Page 95 of Of Vows and Betrayal

“How is she doing?”

“Who?”

I throw him an exasperated look.

“She’s okay.”

“I—” I frownwhen he takes the exit to East Harlem. “I booked a hotel downtown.”

“I know.”

“I want to punch you.”

“No, you don’t. Trust me, Javi—you don’t.”

My heart starts to pound in my chest as I realize where we are going, but I don’t dare hope. I can’t hope.

Finally, he parks in front of Midsummer Petals, and I let out a huff when I see the open sign.

“I think you should buy your woman some flowers, don’t you agree?”

“Should I?” Lord, I sound pathetic.

“I’ll see you later, my friend.”

I step out of the car, each step toward the shop feeling heavier with anticipation and fear.

The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and the familiar scent of fresh flowers washes over me, a balm to my anxious soul.

Ophelia’s back is to me as she carefully arranges a bouquet, the bell above the door chiming softly. She turns, her eyes lighting up with recognition, a smile spreading across her face.

She’s smiling… atme.

“Welcome to Midsummer Petals. How can I help you?”

I stay frozen by the entrance, unsure of how to react. Is this a dream? It has to be a dream. Am I dead? Is she amnesic?

She moves from behind the counter and takes a couple of steps closer. I can’t help but smile a little. She’s wearing the apron I specially ordered for her—the “Bee Happy” one. Ah, fuckit. If it’s a dream, I might as well enjoy it thoroughly.

“Yes, I—” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. No, this isn’t a dream—my dream version is far smoother. “I need some flowers.”

Obviously, you do, dumbass, if you go to a flower shop. Lord, if this is role-playing, I need to step up my game. All I want to do, though, is reach out and trail my fingers along her soft cheek. It’s almost uncontrollable, so I bury my hands in my pockets.

“Okay, and what’s the occasion?”

“I messed up pretty bad but didn’t realize it until it was too late, and I hurt her along the way.”

“Ah, that’s quite bad, isn’t it?”

My heart is a little less heavy; my breathing is coming out a little easier. “Yes, it is—especially when I love the woman to the point of madness, and seeing her, not being able to touch her, take her into my arms, is pure torture.”

She nods, but I see some color in her cheeks. God, I missed that blush that’s coming out from something other than anger.

“It’s a difficult one.”

“Yes,” I admit, taking a step closer, “but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make things right.”

She tilts her head, those beautiful eyes locking onto mine with curiosity and challenge. “So, what kind of flowers do you think would help convey your feelings?” she asks, her voice a soft murmur that sends a shiver down my spine.

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