Chapter 12
TOO MANY FLOWERS
ENYA
“You know this shop is full of flowers?” I say, arms crossed as I look at the riot of dahlias in Nick’s hand.
“I do.” He smiles and holds them out to me. “Did you know that dahlias stand for commitment…and for loving someone through the hard parts.”
I give him a curt nod. “In Victorian flower language, they also stand for strength despite betrayal.”
“Ouch!” He puts a hand to his heart in mock affront.
I shake my head wearily. “You’ve got to stop this bringing me flowers nonsense.”
He gives me a confused look. Like hell he’s confused. “But you like dahlias.”
I’m going to scream.
Not a cute, dignified scream—no. A full-body, unhinged, banshee wail. Because for the tenth day in a row, the bell above my shop door rings at 9:02 a.m., and my ex shows up holding bouquets big enough to bankrupt a wedding planner.
“I like you leaving me alone more,” I snap.
He sets the bouquet on the counter. “Am I bothering you, baby?”
I throw my arms up in frustration. “Yes.”
He grins widely. “Good. That means we have a chance.”
I bark out a laugh with no humor in it. “A chance at what? Me stabbing you with my shears?”
He takes that, absorbs it, and doesn’t react. He never reacts the way normal people do. It’s infuriating.
Every day, he shows up.
Every day, he tries to make me talk to him.
Every day, he makes it harder for me to keep hating him.
Every day, I twist with guilt because I have to tell him about the baby.
Which is why I’m so angry.
He tilts his head and looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world. He’s very convincing…or rather, he would be if I didn’t know what he was capable of.
No, sir, no way, does he get to break me, then waltz back in with flowers and apologies and soulful blue eyes, like we’re in some cheesy Hallmark movie.
“Enya, baby, I love you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He steps closer.
“No,” I repeat.
Another step. “What will it take for you to believe me?”
“For the Potomac to run clear,” I quip with a saccharine sweet smile.
He doesn’t sigh; he doesn’t show frustration or irritation. The man seems to have the patience of a mule. And the stubbornness.
“I thought you had a new big-time job. What are you doing here all the time?” I demand. He’s here in the mornings. He’s here in the afternoons asking me out for lunch. He’s here in the evenings, asking me out for dinner. I keep turning him down, and he keeps showing up.
“I told them I’ve got a few things to take care of before I start working.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Like winning back the love of my life.”
The things this man says and the way he says them…. A lesser woman would be a puddle. As things stand with my hormones, I’m almost a puddle. But I have fortitude. Grandma Lucille didn’t raise no spineless fool…just a romantic one.
“Dom…Nick…Dominic,” I snap, “whatever your endgame is, I want no part of it.”
“Call me Nick.”
I take a long, deep breath. “I don’t want to call you at all.”
“I’m here, so why don’t you make use of me? How can I help you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t need your help.”
He moves closer. “How about some coffee? Can I bring you coffee?”
“I stopped drinking coffee.”
He straightens. “What? Why? You love coffee.”
Damn slip of the tongue. At this rate, I’m going to give the game away.
What game, Enya? You’ve got to tell the man that you’re ten weeks pregnant. Soon, you’ll show, and he’ll know. You can’t hide it.
“I made some changes in my life,” I manage to say with just enough arrogance to make it somewhat believable, “you know, after an asshole ex of mine gave me an ulcer.” And knocked me up.
His jaw clenches, and he shows emotion for a long moment, then he reaches forward—slowly, giving me time to pull back—and cups my cheek.
I should move.
I don’t.
Because the warmth of his hand hits deep, and it’s drawing out emotions I’ve been trying to suffocate for months.
“Enya,” he whispers, “baby, let me the fuck in.”
Then he kisses me.
It’s soft. Careful. Reverent. Like he’s terrified I’ll disappear.
For a beat, I melt—my body remembers him before my brain can protest. The warmth, the familiarity, the ache.
Then reality slams back.
I shove him away—hard.
Before I can adjust my balance, I lurch forward, hand over my mouth, and barely make it to the trash can before I throw up.
Nick is beside me instantly. “Enya—shit—are you okay?”
I wipe my mouth, mortified. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he says, voice tight. “You’re pale, you’re shaking—did you eat today? Are you sick?”
“I said I’m fine.”
He reaches out like he wants to steady me. “Let me take you to a hospital.”
“No.”
“Enya—”
Damn it!
“I’m pregnant.”
His whole body goes still.
Eyes widening. Breath-halting. Shoulders locking like he’s bracing for impact.
He gapes at me as if the ground beneath him has shifted.
I lift my chin. “So now you know.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“With…my….”
“No,” I fling at him. “The neighbor’s.”
He actually looks to the right as if trying to see who the neighbor is, and then shakes his head. “You’re having our baby.”
“Yes,” I groan out.
A thousand emotions flicker across his face—shock, fear, awe, a brightness dangerously close to joy.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he announces.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice low and steady in a way that terrifies me, “I am.”
I back up, shaking. “I threw up. Pregnant women throw up. And I have already seen a doctor, thank you very much.”
“You saw a doctor without telling me?”
I roll my eyes. Yeah, buddy, I did because I didn’t know what your real name was.
“You don’t get to control me.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not controlling anything. I’m taking care of you.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Well.” He gives me a long, deliberate look. “I’m going to anyway.”
The weight of it all presses down—the baby, the fear, the anger, the longing, him.
I want him gone.
I want him close.
I want to run.
And I can’t do any of it.
Because I’m pregnant.
Because he’s here.
And because my heart is doing what I begged it not to—it’s hoping.