5. Lilah
CHAPTER FIVE
lilah
I sleep for maybe three hours, the rest of the night spent staring at the ceiling, watching the numbers on my alarm clock change one minute at a time.
Two eighteen. Three forty-seven. Five oh-six.
At some point, I must drift off because the next time I open my eyes, pale morning light spills through the gap in the curtains.
Six thirty.
I groan and scrub a hand over my face. I feel worse than I did when I went to bed. For a few seconds, I just lie there, trying to convince myself the past few days weren’t as bad as it felt.
Maybe the SUV really was waiting for someone, maybe the flowers were exactly what Cara said they were—a wrong delivery, or even a mistake.
My stomach twists; I don't believe either of those things.
I close my eyes, but the image comes back anyway: the black SUV pulling away, not before I saw it, but the second I looked at it, like whoever was inside knew I'd spotted them.
A shiver works its way down my spine. I throw the covers back because lying here isn't going to change anything.
I drag myself out of bed and pad barefoot through the apartment. I check the door; the deadbolt's still locked, and the chain's still across the door, but I test the handle anyway. It doesn't move.
The windows are still locked too. I check them because I always do—at this point, it’s a compulsion—then I glance into the bathroom, pulling the shower curtain back before dropping to my knees to look under the bed. Empty.
I fill the coffee maker with water, scoop fresh grounds into the filter, and hit the switch. While it brews, I stand at the kitchen window with my arms folded across my chest.
The bakery truck is making its usual delivery. Mrs. Donnelly from the second floor is walking her golden retriever.
Everything looks exactly the way it should. No black SUV. Some of the tightness in my chest eases, but not all of it. The coffee finishes brewing. I pour myself a mug and force down half a bagel; it's all I can manage.
I rinse my mug and go through the same routine I do every morning.
I get dressed in a long sleeve top, jeans, and sneakers.
I grab my bag from the hook by the door and make sure I have everything: keys, my wallet, cellphone, and pepper spray tucked into the front pocket where I can reach it in seconds if needed.
Only then do I look through the peephole. Seeing that the hallway is empty, I let out a slow breath and unlock the door.
He's here.
Tempest's locking his apartment, keys in one hand and leather cut already on. The click of my door makes him glance over his shoulder. We both pause for a second. I watch as his gaze scans me, working over my body before returning to my face.
"Morning," he greets with a slight nod.
"Morning,” I reply as I lock my door and test the handle. Once, then twice, before I catch myself doing it a third time. "Sorry," I mumble.
He frowns. "For what?"
I shrug. "I don't know."
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to smile. He definitely knows what I’m apologizing for; the man is like a hawk. I’ve seen the way he catches everything, the way he quickly assesses the room, or area; he would have definitely seen me checking the door, twice.
We head toward the stairs together without saying anything else. It's only when we're halfway down that I realize neither of us made the effort to let the other go first. We just... ended up walking together.
His boots hit each step with a steady rhythm, whereas mine are quieter. At the bottom, he reaches the front door first and holds it open for me.
"Thanks," I say softly. I can feel my cheeks heat. I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed.
"No problem," he grunts.
The morning air is cool enough that I pull my jacket a little tighter around me.
"How'd you sleep?" he asks as we step outside.
"Fine," I reply, the lie hanging between us.
Thankfully, he doesn't call me on it. He just nods, and for some reason, I'm grateful.
He looks up and down the street, like he's checking something. I follow his gaze before I can stop myself. Nothing. No black SUV, no parked cars with blacked-out windows.
"You okay?" he asks.
I nod. "Long day yesterday."
"It was." He walks over to his motorcycle and pulls his helmet on, and I start toward the sidewalk. "Have a good day, Lilah," he says, his voice thick and raspy.
"You too."
The engine rumbles to life behind me. I don't look back, just keep walking until the sound fades into the morning traffic. Only then do I realize I'd been listening for it.
I shake my head. He's my neighbor, that's all. After the last couple of days, seeing a familiar face on the way out of the building was nice, nothing more. I refuse to make it more than that, and by the time Petals comes into view, I've almost convinced myself.
Cara's already halfway through a wedding order when I walk in; she’s got buckets of white roses, ranunculus, eucalyptus, and greenery covering every spare inch of the workbench. She doesn't even look up when I enter the store.
