CHAPTER 4
The Space Between Visits
Brad — POV
Brad didn't go back to the flower shop the next day.
That was intentional.
He sat in his Gorge house, laptop open, emails stacking up like they always did. The Columbia River glittered beyond the glass wall, indifferent to his hesitation. Mount Hood stood white and permanent in the distance.
His assistant had sent three reminders about the afternoon briefing. The board wanted updates on the Southeast Asia rollout. His calendar was a wall of obligations.
He read none of it.
Instead, he stared at the white lilies on his kitchen counter.
They were still there.
Still alive.
Still simple.
He had bought them for no reason. No apology. No occasion. Just because she had handed them to him and he hadn't known how to say no to her face.
Or maybe —
he hadn't wanted to.
Brad leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. His thumb pressed hard into the knot above his brow — a habit that meant he was avoiding something.
This was ridiculous.
He was thirty-three years old. He had built systems that ran on six continents. He had negotiated with presidents and debated with senators. He had never once felt uncertain about where to put his attention.
Until now.
Until her.
He stood up and walked to the window.
Hood River spread out below him in the valley — small, quiet, unimpressed by wealth. His Gorge house sat on the Washington side, isolated by design. He had bought it for privacy. For escape.
Now it felt like a waiting room.
He thought about the flower shop.
The way she moved behind the counter like she belonged there. The way she didn't laugh at his awkwardness but didn't pretend not to notice it either. The way she said his name like it was just a name — not a brand, not a headline, not a weapon.
"You're back," she had said.
Like she had been waiting.
Or maybe —
like she hadn't expected him to return, but wasn't surprised that he did.
Brad turned away from the window.
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
He walked back to the kitchen and looked at the flowers again.
"I'm going back," he said quietly.
Not to anyone.
Just to himself.
Because saying it out loud made it feel like a decision instead of an accident.
And Brad Hawkins didn't do accidents.
But for the first time —
he wanted to.
He didn't go that day.
He had meetings. Calls. Responsibilities that didn't pause for curiosity or confusion.
But the thought of the shop stayed with him.
Through the boardroom. Through the data reviews. Through the endless questions about growth and risk and quarterly projections.
He answered everything automatically.
His body was there.
His mind was not.
That night, he sat alone in his Gorge house again.
The lilies had started to fade slightly at the edges.
He should throw them away.
He didn't.
He didn't know then that some truths fade the same way. Slowly. Quietly. Until there's nothing left but the stain of what used to be.
Instead, he opened his calendar and found a gap.
Tomorrow afternoon.
One hour.
He typed something in the slot.
Not "flower shop."
Not "Kathy."
Just a single word:
Errand.
He closed the laptop.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
But for once, the silence didn't feel like control.
It felt like waiting.
And Brad realized, with uncomfortable clarity, that he wasn't sure what he was waiting for anymore.
But he knew where he wanted to be when he found out.
He just didn't know that finding out would cost him everything.