Chapter 4
It took Noah all of ten minutes to get to Ziggy's place.
He'd been there enough times that he didn't have to think about the route anymore.
The town of Langley was small enough that her neighborhood, his waterfront home, Jag, Troy, and Darcie's places all existed within a reasonable radius.
Close enough, that showing up unannounced was a thing and nobody made a production of it.
He'd been absorbed into that geography the same way he'd been absorbed into everything else about the Bowies—gradually, without fanfare, until one day it was just true.
Noah entered Ziggy's neighborhood, his mind still battling with his heart. But he couldn't go on like this another second. He had to tell her what he was thinking and feeling. The rest would be up to her.
He clenched the steering wheel of his SUV as a florist truck pulled out of Ziggy's driveway when he turned onto her street.
He recognized the logo on the side panel—a local shop he'd passed a time or two, but he couldn't say he'd ever used them.
No one would ever call him romantic. It wasn't that he couldn't be, he didn't want to be, and sending flowers had only two meanings.
A man either sent them because he'd done something wrong and needed to apologize—Noah didn't stay in relationships long enough for that to happen—or because he wanted to show he cared.
And while he genuinely liked the women he dated, none of them were Ziggy.
The thought that someone—a man—might have sent an arrangement to her sent a wave of jealousy through him that he had absolutely no business feeling.
He slowed as he watched the truck turn the corner and disappear. It was just a flower truck. It hadn't done anything to him, personally. But he wanted to chase it down and interrogate whoever was driving it.
Instead, he pulled into her driveway and cut the engine. For a long moment, he sat there with his hands still on the wheel while he tried to settle his pulse.
He got out and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.
The neighborhood was the kind of quiet that Langley did better than anywhere else on the island.
No water view from the street. That was the tradeoff she'd made, the neighborhood instead of the shoreline, but from the right window inside, she could catch a sliver of the Sound between the rooftops, and Ziggy had told him once that was the thing that had sold her.
He'd never told her that he understood that completely.
That sometimes a glimpse of something was enough to make everything else worth it.
He rang the bell and waited.
She opened the door in jeans and a soft sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders, as she did when she wasn't working. "Hey." She smiled.
He opened his mouth to say good evening and thanks for meeting him, but that's not what flew from his lips.
"Who sent the flowers?" The words came out hot and fast, and he hated himself for them.
For his attitude. His tone. For generally being an asshole who thought she owed him something when she, in fact, did not.
Her smile faded. "What?"
He ran his fingers through his hair. "The flower truck." He gestured toward the street. "Someone sent you flowers. I assume it was that guy you were seeing, and before you even say it, I understand it's none of my business. It's just that I thought you and that guy were over."
"Are you kidding me right now?" Her face bunched the way it did when she drank that stupid shake every couple of months because she thought she needed to lose a few pounds.
Ziggy was perfect. Every inch. Every curve.
Every little line she complained about that came with a woman who wasn't twenty anymore.
"I'm just asking."
"It's a dumb question."
"Not from where I'm standing." He held up a hand. "Not when I came over here to talk about what happened last night."
"Sometimes your sense of humor is lost on me." She held the door open, and he stepped inside.
"I'm not trying to be funny."
Her place always felt like someone actually lived in it. Books that had actually been read. A throw on the couch that wasn't decoratively placed but bunched because she used it every day. Photographs on the wall that meant something.
He followed her to the kitchen and stopped.
The flowers were on the island.
White and pale pink, a full arrangement in a glass vase that caught the light from the pendants dangling from the ceiling.
He stood there staring at them, realizing he had no idea how to treat a woman as special as Ziggy.
"Do they look familiar?" Ziggy asked, moving around the island. "Because you sent them."
He gripped the counter. His chest burned. It hurt to breathe. "What?"
"You." She pointed at the arrangement. "Sent them." She picked up a small envelope from the counter and held it out. "There's a card."
He took it between his fingers.
You're the best. I'd be lost without you.
