Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Sophie
It takes me a minute to figure out what, exactly, is going on when I wake up on Friday morning.
Because Peter is in my bed.
Sound asleep. One arm thrown over his head. Bare, muscular chest on full display.
What’s more, I didn’t just wake up beside Peter. I woke up practically on him. One arm draped over his chest. One leg hooked over his leg. Head pressed against his chest.
I slowly inch away, not wanting to wake him up, but needing to get away from how deliciously manly he smells long enough to gather my wits about me.
I did ask Peter to stay with me last night. After the whole Reggie thing happened, I’m pretty sure I would have had a panic attack had I not asked him to stay.
But now, in the clear morning light streaming in through the curtains, having Peter in my bed feels like a much bigger deal.
Also, when did he get those pectoral muscles?
I slowly lift the covers and glance down at my own wardrobe. Pajama pants. Enormous t-shirt. At least I have that much going for me. I’ve been known to lose the pajama pants and sleep in my underwear when I get too hot, so I guess I should be grateful it was a relatively cool night.
Once I make it to the edge of the bed, I shimmy off, landing on my feet with a grace and silence a cat would envy, then slowly tiptoe around the bottom of the bed and toward the bedroom door.
I look back at Peter, who is still sleeping soundly, his dark lashes fanned across his cheeks. A surge of affection for him pushes through my chest. But it isn’t just friend affection. There’s something else here. Something bigger.
I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat.
I’ve been trying so hard to fight the idea. To resist. Because I have to resist. Because I really, really don’t want to lose Peter.
I’ve been ignoring the signs. The little flutters of feeling. The new chemistry sparking between us. But I can’t ignore them anymore. Not after last night. Not after lying in his arms and feeling every inch of my soul relax. I needed him last night, but I also craved his company in a way that was new and strange and exhilarating.
I like him.
Like like him.
My heart starts pounding.
What is happening to me?
And what am I supposed to do now?
Peter sleeps for another half-hour before he appears in the kitchen.
“Hey,” he says, his voice scratchy from sleep.
I startle, my phone flying into the air before it crashes back onto the table. I grab it, checking the screen to make sure it’s okay, then set it face down in front of me. “Hey. You’re awake.”
“You okay?” Peter asks, eyeing me with confusion.
“Yep. Just doing the crossword puzzle. You startled me.”
He crosses through the kitchen and into the living room where he pulls a t-shirt out of a laundry basket he’s currently using as a dresser. I gotta say, I’m sorry to see the view go.
“The Sunday puzzle?” he asks. “Any luck?”
I pick up my phone again and reopen the app. “I’m still working on Saturday,” I say. “And I’ve made very little progress.”
He drops into the chair across from me. “Want me to look?”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You’ll know all the answers, and then I’ll feel dumb.”
He rolls his eyes. “You aren’t dumb. Saturday is the hardest one. I can never do it without help.”
“Right? Me neither. I’m solid on Mondays and Tuesdays, but after that, I can’t do them without auto-check. Do you turn on auto-check?”
His lips twitch. “More like…I sometimes have to check one or two letters?”
“Peter!” I yell. “See? Now I do feel dumb.”
He grins. “It just takes practice. We can work on it together if you want.”
I slide my phone across to him. “Do you want coffee?”
“Yes, please,” he says.
I make him a cup while he enters who knows how many answers into the puzzle. When I sit back down and put his mug in front of him, he slides the phone back, and the puzzle is close to a third done.
“Are you serious right now?”
He runs a hand across his face, and I notice the stubble dusting his cheeks. How have I never noticed how handsome he looks with stubble? How have I missed how deliciously sexy this man is first thing in the morning?
“I could be wrong,” he says as he reaches for his coffee. “Just read them over and see what you think.”
I try to read them over, but my focus is completely shot. With Peter sitting across from me, with his gravelly voice and his messy hair and his very sexy stubble, there’s no way I’m answering any of these clues.
I need to have a conversation with Willa.
And possibly go for a very long walk. And then spend some time with my hands in the dirt so I can figure out what to do. I do my best thinking when I’m gardening.
Wait.
That’s it.
