21. roses are red
CHAPTER 21
ROSES ARE RED
IVY
When I blink awake the next morning, I’m convinced I’m still dreaming.
When I was twenty-one, a guy started our date by telling me he didn’t believe in buying a girl flowers. Our server looked me right in the eye and said, “I really hope there isn’t a second date.”
There wasn’t.
So waking up to find a bouquet of red roses on my bedside table is confusing but nice. Then I realize I’m surrounded by them.
I shoot up in bed and stare. There’s got to be at least three dozen of them here. Scratch that, four.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
How did they get in here?
It must have taken a few guys to move this much stuff, and I didn’t hear a thing. Oh god, a group of strangers was in my apartment, and I never even woke up.
What the fuck?
Seconds flow past, liquid and smooth, as I stare in awe around my room. My lungs soak in the smell— clean, subtle, fresh. I’ve never lain in a meadow, but I imagine it must be like this. I can practically feel the sun kiss my skin the way it does in my dreams, bathing me in warmth, holding me close.
I fling the sheets off, ready to run. Maybe I should check with Lincoln, ask him if there are cameras in the hallways. And if there are, does he have access to them? Because then we could at least find out who the hell did this.
My spiraling ends when my hand hits a note.
I’m prepared for some magazine clipped message foretelling my imminent death— which on second thought, I shouldn’t be in such a rush to read— but what I find steals my breath in a different way.
For yesterday, and all the dates who came before me, L x
That sexy, mysterious, British son of a… wonderful person. (Sorry, Astrid).
Throwing the note back onto the bed, I squeeze my way through the field of flowers. Oh god, they’re so beautiful. I want to hate him . How will I ever like anyone normal after this? I grab my keys and phone, and the first thing I can find to throw on, jumping into a pair of mustard-colored overalls, before sending a quick video to Emma.
Me: woke up to this! what is my life?
Fil is stepping out of his apartment as I lock up (not that it does anything to stop roving English would-be Don Juans). “What’s the rush?”
I’m already at the elevator. “I’m just going to murder our landlord.”
“Oh, cool,” he calls before the doors close. “Can you tell him my oven’s busted again while you’re there? Nice flowers, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I grit out. Because they are nice flowers. Really nice. All seven thousand of them. But they’re also trespassing in my apartment, because my lovely not-actually-my-boyfriend thought it would be romantic to traumatize me.
And the worst part?
I actually fucking love it.
It’s ridiculous and over-the-top and probably a massive violation of his authority, but it’s also the single most romantic event of my whole life, and I don’t even know how to contact the asshole to thank him for them.
Because, of course, he doesn’t have a problem sending me more roses than a closing performance of Phantom of the Opera , but he couldn’t possibly do something as simple as tell me his phone number.
I’m either going to rip his dick off or blow him. I won’t know which until I find him.
So I start with the one person I know can help me.
“Tell me where your cousin is, or I’m never coming here again,” I say to Manny after I’ve thrown open the door to the bar. “Wait. Why are you here so early? It’s, like, eight in the morning.”
“They’re called deliveries, and I’m having a great day, thanks for asking. Now what is it you want with my cousin?”
“He saw fit to let himself into my apartment so he could leave a nursery’s worth of flowers in my bedroom.”
“He did what?”
A thumping knock comes at the side entrance, and Manny calls out a greeting, pulling a wad of keys from his pockets to open it. A slip of a man is waiting on the other side with a keg. “Just pop in the back. Thanks, mate.”
“Sure thing.” The guy nods, a short, sharp thing that reminds me of my uncle. “You should know, there’s a truck blocking me in. Says they’re delivering some art to the owner? I told ’em to talk to you.”
Manny sighs. “Yeah, all right. I’ll fix it.”
Curious, I follow him outside, stopping in shock as the “art” in question is practically airlifted out of the truck. The two guys carrying it aren’t lightweights, either.
“What the hell?” Manny asks, and we look at each other in confusion. “He doesn’t do anything by halves, does he?”
I’m getting that impression.
“Look, I have to stay here to mind the bar. If I key the code into the goods lift, can you take these guys up to the penthouse? Lincoln should be home, and you can have your chat.”
“Yeah, yes, of course.” I wave them through, eager to move before he changes his mind.
As they squeeze into the elevator behind me, I feel as though I’ve stepped into a heist film. Ever since Lincoln came into my life, it’s been one wild ride after another.
