Page 46 of The Love Destroyers

You’re going to kill me.

I don’t aspire to that. And you’re the one who started it.

You might like to flirt with everyone, Seamus, but I don’t lose the games I play.

But, seriously, check out these guidelines for dealing with a concussion. I really think you should follow them.

She’s wrong about one thing. I’m not trying to flirt with her. I can’t seem to help myself, though. It’s always right there on the surface—the desire to rile her, to earn one of her barbs. To touch her. But I definitely believe the last thing she said—which must be the real reason why she’s held off on challenging Jeffrey Nichols to a rematch. She wasn’t sure she’d win.

So I’m going to help make her sure.

A goal which would be easier to accomplish if I didn’t feel like shit.

Puking on Chuck in the lobby of the hospital was a bigger deal than I’d been willing to let on. There’d been talk of readmitting me, in fact, but I’d argued that I would convalesce better at home than in the hospital.

We got home late, I had my little text chat with Emma, and then I get to sleep—with every intention of sleeping the week away in preparation for Operation Love Destroyers.

But the thought of Emma taking that photo naked kept me up for hours, and at eight-fifteen in the morning, I wake up to the sound of the buzzer. Chuck murmurs to whoever had the indecency to bother us, and a few minutes later, there are several muted thumps. I pull on a T-shirt over my boxers and stagger out to see what’s happening, only to find several massive flower arrangements covering the available surfaces in the apartment, one of them so large it takes up most of the dining room table.

“Oh dear,” Chuck says as a deliveryman with a smug grin brings in yet another huge-ass bouquet.

Oh dearindeed. What the fuck are two grown men supposed to do with this many flowers?

“Who are these from?” I croak out.

The smug deliveryman, whom I mentally nickname the flower fascist, claims they can’t legally tell us who sent the flowers. That sounds like a bunch of bullshit, but the guy’s buddy brings up one last arrangement—a slightly smaller bushel of flowers with a card on it. I detach it, giving Chuck a quizzical look. He’s wearing plaid pajamas, bless his Brady Bunch heart.

“I’m guessing they’re from Emma,” he says. “She seemed mighty concerned about you yesterday.”

My heart beats faster, which is beyond ridiculous. Emma is not a woman who’d send flowers, nor am I man who’d be happy to receive them. But I’d like to think she’s thinking of me, because I’ll be damned if I can stop thinking about her.

“Bye,” says one of the flower fascists, smirking. “Enjoy the daisies.”

“Actually, most of them are dahlias,” Chuck says. “The lilies are stunning, though.”

The guy shrugs. “What they are is your problem.”

“You have yourself a good morning too,” I say with a grin, which meansgo fuck yourself, and from the quick retreat he beats, he knows it.

Chuck has a thoughtful look on his face as he studies the flowers, then it’s like I can see the lightbulb flashing on inside his head.

“Dahlia. I’ll bet these are from thatdelightfulwoman. She told me she’s loved to grow them ever since she was a little girl and first found out she had a flower named after her. She told me she’d show me the garden at Smith House.”

Leave it to her to think the flower was named after her and not the other way around.

“The bump in my skull doesn’t find her so delightful,” I mutter, less annoyed by the mention of Mrs. Rosings than by the very plausible explanation for the flowers. They’re notI was worried, and I’m glad you’re not deadflowers; they’reI’m sorry I almost killed you, dear boyflowers.

I open the message, which says almost exactly that.

Seamus-

My most earnest apologies for the lamentable mistake I made yesterday. I called the emergency room, and I’ve been assured you had the very best medical care that facility is capable of. The hospital staff was instructed to provide you with a premium dinner and a private nurse. If the conditions were unacceptable, please call me here at Smith House, and I will see to it that any mistakes are rectified.

Accept these flowers as a token of my gratitude for the hole you hammered into my wall. I’m confident you’ll finish it as soon as your medical condition will allow you to, and Emma has preemptively given you a five-star review.

Give some of these to a woman, if you like. They’re yours to do with as you please.

Regards-

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