—Noah
He told Ziggy all the time she was the best damn producer on the planet.
He'd told her he wouldn't survive without her.
But the words on the card weren't words he would have chosen.
And he'd never send flowers. Never. When he wanted Ziggy to know he appreciated everything she did, he did big things—bought her designer bags because she had a thing for them.
The words were typed. Nothing personal about them, and when it came to Ziggy—one of the most important people in the world to him—he took the time to write the note himself.
He dropped the card on the island. "You don't even like flowers. You've always said they're a waste of money. And I'm not the kind of man who sends them. You know that."
"I did find it strange."
He lifted his gaze. "Zig, I didn't send these."
She looked at the arrangement. At the card.
At him. He watched her get there—that methodical Ziggy process of turning something over until it made sense.
"I have one brother who's a cop and another who's special forces.
Not to mention what we do for a living. One thing happening might be a coincidence. But three things in two days?"
"I know." It was one thing for someone to mess with him. But her? No. That's where he drew the line. He stepped around the island and pulled her into his arms. "Someone knows something, or thinks they do, and I refuse to put you in the line of fire."
"It's too late for that." In pure Ziggy fashion, she patted his chest, gave him her best “I'm-fine smile”, then turned and went straight for the liquor cabinet. She pulled out a bottle of his favorite tequila and held it up.
He nodded. "I need a pen and paper."
"Drawer over there." She waved her hand. "What are you doing?"
"Making notes." He sat at the island and started writing.
"Things we know about the birthday card.
The delivery at my house yesterday—these flowers.
I want to do what we'd do if this were a story. Take the events of the day into consideration. What both of us were doing before, during, and what we’d planned afterward. Other people who were present."
The birthday card had the most potential dots connected to it because they’d been at work. Lots of people milling about. Not just their crew, but other reporters, other producers, other people who worked in the building. Not to mention guests.
She set a tumbler with three fingers in front of him and tapped the paper. "You'll need a list of every employee and guest who signed in on Thursday."
"I know, and that's going to be a long list. But the only common denominators through all of it are you and me." He took the glass and had a long pull. "Right now, we have one outside business we can question."
"The florist might not give us a name."
"But they might give one to Jag." He held her gaze.
"You want to call my brother?"
"Someone knows where you live. I don't care how easily that information can be found. It concerns me when someone’s messing with me and it goes beyond the standard hate mail.
" He rubbed the back of his neck. "We can't navigate this on our own anymore.
We need to call Jag." He picked up the card and looked at it again.
"You want to tell my brother who your father is?" She stood at the side of the island, glass in hand, mouth gaping open.
"Not really." He swiveled, drawing her between his legs, resting his hands on her hips.
"If this were just about me, I'd let Boots handle it.
Sending you flowers isn't threatening on its own but pretending they're from me is. All of this is some kind of message, and I won’t gamble with your safety. "
"But you're exposing your—"
He laid his finger over her lips. "Boots is good at her job, but she's tied to the station. We’ll let her handle all that. I trust Jag. I trust your family." He dropped his hand. "Telling them can't be the worst thing in the world."
"You know they won't care." She smoothed her hand against his cheek. "No one will."
“That might have been true when I started my career, but I chose to hide who I was. If the truth gets out, we both know it will bury me.”
“It doesn’t have to get out.” She reached across the counter and snagged her cell. “Jag won’t tell anyone. Not unless he has to.”
“That’s funny considering his wife writes true crime novels for a living and his name appears in the notes from the author as somewhat of a co-writer and procedural source.
” Wonderful. He’d spent twenty-five years dreading what was about to happen.
He’d never imagined it would take place in the kitchen of the woman who meant more to him than anything, and he hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell her how he felt yet.
Ziggy's kitchen had suddenly shrunk. And it smelled like a mix of delicate spring freshness, sweet sugar, and a heady, intoxicating perfume that emerged during Seattle's damp winter months.
She hated that smell, and it stared back at her in the form of pink and white flowers.