"The bride changed her mind," she tells me, her voice is shrill.
I hang my purse on the hook by the back door. "About what?"
"Everything."
That makes me laugh. "Again?"
"Called Louise at seven this morning, and Louise called me." She finally glances over. "I hadn't even finished my coffee."
"What is it this time?"
"She found inspiration on Instagram." Her nose scrunches up in disgust. "She wants everything loose and organic now." She gestures toward the flowers. "Which means I'm starting over."
"Ouch."
She nods. "My thoughts exactly." She points a pair of floral snips at me. "You're on ceremony pieces."
"What about the reception?"
"Louise is dealing with those when she comes in."
I grin. "Works for me." I pull my apron over my head, wash my hands, and step up beside her.
A fresh mug of coffee appears next to my elbow a minute later. "Thanks."
"I know you didn't sleep."
I glance at her. "I slept," I say, trying to sound convincing, but she gives me a look that tells me she thinks I’m full of shit. "Fine," I mutter. "A little."
"I'll take a little."
We fall into a comfortable silence as we work on the new arrangements that the bride wants: pew flowers, pedestals, and an arch installation. It's enough to keep both of us busy.
Louise arrives just after nine thirty and immediately starts to work on the reception arrangements while we all take turns on manning the front of store whenever we hear the bell above the door sound; although, it never seems to stop ringing: customers come and go, a delivery shows up, Cara disappears into a bridal consultation, Louise takes a call for a sympathy arrangement—her voice soft enough that I don't need to hear the words to know why.
Everything is normal, and I almost forgot about recent events. But every time I pass the front window, my eyes drift across the street, just for a second, just long enough to make sure. Nothing. No black SUV. I tell myself that's a good sign; I just wish I believed it.
"You're doing it again," Cara says quietly.
"Doing what?" I ask, my brows furrowing.
"Stripping leaves you already stripped." She nods at the stem in my hands.
I look down. She's right; the stem is bare from end to end. I stripped it clean twice without noticing.
"Sorry," I mumble as I put it down.
She gives me the softest look that I have ever seen. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
I shake my head. "Nothing's going on." I’m going to go to hell for lying so much.
She doesn't argue; instead, she picks up her shears and goes back to the arrangement she's been building, and I think that's the end of it.
"You checked the street four times this morning,” she says, looking down at her arrangement.
“Umm...” I mumble, trying to figure out what to say.
"You look through the window," she adds. "Every time you do, your shoulders get tense and then they ease after you finish looking."
I don't say anything, what is there to say? She’s noticed what I do, even though I didn’t think it was obvious when I did it.
"I'm not pushing," she says. "I'm just letting you know that I’m here if you need me."
"I know you are," I whisper, blinking rapidly to stop the tears that are building from falling.
She snips a stem. "The sunflowers."
"Cara—"
"I'm not asking." She picks up another. "I just want you to know I noticed it bothered you, and if you want to talk about it, I'm here. And if you don't, that's fine too." She looks at me over the top of her glasses. "But I threw them out for a reason."
I look at the workbench. "I know," I say quietly. "Thank you."
"I have family," she says after a minute, not looking up.
"Two daughters and a son who think calling twice a month is sufficient.
Three grandkids, all of them loud, all of them perfect.
" She smiles at the arrangement, not at me.
"Big, noisy family Sunday dinners, everyone talking over each other, at least one child crying about something at any given moment.
" She pulls in a sharp breath. "I know that's not something you've got, not here anyway. "
I keep my eyes on the roses; my heart racing and my breathing is rapid. I try to keep calm, but Cara won’t stop talking.
"I'm not trying to make it into something," she says. "I just want you to know you've got me, while you're here, for whatever that's worth. You don't have to tell me anything, you don't have to explain yourself. But you're not nothing to nobody, Lilah. Not on my watch."
I have to look away. "It's worth a lot," I say through the lump in my throat.
She makes a small, satisfied sound. "Good. Now stop being emotional and help me finish these table pieces before the bride calls again."
I release a soft laugh. God, Cara always knows how to make me laugh.
By lunchtime, the worst of the wedding order is behind us. I eat lunch in the back room because I don't have the energy to sit in the park today. The sandwich barely tastes like anything.