Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO SENT THE ROSES
The next morning, Whitmore Manor smelled like a florist had declared war on subtlety.
Roses occupied every available surface.
They stood beneath the grand staircase, crowded the marble tables, lined the hallway outside the library, and somehow appeared in a silver champagne bucket beside the breakfast room because the staff had run out of vases.
Adrian hated all of them.
I could tell because he was reading the Wall Street Journal without turning a page.
Lily sat opposite him eating strawberries and watching her brother with open fascination.
“You’ve been staring at the same article for twelve minutes.”
“I’m reading.”
“You’re upside down.”
Adrian slowly lowered the newspaper.
It was not upside down.
Lily looked disappointed.
I entered carrying coffee.
“Good morning.”
Adrian’s eyes went immediately to me.
Then, annoyingly, to the roses visible through the open doorway.
“Did you sleep well?”
The question was so ordinary that I almost dropped the coffee.
In two years, Adrian had asked me whether the wine cellar temperature was correct, whether the security company had updated its protocols, and once whether the Italian marble in the east corridor was supposed to look “that depressing.”
He had never asked how I slept.
“Very well.”
“Interesting.”
I set down his cup.
“How is that interesting?”
“It isn’t.”
Lily leaned toward me.
“He’s malfunctioning.”
“I gathered.”
Adrian ignored both of us.
“Are you seeing Mercer tonight?”
There it was.
I folded my arms.
“Theo?”
“I’m aware of his first name.”
“Apparently you’re aware of considerably more than that.”
Silence.
Lily stopped chewing.
I looked directly at Adrian.
“You investigated him.”
“I conduct basic due diligence on anyone who creates a security disruption at my residence.”
“The security disruption was hydrangeas, Adrian.”
“Roses.”
My eyebrows lifted.
He realized his mistake half a second too late.
Lily’s grin widened.
“You counted?”
“No.”
“You know there were roses.”
“There are a thousand of them in my house.”
I smiled despite myself.
“That sounds emotional.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“I am not emotional.”
“Of course not.”
I turned toward the door.
His voice stopped me.
“Claire.”
Something in it was different.
Not commanding.
Almost uncertain.
I looked back.
“Are you seeing him tonight?”
I should have made him work harder for the answer.
Instead I said, “He asked me to dinner.”
Adrian became completely still.
“And?”
“And I haven’t answered yet.”
For the briefest instant, relief softened his face.
Then it disappeared.
“You should decline.”
Lily whispered, “Oh my God.”
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Men who send a thousand roses before a first date tend to have poor judgment.”
“You ordered a helicopter because traffic made you eight minutes late to a board meeting.”
“That was logistical.”
“You landed it on a golf course.”
“The owner agreed.”
“You bought the golf course.”
“That simplified negotiations.”
Lily put her forehead on the table.
I walked closer to Adrian.
“You do understand that you don’t get a vote.”
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Recognition.
“You’re right.”
That surprised me more than the question.
He picked up his coffee.
“I don’t.”
The admission was quiet.
Clean.
No argument afterward.
For reasons I could not explain, that affected me more than if he had demanded anything.
I left the breakfast room before he could see it.
At eleven thirty, Theo arrived.
Not with flowers.
With pastries.
He came through the service entrance carrying two boxes from a Brooklyn bakery and wearing jeans, a navy coat, and the same easy expression he had worn since we met seven years earlier.
Theo Mercer was thirty-four, broad-shouldered, perpetually underdressed, and incapable of entering a room without making someone feel as though he had specifically hoped to find them there.
“Before you say anything,” he announced, “I have been informed that a thousand roses may constitute overkill.”
I crossed my arms.
“By whom?”
“My mother.”
“Smart woman.”
“My accountant.”
“Smarter.”
“And three delivery drivers who now hate me.”
I laughed.
Theo smiled.
Then his gaze moved over my shoulder.
His smile changed.
I didn’t need to turn.
Adrian stood behind me.
Of course he did.
“Theodore Mercer,” Adrian said.
Theo extended his hand.
“Adrian Whitmore.”
They shook.
Neither man blinked.
It was ridiculous.
Theo finally said, “I’m sorry about yesterday. I should’ve called before sending that much inventory.”
“You should have.”
“The roses were for Claire.”
“I gathered.”
Theo looked at me.
“Does he always sound like he’s negotiating a hostage release?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Adrian said.
Theo smiled.
I wanted the floor to open.
Instead he handed me one of the pastry boxes.
“Peace offering.”
“For me?”
“For the kitchen. Yours is in the smaller box.”
Adrian looked at the second package.
“What is it?”
Theo turned toward him.
“A pastry.”
“I can see that.”
“Then we’re making progress.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed.
Theo seemed delighted.
Then his expression softened as he looked at me.
“I meant what I wrote.”
The teasing disappeared.
Suddenly the hallway felt too quiet.
“I know,” I said.
“I also know I probably embarrassed you.”
“A little.”
“A lot?”
“A thousand roses’ worth.”
He laughed softly.
“Then I’m sorry for the spectacle. I’m not sorry for the sentiment.”
Adrian looked away.
Theo continued.
“Dinner tonight. No trucks. No musicians. No skywriting.”
I smiled.
“Skywriting was considered?”
“Briefly.”
“Theo.”
“Kidding.”
He waited.
No pressure.
No assumption.
Just an invitation.
And maybe that was why I said yes.
“Seven thirty.”
His smile came slowly.
“Seven thirty.”
He kissed my cheek.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing inappropriate.
Yet when I glanced toward Adrian, the coldness in his expression had vanished.
Something else stood there.
Something raw enough to frighten me.
Theo left twenty minutes later.
Adrian disappeared into his office.
I told myself that was the end of it.
Again, I was wrong.
At four that afternoon, Adrian called his assistant.
But this time he did not ask for another background check.
He stared at Theo Mercer’s file for a long moment before closing it.
Then he asked a question his assistant had never heard from him before.
“What exactly makes a woman feel loved?”
There was a long silence on the phone.
Finally his assistant said, very carefully,
“Sir, I don’t believe that’s something you can outsource.”
Adrian looked through the glass doors toward the foyer.
Toward the roses.
Toward me.
May you like
“No,” he murmured.
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