The garden! I just need to get Peter onto the roof.
Every single time I’ve told Willa or Allison that dating Peter would be entirely too complicated, I’ve meant it. My relationship with Peter is one of the most important ones in my life. I don’t want to lose him. I can’t lose him. And if trying to love him meant losing him, I can’t imagine it ever being worth it. Which is why I would never risk a relationship without some kind of guarantee.
But I have a guarantee. If the flower blooms for us, the risk is gone.
If it doesn’t, then I’ll know we aren’t destined to be in love, and I’ve somehow gotten my feelings jumbled up. And we won’t have to wreck anything trying to figure that out on our own.
“Hey, what are you doing today?” I ask. “Want to help me do some weeding up in the garden?”
Peter narrows his gaze at me, like he can’t quite believe I asked, and I remember his allergies.
“So I can be miserable for the rest of the weekend?” he says. “I’m actually going to play racquetball with Archer today. Then he’s taking me out for lunch. Don’t worry, though. I’ll absolutely be home in time to help with your date.”
Ugh. My date. I forgot I had another one scheduled for tonight.
I have several scheduled for the upcoming week—probably because I’ve been working so hard to not like Peter. My dates have clearly become my defense mechanism.
The truth is, I’ve suddenly lost my enthusiasm for the whole project. Now, I just want to hogtie Peter and haul him upstairs to the garden so I can know one way or another and get on with my life.
But there is one happy part of what Peter just said, so at least for the moment, I shove my own problems aside and focus on the fact that I really, really love that Peter and Archer have become friends. And not just because of how much I love Willa. Even though Allison’s worry is over the top, she isn’t entirely off-base about Peter. He’s always been a bit of a loner, outside of his friendship with me, and I get the same impression when it comes to Archer.
“I love that, Peter,” I say. “That sounds so fun.”
“Please don’t turn this into a big deal,” Peter says, like he can sense the glee simmering just under the surface of my words.
“But it is a big deal,” I say. “You don’t usually hang out with people who aren’t me.”
He runs a hand across his face, drawing my eyes back to the stubble lining his jaw. He really does look good with a little bit of scruff.
“Will you be okay weeding on your own?” he asks.
I wave a dismissive hand. “I’ll be totally fine. It’s no problem at all.”
I yield the crossword to Peter and head into my room to get dressed for a little bit of gardening. I don’t actually have a lot of weeding to do, but I did promise Mrs. Hathaway I’d repot a couple of her orchids that have outgrown their current homes, and the annuals I put in could use a little fertilizer.
I text Willa, hoping she’ll be free if Archer is playing racquetball, and make plans to meet her on the roof as soon as the guys leave. When I finally come back out, Peter has changed into gym shorts and a t-shirt.
He turns to face me. “How do I look? Do I look like I could play racquetball with a billionaire?”
I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “You absolutely do,” I say. “Have you ever actually played racquetball?”
“Not once. But I told Archer that, and he says it’s an easy sport for beginners.”
“I’m sure you’ll do great,” I say.
He frowns. “He’s going to cream me, isn’t he?”
I think of our very serious building owner. “Almost definitely,” I say. “But I still bet you’ll have fun.”
As soon as he’s out the door, I grab a book I’ve been meaning to loan Willa, swing by the Hathaways to pick up Jane’s orchids, then head up to the roof.
Willa finds me a few minutes later standing at the potting bench pushed up against the backside of the stairwell wall.
“Can you get over this weather?” she says, tilting her face up. The sun is warm overhead, and the sky is a bright, vibrant blue.
“Amazing, right?” I say. “I love this time of year.”
“Soooo,” she says, turning and leaning against the table. “What’s up? Anything big you need to tell me?”
I wrinkle my forehead as I look at her. She’s asking like she already knows. But what does she think she knows? I grab the book from the side of the table. “Here,” I say. “I just wanted to give you this. I finished it, and you’re going to love it.”
She flips through the book, then lifts it to her nose to smell the pages. “Mm. Thank you for sharing. I’ll read and report back.”
