Page 110 of You Had Me at Hockey

I move the flowers onto the credenza in the living room. They look perfect against the gray wall with my gray-and-pink décor.

I gaze at them while I sit on my couch and eat my sandwich and drink my coffee. I’m just finishing when I get another call. It’s Bowen in the lobby again, with another delivery.

This one’s in a box, wrapped in glossy black paper with a pink bow.

I open it slowly to find a bottle of Möet & Chandon Rosé Impérial.

Holy shit.

I’ve never had the stuff. I could afford it, but wow, that’s a splurge for a bottle of wine.

There’s another card inside.

Roses are red, violets are blue.

I’m an idiot and I need you.

Stupid tears. I press the edge of my hand beneath my stinging nose.

I check the time. It’s two o’clock. I don’t even know where he is. Is the team home from Columbus? What is he doing?

I hold my phone in both hands.

Then I send him a text:I’m not drinking this rosé alone.

I don’t get a response right away, so I set down my phone.

So much for my plan to get back to normal today. I was going to get caught up and edit some video but now all I can do is pace around and think of Josh, my mind spinning in useless circles.

An hour later, my phone rings again. It’s Bowen.

“Another delivery?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, bring it up. Thanks, Bowen.”

Now what? I hop around, nerves jittering, stomach fluttering like hummingbird wings.

I rush to the door to answer the knock. But it’s not Bowen…it’s Josh.

He’s holding a small pastel-green box in both hands. But it’s his face my eyes are glued to—solemn. Handsome. Intense. His eyes brim with emotion.

Our eyes meet and he doesn’t move a muscle. We gaze at each other in a protracted trembling moment of questions and nerves and…hope.

“Are you the delivery?” I ask, my voice husky.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “Come in.” I step aside and he walks in.

“These are for you.” He turns and hands me the box.

I take the box, instantly recognizing the Ladurée decoration and logo. “Oh…” I set it on the counter and carefully open it to reveal a dozen pink macarons. “Are they Marie Antoinette?”

“Yeah.”

“My favorite.” My heart has climbed into my throat.

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