Chapter 5
Nia
The flowers arrived at work the next afternoon right in the middle of one of my sessions. They were big, beautiful, and expensive enough that the entire high-performance facility immediately fractured into noisy chaos the second they cleared the front doors.
“Ohhhh, nice flowers,” one of the trainers said loudly from across the training floor, competing with the rhythmic hum of the treadmills and the clanking of weights.
The attached card simply read: For the woman who’s impossible not to think about.
My fingers tightened on the paper. Nobody other than Cal knew the exact coordinates of where I worked or the grueling hours I kept here.
I automatically assumed they were from him.
A sudden, dangerous spike of adrenaline hit my chest. Who else would do something this dramatic?
Was this his way of shattering the casual illusion we’d spent months hiding behind?
“Nia, you got secret admirers?” one of the rehab athletes called out teasingly, leaning off a treatment table to get a better look.
“Mind your business,” I shot back, keeping my voice firm while grabbing the card again, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of my heart.
Still, staring down at the pristine arrangement, a cold realization settled in. Something about the sheer, unprompted forwardness of the gesture didn’t feel like Cal. Cal didn't move with this kind of loud transparency; we lived in the quiet spaces between unspoken rules and midnight exits.
I grabbed my phone anyway, needing to clear the air before the speculation drove me crazy. He answered on the first ring.
“What’s up?” his voice came through the line, low and familiar.
“What’s up with the flowers?” I demanded, leaning my hip against the edge of the training table.
There was a distinct, heavy pause on his end.
“What flowers?”
My stomach dropped, a mix of embarrassment and a strange, hollow disappointment washing over me. I frowned slightly, turning away from the curious glances of my coworkers.
“Nevermind,” I said quickly, realizing how completely I’d misread the situation.
“Who sent you flowers, Nia?” His tone shifted instantly, sharp and suddenly protective.
“Bye, Cal.”
“Nia—”
I hung up before he could push further, shutting down the interrogation.
Gathering the heavy arrangement into my arms, the custom-designed glass vase solid and cold against my skin, I walked toward the empty hallway near the training offices.
I needed a little privacy from a room full of people who made a living out of reading body language.
I stood in the corridor, the polished concrete floor cool beneath my heels, and placed the vase down for a second to catch my breath. I stared at the elegant, minimalist lines of the orchids, took a deep breath, and finally dialed the person I suddenly realized they were actually from.
David answered on the first ring.
“Did you like the flowers?”
That smooth, unbothered voice hit the line, vibrating with an absolute satisfaction that made me lean my back against the sleek hallway wall, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips despite myself.
“You know sending flowers to my workplace is a little crazy, right?”
“I had to make an impression,” he replied smoothly.
“You definitely made one,” I said, shifting the heavy vase back into my arms. I checked the corridor, lowering my voice as another trainer in a branded premium tech-fleece passed nearby, slowing their pace to pretend they weren't staring at the exotic display.
In a high-profile facility like this, gossip traveled faster than a trade rumor. "How did you know where I worked?"
David laughed softly through the phone, the low rumble sounding intimately close, cutting right through the sterile, high-tech environment around me.
“Nia Kingsley, elite sports physical therapist currently working with all-star J5? Come on now, beautiful, you’re not exactly hard to find.”
I shook my head, my manicured fingers lightly brushing a thick, waxy petal.
“Should I be scared?” I teased, letting a playful lilt enter my tone to mask the fact that his focus was entirely intoxicating. “You’re not some sophisticated stalker, are you?”
He chuckled harder this time, a rich, genuine sound that carried the effortless confidence of a man used to getting his way in the city.
“No. Just a man who knows what he wants.”
Something about the weight behind those words made my stomach tighten.
His tone wasn't arrogant or forceful. It was certain. David talked like he already knew I’d eventually say yes, operating on a level of absolute certainty that was as magnetic as it was dangerous.
It was a terrifyingly sharp contrast to the exhausting, cyclical guessing game I played with Cal. David wasn't hiding.
“Hm,” I murmured thoughtfully, looking up at the recessed lighting of the ceiling.
“About Friday?” he asked carefully, the playfulness dropping into a quieter, more focused rhythm that demanded my full attention.
