Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Peter
I have no idea how I made it back to Sophie’s apartment.
How I kept it together while I started a bath for her and made her some tea and promised we would talk as soon as she was warm and dressed.
Now, I’m pacing around her living room while she’s in the bathroom, and I want to scream at the entire world.
The freaking flower bloomed.
It bloomed for a stranger while I was down here organizing the seventy-five million kinds of tea Sophie has in her pantry.
A part of me wonders if, had I not been so stubborn, the flower would have bloomed for me and Sophie. Had I just gone up on the roof with her, we could have avoided all this drama. But it’s too late for that. Too late to know what might have happened, because now, the flower has bloomed for someone else.
I drop onto the ottoman in Sophie’s living room and reach for a basket of my laundry. I fold it wordlessly, thoughts spiraling the entire time.
In a perfect world, the flower blooming for David wouldn’t matter. Sophie would feel confident enough in what we have together that she wouldn’t hesitate to ignore the bloom, opt not to see David again, and continue what we started.
But is it selfish to wish for that? To assume that, despite magic or fate—or whatever the flower is—saying otherwise, I’m truly the best option for Sophie?
What if I’m wrong and David whoever-he-is actually is better equipped to love her like she deserves?
What if I’m not—and never have been—destined to be her one true love ?
After I finish my laundry, I set it aside and reach for my phone. I got an email late yesterday afternoon suggesting I take a trip down to Charlotte this coming week to meet the team I’ll be supervising should I take the offered promotion.
My travel, of course, will be on the company, and they’ll put me up in a nice hotel downtown, right next door to the corporate office. I think they’re beginning to worry I won’t say yes, and this is their attempt to wine, dine, and woo me to Charlotte.
I was planning to tell Sophie about the job offer tonight, but now it feels like it will only complicate things. Whether I want to admit it or not, she has a choice to make. She believes in the flower—in the magic it holds—and she’s been chasing the assurance of its bloom for weeks now.
That’s an assurance I can’t give her—especially not now, when the flower has already bloomed for someone else. It’s not that I want to walk away. But if she chooses to be with me, I want it to be without any hesitation, without any doubts or questions lingering in her mind.
When the newness of our relationship wears off, and she’s tired of my idiosyncrasies or my exacting ways, I don’t want her wondering if she could have had a better relationship with someone else.
With David.
The bathroom door squeaks open, and I quickly stand, shoving my phone into my pocket.
Sophie emerges, her body wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe. Her hair is damp, brushed back from her face, and her cheeks are flushed from the heat of her bath. She looks beautiful, but the weariness in her expression makes my gut tighten.
“Feel better?” I ask as she moves into the living room, and she nods.
“Yeah. I can feel my toes again.” She sits down on the far side of the couch, so I sit on the opposite side, body turned sideways so I can face her. She keeps her eyes down, but I know she’s thinking because she keeps tugging on her bottom lip with her teeth, like she’s afraid to look up, afraid to talk to me.
“Peter,” she finally says, “can we pretend for a minute that you’re just my best friend again?” She lifts her gaze to mine. “Because you give really good advice, and I could use some good advice right now.”
“Give me just one sec.” I reach up and tap my fingers against the side of my head, like I’m adjusting my programming. Then, in the most robotic voice I can muster, I say, “Recalibrating, recalibrating, recalibrating…best friend mode activated.”
Sophie breathes out a chuckle. “Are you serious right now?”
I grin and drop my hand. “Sorry. Just wanted to do something dorky enough to wipe all memories of sexy Peter from your mind.”
“Oh, got it,” she says. “He’s like your alter ego, then. There’s Best Friend Peter, then Sexy Peter?”
“Indeed,” I say, “and right now, I’m fully Best Friend Peter. Hit me. Let’s talk this out.”
Sophie’s expression softens, her shoulders relaxing, and I know I’ve made the right call. We’ve been friends a lot longer than we’ve been anything else, so I can do this. I can be objective.
Mostly.
Hopefully?
“So there’s this guy,” Sophie says. “And I really like him.”
“Tell me about him,” I say, and Sophie shoots me an amused expression. “Average height, lean build. Good muscles though. Built like a swimmer, which is exactly what I like.”
“Sounds handsome,” I say.
“Oh, he definitely is,” Sophie says. “Big brown eyes, and these glasses that add just the right amount of sexy professor energy.”
This entire conversation is absolutely ridiculous, but it’s doing an excellent job of lightening the mood, and that’s something I think we both need.