Manny tries to shield the keypad, but he’s distracted and doesn’t seem to realize that being short gives me a perfectly good vantage point, so I hold my breath and memorize as he types 1-1-0-5-2-0 .
I’d feel bad, but I have about 200 reasons not to, all wafting their scent into my flannel sheets.
It’s kind of nice being sneaky. Maybe this is why Lincoln does it.
The elevator opens right into the apartment, which explains the key code, and I’m too busy being blown away by the size of it to do anything but stand and stare.
I knew it’d be big, but damn, he could stage a Newsies revival in here.
One of the delivery guys clears his throat, and I step out of the way, standing awkwardly by as they shuffle the crate they’re holding out of the elevator.
“Hello?”
I’m pointing my finger at Lincoln as soon as he steps into the hallway. “You.”
He stops short. “Ivy? What are you—oh, hey.” He nods to the guys behind me and waves us all in. “Thanks, lads. You can leave that over here.”
They lower it to the ground with matching groans, then the shorter of the two walks over. “If you could sign this,” he says, handing over a clipboard. “We’ll unpack it quick and be out of your hair.”
“Thanks.” Lincoln signs and turns back to me.
I know I came up here for a reason, but all of a sudden, it’s escaping me. Because Lincoln isn’t wearing a shirt.
His body is unfair. Who even has a six-pack in real life? And those tattoos… How dare they live permanently on his skin, touching him all the time when I can’t?
Jesus, the valley between this man’s pecs could be classified as low ground. Small armies have been conquered there. My fabulous ass certainly has no chance of survival.
Body building? More like world building.
Light-wash jeans hang low on his hips like a tease. Fuck, one little tug would probably have them on the floor. Then there’d be nothing left between me and those thighs…
Side note: who would I have to petition to get shirts permanently banned?
“We have company,” he reminds me, my gaze jumping up to meet his, where he’s smiling with a mix of hunger and amusement.
“Put some clothes on so I can yell at you,” I say, because I can’t think while his muscles are out.
He chuckles, but leaves without a word.
I stride over to the windows, taking in the open plan room. Stained wood flooring with coordinated dark wood furniture, a patterned red rug that could cover my apartment spread out from a tan leather sofa. It’s warm and inviting, with the same careful curation of colors as the bar, the same commanding presence that says, “Stay, I’ll look after you.”
There are touches of him everywhere, a book opened face down on the counter, a few cushions pushed to the floor by the sofa, an enormous water bottle drying by the sink next to a pot that’s starting to rattle. There’s a faded palm print in the handle where time and use have left a mark. This isn’t a new item. He must have traveled here with it. It makes me indescribably fond. This is where he spends his time, a little piece of who he is, the man he couldn’t leave behind.
The delivery guys really do work quick, and they even take the crate back with them, leaving the canvas propped up against the wall. I don’t even hear them leave, struck silent for a second time as I finally see what Lincoln bought.
A familiar clash of blue and yellow stares back. Holy shit. This is…
“It’s yours,” Lincoln says, appearing beside me, now in a pale blue button-down.
“I…” I don’t have any words. It’s too much. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to say. “You can’t…”
“Only I decide what I can and can’t do, darling.”
This isn’t fair. I came up here to yell at him. Or kiss him.
And now…
“If it’s too much,” he says. “I can hold on to it for you. Until you decide what you want to do with it.”
I don’t even know what I’m going to do with Lincoln, let alone a painting that cost him—god, I’m not sure I want to know how much.
I spin around to face him, my hands landing on my hips so I can make this point without jumping him like my body wants to. Priorities. “We’re gonna circle back around to,” I gesture behind me, “all that. What I want to start with is, what the hell?”
His smile widens. “You don’t like the roses?”
He’s kidding, right? “What I didn’t like was waking up alone to a scrap of paper and half my salary worth of a botanic garden. You didn’t think about maybe, I don’t know, sticking around? Not making me think I’d been the victim of the weirdest crime in history?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
My heart dips and dives in my chest, and for a moment, everything feels too big to contain. I have to get a grip.
The giddiness translates to a laugh that bubbles out of me, and the brightness in his eyes is about to be my undoing. I push past him to address the room. “A surprise, he says. Yeah, you surprised me right into almost calling a lawyer.”
The room is no help. It’s like a crystal ball sent me to my dream home. I turn back to face him. He’s still watching me with open appreciation.
“Stop smiling at me like that. It makes me want to kiss you.”
He steps close enough that I can smell his body wash. It’s disgusting. Which is what I would say if I was a liar. Of course it’s delicious. What else would it be?
