Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
dexter
Florence has been crying.
It makes me want to drive my fist through a wall.
After she moved in last week, I made sure our paths only crossed during working hours, and every interaction was professional.
It took all my self-restraint to not invite her over for dinner each night.
Before New Year’s Eve, I wouldn’t have hesitated in inviting her over.
I’m used to eating alone, but maybe she isn’t.
Fuck, is that why she’s sad? Saturday night, Booth pulled up outside her cabin, so at least she had company then.
That’s what also bugs me—her being alone. My cabin is a stone’s throw away, yet the idea of her being over there by herself irks me. What if something happens and I can’t hear her? Does she lock the door at night? What is she eating?
Things that don’t concern a boss.
So, with a clenched jaw and the attention span of gnat, I power through my morning, trying to ignore her red-rimmed eyes while she sits feet away.
My schedule is routine: one hour in the workshop and then site visits before returning home to complete admin work.
I’ll occasionally call in to my rental cabins if there are any issues reported by guests, but it’s rare, and the cleaning company handles the turnover between reservations.
Today, however, we have a meeting with one of my new clients to discuss the progress of their project, and we’ll stay at the workshop for the remainder of the day.
Florence slipped into my routine with ease. Every morning, we meet in the office, her with a cup of coffee—a splash of milk, no sugar—and me praying for summer dress season to be over.
She fidgets in her seat, crossing one leg over the other before switching, flashing the smooth, tanned skin of her thighs. I’ve offered her my seat three times, feeling bad she’s left with the stiff wooden one—and for reasons I don’t want to admit.
“Florence, please sit here.” I stand, gesturing to the padded rolling chair.
She sniffs, not looking up from her tablet. “I’m fine.”
“That can’t be comfortable.”
“It’s fine.”
Her tone is off. Nothing is fine, but I don’t push. I don’t ask why she’s upset or what I can do. There are boundaries not to be crossed, even if we tore through a thousand of them months ago.
An hour later, she’s still acting stubborn, only her wooden chair has moved. Shoulder to shoulder, we close the video meeting with Sarah, the founder of the non-profit we’re currently building a summer camp for.
“You’re sure it’s not too much?” Sarah asks.
We went to high school together, and she reached out last year, pitching the idea of a camp for kids of all ages currently in the foster care system. It didn’t take much convincing for me to agree.
I shake my head. “My answer hasn’t changed since the last time you checked.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s too much. This isn’t why I reached out to you.”
“Deal with it.”
Florence’s gaze ping-pongs between me and the computer screen. Sarah must catch her confusion.
“He hasn’t told you, has he?” Sarah addresses the woman beside me.
Florence pauses the tapping of her pen on the yellow legal pad. “Told me what?”
“This guy”—Sarah jabs a finger in my direction—“will not accept payment for any labor, only materials. He won’t let me tell the local paper or name a cabin after him either.
Florence, tell your boss to lay off the humble pie and allow someone to acknowledge his generosity.
Maybe convince him to take a break every now and again. ”
Florence gives her a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve added it to tomorrow’s agenda.”
“I like you.” Sarah looks to me. “That’s it from me. I’ll see you on site later in the week?”
“I’ll be there.”
The call ends, and I’m back to having no clue what to do with this version of Florence. I want her loud, filterless, and giving me shit for my lack of computer skills. She doodles flowers, the tip of the pen almost tearing through the paper, silently stewing in her thoughts.
“You kept that quiet,” she murmurs.
“It wasn’t relevant.” I stretch my legs out and recline in the chair.
“Helping kids is always relevant.” Finally, after what feels like forever, she gives me those big green eyes. “It’s not a crime to do something good for the community and tell people about it.”
“Sarah was more than happy to pay in full, but two years ago, I started putting a portion of profits into local charities. Some of these kids might never find permanent homes, but hopefully, the camp can be a haven of sorts for them, even for a weekend. I’ve known Sarah since high school, and she does good work.
” I shrug, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.
“I decided the summer camp was this year's chosen charity.”
“You’re quite the guy, Dexter Moore,” she says matter-of-factly. “Sarah seems nice too.”
The slight pitch in her voice is the most emotion I’ve gotten out of her all day. It only adds to my confusion.
Moving things along, I close the laptop and swivel toward Florence, careful not to bump my knee with hers. “My memory is crap. Do you remember what time Sarah said we were meeting at the site?”
She glance at the notes. “Yep, we said…” Her brow furrows. The pages flap back and forth as she thumbs through the notes. “It’s right here.”
“No worries. I’ll text her.”
“It was ten. No, eleven.” Her voice strains, and a crimson stain creeps its way up her neck. The paper rips with her frantic movements. “I swear I wrote it down.”