I bit my lip, intentionally playing coy to keep my footing.
“What about it?”
“Please,” he said, the word sliding over the line like silk. “Have dinner with me. I promise I’m not some crazy stalker.”
I laughed softly, looking down at the orchids again.
“You sent premium orchids to my job on day three. That’s at least level two concerning.”
“Day two, actually.”
“Oh, goodness," I laughed harder, pressing a hand over my mouth to keep the sound from echoing down the sleek glass clinic hallway, completely charmed by his transparency.
“You noticed, though.”
Unfortunately… I did.
“You always this persistent?”
“Only when I’m interested.”
The confidence should’ve irritated me. In my line of work, dealing with high-earning egoists and entitled athletes daily, I was used to screening out men who thought their status guaranteed them a win.
They were usually too performative, too used to women falling over them the second they flashed a black card.
But David felt polished yet grounded. Like he genuinely enjoyed the friction of talking to me beyond just wanting a trophy on his arm.
“You know I’m busy, right?” I pointed out, shifting my weight as I watched a digital screen across the glass partition update an athlete's recovery metrics.
“I’ll work around your schedule.”
“You say that now,” I countered, a skeptical tilt to my voice.
“I mean it.”
I smiled faintly to myself, the warmth of his conviction settling over me. Persistent men were dangerous, especially when they were intelligent and attractive—a lethal combination in a city full of superficial players.
“What if I’m secretly insane?” I teased, trying to throw up a quick roadblock just to see how he'd maneuver around it.
“Then we’ll be insane together.”
I burst out laughing, a genuine, uninhibited sound that cracked straight through the quiet professionalism of the corridor. It was loud enough that two colleagues heading toward the hydrotherapy wing turned to look, matching grins on their faces.
“See,” he said, his voice dripping with a smug satisfaction I could practically feel through the line. “That laugh right there was worth the flowers alone.”
Goodness. This man was smooth. It should have been a crime. I rubbed my forehead, my fingertips pressing against my temple as I tried—and failed—not to smile so damn hard.
“Okay, Mr. Scott,” I said, conceding a fraction of an inch. “That sounds promising.”
“It’s not a yes yet.”
“But it’s not a no either.”
I hated that he was right, hated how easily he read the space between my words. There was a brief pause on the line, the city hum in his background fading as his voice softened, dropping an octave into something heavy with intent.
“Friday. Seven o’clock. Let me take you somewhere nice.”
I stared absentmindedly out the massive facility windows, looking at the sprawling Texas horizon while I thought about it.
About him. About how long it had been since someone genuinely intrigued me this quickly—without the baggage, without the history, without the constant fear of ruining a friendship.
I leaned back against the wall, crossing one leg over the other.
“On one condition.”
“I’m listening.”
“You promise not to be a killer psychopath.”
He laughed again, easy and bright.
“David Scott the Third. Born September twentieth, nineteen eighty-eight. Raised in Greenwich, Connecticut.”
"Since you have given me your entire identity, I guess I feel safe enough to say yes," I said jokingly.
His exhale was quiet but noticeable through the phone.
“Good.”
Hearing him sound genuinely pleased made me smile all over again.
By the time we hung up, my mood had shifted completely.
The flowers stayed on my desk for the rest of the afternoon, serving as an absolute magnet for gossip while everyone in the facility continued harassing me about my “secret man.” I denied everything, of course, brushing it off with a practiced laugh. But internally? I was curious.
By the time I finally headed out for the day, the Texas sun was dipping below the skyline, casting long, golden shadows across the concrete. I carefully set the arrangement in the passenger seat of my truck, making sure the heavy glass vase was secure before climbing into the driver's seat.
For a second, I just sat there quietly with both hands resting on the steering wheel, inhaling the clean, expensive scent of the orchids filling the cab—the fragrance completely drowning out the lingering memory of Cal's voice on the phone.
I started the engine, the familiar rumble of the truck cutting through the quiet, before grabbing my phone and dialing Mars.
She answered on the first ring.
“What’s up, Ni?”
“Nothing much, girl, just getting off work.”
“How was your day?”
I pulled slowly out of the parking structure, navigating the elite facility's exit.