I lift the first orchid out of its pot and shake off the loose moss. The roots are wrapped tightly around a plug of soil, and it’s going to take some work to pry it free. “The first few chapters are a little slow,” I say, “but if you hang on, it’s totally worth it once you get to chapter five.”
“Noted.” She looks at the orchid. “So what are we doing here? Can I help?”
“We’re giving Jane Hathaway’s orchids a chance at life,” I say. I break off a chunk of compacted soil and drop it onto the table.
“I gotta be honest, Soph,” Willa says. “It looks like you’re killing it.”
“I promise I’m not,” I say. “Orchids have air roots. They don’t grow like regular plants, so the looser and less compacted their living conditions, the better.” I free another chunk of the soil.
She picks up the second orchid. “Want me to do this one?”
“Sure. Just lift it out of the pot and pull away any dirt that’s stuck to the roots.” I point to the clod of dirt just like the one I’m currently trying to remove. “They sell them in potting soil so there’s something to soak up and hold water while they’re in stores and not getting proper care, but they’ll be happier in a different substrate.”
“You promise I’m not going to hurt it?”
“I promise. Just try not to damage the roots.”
She nods and slowly starts working the soil loose. “So, when are you going to tell me about last night?”
I freeze. She knows about last night? Would Peter have told her? Maybe he told Archer on the way to racquetball, and Archer already texted Willa?
“It didn’t mean anything,” I say. “All we did was sleep. I only asked him to stay because I had this weird experience when I was a teenager where I thought someone was breaking into my house, so when I heard Reggie, I just got really freaked?—”
Willa holds up her hand. “Hold up,” she says. “What are you talking about?”
I look at her, completely confused. What is she talking about, if not that? “About Peter sleeping in my bed last night.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait, what?”
“What did you think I was talking about?”
“About Jake,” she says, her voice getting higher and louder. “Peter said you guys went to get dinner last night, and he assumed that meant the flower bloomed.”
That’s right. Peter saw Willa last night. “He came to see you just to tell you that?”
“Of course he did! I was honestly surprised you didn’t text to tell me.”
“I didn’t text because the flower didn’t bloom,” I say. “We did go out to dinner, but only because Jake said we could go as friends. I told him I didn’t think we had any chemistry, which we really didn’t, but he said he’d like to be friends. That’s all that happened.”
“So he’s not your soulmate.”
“Definitely not. Which is good because…” I hesitate, suddenly feeling nervous to admit this next part out loud.
“Because what?” Willa prompts.
“It’s a bit of a plot twist, actually,” I sheepishly say. “But I actually think I have a crush on Peter.”
Willa freezes, her eyes going wide. “You what?”
I grimace. “Is that totally crazy? I know I’ve been all ‘he’s my best friend, blah, blah, blah,’ but I don’t know. This morning, I was looking at him while he was sleeping, and I just…I don’t know. Something shifted.”
“You looked at him while he was sleeping,” she says. “Should we pause and talk about how that makes you sound like a serial killer?”
“I promise it wasn’t creepy,” I say. “But he was in my bed, and he looked so peaceful, and he was so gentle and good to me last night, and?—”
“Sophie,” Willa says, cutting me off. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned him being in your bed. Please back up and give me some context here. Because so far, everything you’re saying sounds creepy or naughty, and I need to know up front if we’re dealing with either of those things.”
I finally free the first orchid from all the soil compacted around its roots and grab my gardening shears to trim off the dead and damaged roots. I talk while I work, telling Willa about Peter comforting me last night when Reggie was scrounging around outside my window, then I back up even further, telling her about the handholding and the conversation when Peter told me I’m beautiful and all the other flutter-inducing things that have happened.
“Honestly, it’s your fault,” I say as I lower the orchid into a bucket of water so the roots can soak. “You’re the one who suggested I try to look at him differently. Well, I did, and now I do, and I have no idea what to do about it.”
“That feels pretty obvious, doesn’t it?” Willa says. “You just go for it.”
I roll my eyes. “I can’t just go for it. I have no idea if he feels the same way. I also just started this whole big dating experiment,” I say. “I have four more dates lined up this week.”