“That’s a good instinct; you should follow that.” He smiles as he hooks a finger in the pocket of my overalls, pulling me closer.
“Stop it,” I say, but I’m smiling too much to sell it. Damn his steel-gray eyes and international charm. My heart can’t cope with this. His ridiculously huge shoulders are currently framed by the— my— painting. He’s too beautiful for my health. I need a distraction. “What were you doing when we came in, anyway?”
“Working.”
I cock my brow. “Shirtless?”
“It helps me get into character.”
Character?
At my confusion, he softens, reaching for my hand. “Here, let me show you.”
I follow him down the hallway, spying the main bedroom ahead, but we stop instead in front of a converted hall closet. “Welcome to my studio.”
The walls are covered in black soundproofing foam, with a microphone stand, headphones and a laptop set up inside. There aren’t any instruments in here—no guitars (shame) or sheet music. A singer, maybe?
Except that’s a script I can see on the screen. So… voiceover? I mean, yeah, with a voice like that, why not? I’d pay for it.
Let’s not say that out loud.
“This is a bit of a temporary setup until I can install better equipment, but it works well enough for now. Sorry about before. I was in the middle of recording when I heard the lift.” There’s pride in his expression. I recognize it from the years I spent watching Ciara talk about the ocean, or Emma talk about governance, or Manny testing out a new cocktail.
It’s a whole new side of him. Not the cocky traveler, not the stoic son, but the soft, private part. I can’t believe he’s just letting me see it.
Lincoln mistakes my awe for confusion. “Ivy, I’d like to introduce you to my alter ego, Mr. Silver.”
* * *
This explains a lot.
As a woman with a healthy libido, I’ve heard of audio erotica before. I’ve just never actually listened to any. Five minutes ago, I didn’t even know where to find it, but now not only do I have an app to download, but a name to search as soon as I get back to my apartment.
Or would that be creepy? Is it stalking if I’ve slept with him already and am kinda-sorta fake dating him?
No, wait. He’s the one who carried four dozen (I knew it was four!) bouquets into my room this morning while I was sleeping. Listening to him play act a couple of orgasms will be, like, fair restitution.
Or something.
The masquerade makes so much more sense now. I’m almost disappointed I didn’t put this together sooner. “And your family doesn’t know?”
We’re back in his living room, and yes, the sofa is exactly as comfortable as it looks. “Manny knows.”
I can’t imagine not wanting my family in my business. Even when we don’t agree, I don’t like keeping them in the dark. “I thought maybe this was why there was so much tension between you and your brother.”
He scratches his thumb, looking out the window. “No, that’s an issue that goes a lot farther back.”
“So what do they think you do?”
“Nothing of value, if you asked them,” he says sadly, still turned away, even though the view is barely more than a rooftop car lot and an empty office complex. If I lean enough to the right, I could probably see the Helix building.
I focus on Lincoln instead.
Mom says I’ve always been observant. Ciara is the quiet one, her nose in a book, then in a fish tank. One hilarious afternoon, she jumped into the touch pool at the aquarium. Funny for me, at least. Mom was not laughing. She kept asking me what I’d said to my sister to make her do it.
Apparently, jumping into the unknown headfirst was cute when I was onstage as Tree Number One, but not so great when Ciara was trying to hug a cuttlefish.
These days I try to think first, but it’s not easy. I’m not a natural planner like Emma. I’ve seen the lists she makes.
Me? I go with my gut and lead with my mouth. (Okay, that sounded dirtier than I meant it).
I don’t always get it right. Like the time I booked a hotel room for Aaron and myself as a surprise romantic staycation, but didn’t account for him getting back together with his ex the night before.
That wasn’t my favorite birthday.
But my gut is telling me that Lincoln is wrong about this. I’ve seen how happy Darcy and Astrid are that he’s here. How eager they are to get to know him.
I slide my hand into his, tugging until he looks at me. “I think they’d surprise you if you gave them the chance.”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, Lincoln curls his palm around mine, and I try to forget that the last time I tried to hold a date’s hand, they tore it away from me.
“I’m sorry if the roses make you uncomfortable. I can have them cleared out today.”
“What?” I must have misheard him. “No, you will not. They’re beautiful and they were a gift. It’s rude to take a gift back.” I didn’t say it to make him smile, but the sight of it is a relief. “Although now that you mention it, I would like to be able to move in my bedroom again. Come on,” I say, pulling him by the hand to the elevator. “I have an idea.”