going to accommodate his schedule. Lunch doesn’t work for me, and I’m not going out of my way to tell him so.

I manage to escape seeing him all week, and every night he leaves more roses and more notes. If he waits by my car every day at lunchtime, I wouldn’t know. I make a point to spend every second of my lunch break hiding in the break room.

By Saturday morning, I’m craving a caramel coffee from Jitters and Java, so I make myself half-presentable and pile my hair in a messy bun. My joggers and sweatshirt are too comfortable to change out of. Besides, it shouldn’t be too busy at seven in the morning on a weekend.

Sliding into sneakers, I make sure I have cash in my purse and head out to my car. Without my caffeine fix, my eyes are still semi-droopy, but the bouquet of flowers on my front windshield has them opening wider than if I downed ten espressos.

I glance around the neighborhood and don’t see any fancy sedans. Logan had a different rental every weekend he was home, so I’m not sure what car I’m looking for. It’s quiet and empty on the road.

I snag the flowers and the card and scan the road. Skipping the coffee run, I hurry back in the house and toss the flowers and card on the counter as if they’re burning my hand.

I fist my hands on my lower back and chew on my bottom lip while I stare at the ridiculously gorgeous array of flowers. Five minutes pass before I make a decision to go get my damn coffee. It isn’t for the caffeine fix anymore, but an excuse to get me away from the most beautiful, elegant bouquet of yellow, red, and orange flowers that I’ve ever seen. Even the flowers at Emerson’s wedding can’t compare. Not that I’ll ever tell her that. Not that she would care.

All she cared about was marrying the love of her life. Everything else—the dress, the ring, the flowers—were extras and unnecessary to her.

The coffee trip is quick and uneventful, and twenty minutes later, I’m back in my kitchen, staring at the vase of white roses and the bouquet still lying flat on the counter. The flowers are beautiful, and I can’t help but inhale their fresh scent. Finding a vase in my cabinet, I fill it with water and add the flowers. Again, I tell myself there’s no personal connection other than he put them on my car.

He walked into a florist shop, handed over a credit card, tossed the flowers on my car. The end. There’s no trace of Logan on them. I can appreciate them for their beauty and not think of him.

It’s the envelope with my name written on the front that has me torn up inside. If I’m really over him, I wouldn’t even be tempted to read the message. The previous four were requests to meet for a meal. This one won’t be any different.

Sitting across from Logan and trying to eat will only cause indigestion and heartburn. Or heartache. Both. All three. Part of me wants to believe he really is the man I thought he was, and the other part does believe.

I stand in my kitchen and drink my coffee. When my cup is empty, I toss it in the trash and tap the envelope against my palm. My hand hovers over the trash for a moment before I close my eyes and bring the envelope to my chest.

On shaking legs, I move to the couch and sit before opening.

Reese,

I realized I was asking too much of you. Lunch, dinner, drinks, and breakfast invites went unanswered. I don’t blame you. I’m an ass who doesn’t deserve you. I am, however, selfish enough to keep asking you for a little of your time so I can apologize properly, even though I don’t deserve that.

Please, Reese. Name the time and the place and I’ll drop everything to be there.

Logan

A lone tear dribbles down my cheek and lands on Logan’s name. I wipe it away and smudge the ink. His name may not be clear anymore on the paper, but it’s tattooed on my heart. Nothing can erase it.

Does this mean I can forgive him? He hasn’t even explained himself, but what kind of explanation could he possibly have? That he wanted to keep me close so he’d have a constant booty call when in Maine? No, that’s not Logan Pierce. If anything, he’s ashamed of himself for having a booty call.

I never thought of myself as one until lately. And that’s on me. I’m the one who initiated sex over and over again. I’m the booty call kind of girl. Logan is anything but. My heart and mind play tug-of-war all day as I do another deep clean of my already clean condo. I don’t like having all this free time.

Before Logan, I’d spend five long days a week at the bank, then came home and take care of my father every night. When I got the new job and Mariah came along relieving me of having to care for Dad, I spent my free time with Logan or working on the projects for LP Financial. I had a purpose. Fulfillment.

Now, I’m empty.

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