Page 64 of Make the Play

And there he is, holding a bright, obnoxiously cheerful bouquet of carnations.

I squint at them, then at him.

“What the hell are these?”

“Flora,” he deadpans. “Typically grown in soil.”

I scowl. “Are you seriously bringing me flowers for our fake date?”

Chase tilts his head, considering me. “Depends. You like ‘em?”

I narrow my eyes. He’s enjoying this.

“Maybe,” I say, drawing it out. “But that’s not the point.”

He gently holds them out to me. “Then let’s pretend it is.”

I huff but take them, because manners or whatever. “Alright, Romeo. You do know these have meanings, right?”

I walk toward the kitchen to grab a vase from the cabinet, fingertips tracing the delicate petals without thinking.

With his hands in his pockets, Chase follows me almost on instinct. “You like carnations, so I got carnations.”

For a second, I just look at them. Not because they’re flowers, but because they’recarnations.

The first flower I ever got to pick on my own. My gran’s favorite. The ones she used to tuck into my braids as a kid, telling me that every color meant something different. That flowers were more than just pretty things and could be little messages if you knew how to read them. For love, for friendship, sorrow, or luck. A way to acknowledge how much someone means to you, to show you care, that you appreciate them.

A flicker of something unexpected presses against my ribs, and I realize it’s not that he got me flowers. It’s that heremembered. Chase, of all people, remembered that they’re special to me.

It’s stupid that it sticks. That it tugs, just a little.

I roll my shoulders, shaking off the feeling that this means something. Instead, I pluck a stem from the bouquet and twirl one between my fingers, inspecting the golden yellow, white-and-pink-striped mix. Fun and cheerful, not pure love.

A slow, devious grin spreads across my lips. Time to mess with him.

“Oh,” I say, keeping my voice suitably tragic. “You just cursed me.”

His brows pull together. “What?”

I nod solemnly. “Yeah. This color combo? Eternal bad luck in love. I’ll die alone now. Appreciate it.”

There are three full seconds before he squints. “You’re screwing with me.”

I barely suppress my smirk. “Am I?”

“You definitely are.”

“Fine. They actually mean cheerfulness and good luck.”

Chase drags a hand down his face. “You could’ve just said that instead of your mumbo jumbo.”

“It’s not mumbo jumbo, it’s whimsical and fun.” I breeze past him, setting the flowers into the vase. When I turn back, his eyes are not on the flowers. They’re on me.

Heat flickers behind his eyes like he’s remembering something—there, then gone, hidden beneath the usual smirk.

I smooth a hand down my dress, fighting the way my pulse kicks up. “What? Is the dress too much?”

Chase blinks once, slowly, like he’s filing something away. Then he leans back against the doorframe, exuding obnoxious levels of confidence.

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