“He owns a few too many hoodies, but I’m willing to overlook it because on the rare occasions when he wears a suit, he really knows how to wear it.” Sophie smirks, shooting me a teasing look. “But more importantly, he’s kind and considerate and he works hard, and he’s really good at taking care of me.”
Warmth spreads through my chest at her words. I enjoy nothing more than taking care of Sophie, so it feels good to hear the compliment.
“So what’s the problem, then?” I say. “This guy sounds really great, and you sound like you really like him.”
She bites her lip. “Yeah. I do. But I think he might be keeping something from me. Something with his work? And that’s not anything he’s ever done before.” She swallows and looks at me, expression searching. “Kept secrets.”
I take a deep breath. This isn’t at all how I expected our conversation to go. How does Sophie know about the promotion?
“What makes you think he’s keeping secrets?”
She shrugs. “I saw an email on his laptop, which was weirdly not password protected.”
I frown. My laptop usually is password protected, but I just reconfigured my security settings and had to turn off the facial recognition component to do it. I must have forgotten to turn it back on.
“I didn’t read it,” she says. “Or even click on it. But the subject line made me think there’s something he’s not telling me. Which only matters because our relationship has recently shifted, and I feel like I deserve to know if something is going on. Do you think that’s fair?” she asks. “If you were me, would you want to know?”
“It’s definitely fair,” I say, kicking myself for keeping the secret for this long. “I’m guessing he probably has reasons for keeping you in the dark, even if those reasons aren’t justified.”
“Yeah?” she asks. “What do you think they might be?”
“Fear, probably,” I say. “If your relationship has recently shifted, I’m guessing he doesn’t want to lose you or screw anything up. Maybe he didn’t tell you about his work promotion because he was scared it would be a reason you wouldn’t give him a chance.”
Sophie nods, holding my gaze for a long moment before she says, “They offered you a job in Charlotte?”
I nod.
“And it’s a good job?”
“A really good job. Exactly what I want.”
She takes a steadying breath. “Are you going to take it?”
I lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees. “Honestly, Soph, if staying in Serendipity Springs means being with you, I’ll give up the job in a second. That’s how much I want this.”
She shakes her head. “But I wouldn’t want you to give it up for me. Not if it’s something you want.”
“ You’re something I want,” I say. “That matters too.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?” she asks, her voice small.
“Of course I was. I wanted to tell you tonight. Up until last night, I was trying to figure out how to tell you how I feel, and I felt things shifting between us, shifting in a good way, and I didn’t want to screw that up. I didn’t want a potential move to get in the way.”
“But it will get in the way, won’t it? You can’t give up the job for me, Peter. I won’t let you.”
I sink back into the couch. “I have to be honest,” I say, pressing a hand to my forehead. “When you came out here, this isn’t what I thought we’d be discussing.”
“I’m not worried about David,” she says, but her words come a little too quickly.
I look at her, lifting an eyebrow, and she winces.
“I’m mostly not worried about David,” she says.
“You don’t have to apologize if you are,” I say. “I know the flower’s magic is important to you.”
We sit in silence for several moments. I carefully weigh my next words. I don’t want to regret them, but I also don’t see any other path forward.
“Sophie, I don’t want you to have this question hovering over you. If you and I are together, I want you to be sure that a year down the road, or five years down the road, you aren’t wondering if you missed out on the man you were supposed to be with.”
She shakes her head, like she doesn’t like my words any more than I do. “So what do we do?”
“I think…I go to Charlotte this week—I’m supposed to go anyway—and maybe you spend some time with David. Get to know him. See if you feel anything that makes you think the flower might be right.”
She presses her lips together, tears brimming in her eyes. “Why does the thought of that make me so sad?”
“Because we care about each other,” I say. “Because I don’t think either one of us wants to see the other get hurt.”
She lifts her hands and wipes at her tears, then tucks her arms around her middle. “What happens after this week?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll both have a little bit of clarity about what we want.”
She nods. “Maybe David is terrible, and I’ll hate him right from the start.”
“And maybe I’ll hate Charlotte,” I say. “It could be a terrible city.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not a terrible city,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “But it might be a terrible city for me.”
It will be , I think to myself. As long as she isn’t in it.
I stand and offer Sophie a hand. When she slips her fingers into mine, I tug her to her feet and pull her into an embrace.
She melts into my chest, her cheek pressed against me, and I lean down and press a lingering kiss to the top of her head. “It’ll be okay,” I say. “Whatever happens.”
“Peter, I’m scared,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
Me freaking too.