“Interesting.”
Mars immediately laughed, her sharp intuition kicking in.
“Interesting good or interesting bad?”
“I honestly don’t know yet.”
“Ooooh,” she dragged out dramatically, the sound vibrating through the Bluetooth speakers. “Spill.”
I smiled to myself while merging into the evening traffic, the city lights beginning to flicker to life around me.
So I did.
I told her about meeting David at Lucci’s with the girls.
How he had approached me with that unbothered, commanding presence.
How he had somehow memorized my number without even saving it to his phone.
The late-night phone call. The premium flowers delivered straight to my secure wing at work.
The way he kept insisting on taking me out like he’d already decided I was entirely worth the effort.
Mars stayed unusually quiet through most of it, which immediately made me suspicious. In our friendship, silence from Mars usually meant her brain was working at warp speed.
“What?” I asked, glancing at the phone display.
“His name sounds familiar,” she murmured, her voice trailing off.
I frowned slightly at the brake lights of the luxury SUV ahead of me.
“David Scott the Third.”
There was dead silence on the line for a few seconds, followed by the rapid, aggressive sound of fingernails clacking against a keyboard through the speaker. Mars was doing a deep dive.
Then suddenly—Mars gasped. It was a sharp, inhaled sound of pure shock.
“Oh, honey.”
“What?”
“This is David Scott the Third as in son of David Scott. Scott Enterprises.”
I blinked slowly, my mind trying to connect the dots.
“Am I supposed to know what that is?”
“Nia.” Her tone alone made me laugh. It was the voice she used when I was completely oblivious to pop culture or high-society drama.
“Girl, they own one of the most prestigious brokerage firms in New York. Like old money, old money. Billion-dollar portfolio status. Their company expanded globally years ago, and Houston is their newest location.”
Well, damn.
“That explains a lot,” I muttered quietly, remembering the effortless confidence in his voice, the absolute lack of standard, flashy arrogance. He didn't need to try hard; he was born into it.
Mars continued, her excitement hitting a new octave.
“Girl, this man comes from BIG money.”.
I laughed softly shaking my head while stopping at a red light.
Honestly…
It made sense now.
The way he carried himself.
The effortless confidence.
The expensive watch that probably cost more than my truck.
But strangely enough, that wasn’t what impressed me most.
I’d met wealthy men before.
Athletes.
Entertainers.
Men with money usually led with it because they thought a heavy wallet guaranteed automatic access to women. David didn't. He hadn’t mentioned a single accolade, a family legacy, or a corporate expansion. He had just relied on his own voice and a hell of a lot of charm. That was the difference.
“You sound intrigued,” Mars teased, her tone dripping with satisfaction.
“I am intrigued,” I admitted, navigating a smooth lane change. “He’s actually funny. Like, naturally funny. It’s not forced.”
“And fine,” Mars added seamlessly.
Right on cue, my dashboard display lit up as my phone dinged. Mars had just texted over a picture of him she’d unearthed from her rapid Google search. I caught the next red light and glanced down at the screen.
There he was.
It looked like a candid shot from a high-profile charity gala or a black-tie gallery opening in Manhattan.
He was wearing a impeccably tailored tuxedo, sans tie, with the top few buttons of his white shirt undone.
His dark eyes caught the camera with an effortless, lazy intensity, and a shadow of stubble lined his strong jawline.
Damn, he was handsome. Seeing him formatted in a press photo made the reality of who he was click, but it didn't diminish that grounded warmth I’d felt on the phone.
I smiled to myself as the light turned green, driving through the heavy downtown traffic while replaying parts of our conversation again without meaning to.
The unshakeable confidence in his voice.
The steady, unbothered persistence. The way he talked to me like he already knew I’d eventually say yes—not out of arrogance, but out of absolute certainty.
“Well,” Mars said finally, drawing me out of my thoughts. “All I know is this David man sounds very interested in you. Orchids on day two? He’s not playing around, Ni.”
I glanced briefly at the flowers sitting secure and beautiful beside me in the passenger seat. They were unexpected, striking, and extremely thoughtful.
“Yeah,” I admitted quietly, the nervous flutter in my stomach finally overtaking the skepticism.