“Why go on any of them?” Willa says. “Sophie, you and Peter are already so good together. Your relationship would barely change if you started dating. You know it would be great.”
“It would absolutely change,” I say. “Of course it would change.”
“You would still have the same emotional connection,” she says.
“True.”
“And you’d still laugh and talk about all the same stuff.”
“Also true,” I concede.
“You’d just get to kiss while you’re doing it.”
My mind flashes back to this morning, when I woke up with my head resting on Peter’s bare chest, and my face flushes hot. I lift my palms to my cheeks. “Oh my gosh,” I say. “I can’t think about kissing Peter.”
Willa smirks. “Yeah, you can. You are right now.” She reaches for my hands and tugs them down. “Also stop. You just got dirt all over your face.”
I let my hands fall and take a deep, steadying breath. “So, I was thinking it would be really helpful if I could get Peter up on the roof with me,” I say.
She furrows her brow, but then her expression shifts, like she’s finally caught up with my reasoning. “Honey, why do you need the flower to bloom? This is Peter. You already know you love Peter.”
“That’s precisely why,” I say. “You have to understand what’s at stake here.”
“Okay, tell me,” she says propping her hands on her hips. There’s a challenge to her tone that makes my defenses rise and fills me with unexpected emotion.
“He’s all I have,” I say, voice thick. “Every time my world falls apart, he’s the one who makes me okay again. When my stepdad left, he was there. When I thought college wasn’t going to happen, he did the research, helped me get my loans lined up. When my stupid prom date dumped me after graduation, it was Peter who made me laugh about it. Don’t you see? If things don’t work out with Peter, he won’t be there to pick up the pieces of my life. He’ll be gone, and I’ll be on my own.”
“He’s your safety net,” Willa says. “I get it. But you won’t be on your own. You have me. And you’re stronger than you think you are.”
“Maybe. But I’m also a little more broken than I thought.” I sniff and wipe at an unexpected tear with the back of my hand. “When I saw my mom last weekend, and then, when my dad came by to get his mom’s journals, I realized something.”
She steps closer and takes my hand in hers. “Okay. What was it?”
“All this time, I thought my relationships weren’t working out because I’m a bad judge of character. Because I always pick the wrong guys. But I think it’s really because I’m not very good at trusting people. I need the reassurance, Willa. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”
She cocks her head to the side. “I’ll be honest, Sophie. If you need the flower’s reassurance, that sounds like the person you don’t trust is yourself.”
“Maybe I don’t,” I say. “But does it matter? I don’t want to break his heart, Willa. And I don’t want him to break mine either. The flower can make sure that won’t happen.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Okay,” she finally says, her tone soft. “I get it. I understand why you want the reassurance. But I really think you should just tell Peter how you feel. That man has shown you every single day how amazing it could be if you would let him love you. You already know everything the flower can tell you. You know he’s good and kind and decent and worthy of your love.”
“The flower will tell me he won’t leave,” I say, my tone sharp. “And I don’t know that.”
Willa’s expression softens. “Sophie, yes you do. You know him.”
I shake my head, but I don’t look up, keeping my eyes on the second orchid. I lower it into another bucket of water and point across the table toward a bag of orchid bark sitting just past where Willa is standing.
“Can you hand me that bag, please?”
Willa wordlessly lifts it and slides it across the table.
“I’m going to tell him,” I finally say. “I’m just going to get him on the roof first.”
She sighs. “What about your other dates?”
“I’m not going to schedule any new ones,” I say, “but I’m not sure how long the flower will be around, so I’m keeping the ones I already have planned. I don’t want Peter to get suspicious. If I just stop dating cold turkey, he probably will.”
Willa studies me for a long moment, then she puts her hands on my shoulders, giving them a tiny squeeze. “Sophie, I love you. And I fully believe in the magic of this building. But I think you’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”
I bite my lip. I understand what she’s saying, but she grew up in a house with parents who love each other, who modeled healthy, happy devotion. I grew up with an absentee father, a criminal stepfather, and a mom who deals with her losses through compulsive serial dating.
I wish I knew how to trust my own heart, but if I have a security blanket, I’m going to use it.