She drops her hands to her lap, which is when I notice she isn’t wearing her rings. She’s always fidgeting with them, a tell she’s uncomfortable. Without them, she pinches the skin between her fingers.
“Florence, it’s okay.”
“It’s not, Dex.” She tugs harder, and raw skin glows bright red. “I had one job: take notes. And I screwed that up—”
I reach over and take hold of her chin, tilting her panicked gaze to meet mine. My other hand falls to hers, grip firm to stop her from hurting herself. Her lip trembles, and it cracks me wide open.
“Breathe for me,” I instruct, tone a little harsher so she listens.
She sucks in a shaky breath. My hand falls to her shoulder, thumb moving in slow circles on her collarbone.
“Good. Again,” I murmur.
After the third deep inhale, she calms.
I duck my head, not letting her look away like I know she’s dying to. “They’re notes, Florence. It means a lot you care so much, but it’s not worth getting worked up over.”
She slumps into the chair. “I thought I had everything written down. My brain doesn’t want to cooperate today, and it was hard to keep up. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to let you down.”
I rear back. “Florence, you could never let me down.”
“Of course I can. I’m me.” She laughs dryly. “God, listen to me. You’re my boss, not my therapist.” She moves to stand, but the grip I still have on her shoulder keeps her in place.
“I’m your friend first.” Two emerald stones stare up at me, searching. “You don’t need to try. Not with me, Trouble.”
The silky skin under my fingers warms as I toy with the strap of her dress. No matter the warnings, my touch always finds her. It’s magnetic. The intentions are always innocent; a hand on a shoulder to comfort, quickly corrupted by flashbacks that don’t belong here.
“Florence, what’s going on? You’ve been crying.” Her mouth opens, but I cut her off. “Don’t lie to me. Whose nose am I breaking?”
The sweetest noise tinkles through the room, and when a small smile cracks through her stricken expression, I relax. “Booth’s.”
“Makes sense. He’s had it coming for a while,” I joke.
She contemplates her next words. My hand stays put.
“Do you know about the letters my brothers received from our dad?” she whispers.
“Yeah. Pat told me last year.” Realization dawns. “You received one?”
My heart aches as grief paints Florence’s expression. Dreary shades of gray wash away her bright, bold colors.
She reaches into her bag and retrieves a piece of paper.
Ted Sadler was an amazing man, husband, and father. Witnessing Claire and his kids grieve him was devastating. Florence was sixteen, and out of all of them, she took it the hardest. Her brothers were off doing their own thing while she was finishing high school.
I know of the letters he left and how Patrick stumbled upon them. Ted’s death was unexpected, and it’s anyone’s guess what he intended to do with them. From what I understand, her brothers have been passing the letters on to one another. It’s only right Florence receives hers.
Unfolding the paper, Florence smooths it out on the desk and pushes it toward me. “No letter for me, just a reminder that I’ve accomplished nothing, not even dumb things like fishing or dancing in the rain. How pathetic is that?”
I scan the writing. “Your dad left you this?”
Flo is a sucker for lists, a lovely quirk. Regardless, the pain and tears make sense now. I’ve read Patrick’s letter and heard about Graham and Booth’s. This is nothing like those.
I’m not sure what to say.
Her red lips are raw from biting on them, eyes welling with unshed tears, a picture I never want to see again.
“I’m so grateful for this job, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but I still can’t seem to find a purpose.
” She taps the paper. “My dad and I made this list when I was fifteen. Almost nine years ago, Dex, and I’ve got nothing to show.
I’m in a constant cycle of self-deprecating emotions with no way out.
One good thing happens, and then three bad ones follow. ”
I choose my words carefully. “The way you view yourself differs greatly from the Florence we see.”
“Yes, well, because all you see is your best friend’s little sister who can’t do the simplest things.
” My hearing aid protests when she stands abruptly, and her chair scrapes over the hardwood floor.
An apology morphs her face as I tap the little device until the feedback stops.
Her eyes zip around the room, unfocused. “I want to like what I see.”
The glimpses I got of her this year are nothing compared to this. It kills me to not pull her into my arms, to eradicate whatever ghosts haunt her. A lost little girl sits behind the mask of a bold woman.
I want to fix this, have to. But how?
“I’m sorry for dumping this on you.” She glances at the clock. “It’s lunch, and you’re due on another call soon. I’ll go grab you a bite to eat.”
She takes advantage of my resounding silence and makes a beeline for the door. Storm clouds follow, clinging to her as she clamps a hand over her mouth. She says something, but I can’t hear it clearly.
Then, she’s gone.
I am well and truly out of my depth, with no business folding up the weathered piece of paper and tucking it into my pocket.