Page 114 of Stirring Up Love
She transplanted the mini cactus garden to her desk in the back office, where they kept her company while she worked on payroll until nearly closing time, when the door creaked open and a six-foot blow-up saguaro cactus battled its way through the opening, propelled by Rhonda.
Simone buried her face in her hands. When she looked up again, the cactus loomed in the corner of the office, and Rhonda was trying in vain to frown. “You’re running out of room.”
By Friday, a string of cactus fairy lights wound their way up and around the office door. It had taken her entire supply of pushpins to put them up, and a trip to her grandparents’ house for an extension cord. She could’ve left them in the box. But she hadn’t.
A Christmas cactus sat on the edge of her desk, the trailing red blooms making her smile every time she looked away from her spreadsheets. Her cactus-shaped mug sat on a succulent coaster, and she was beginning to wonder whether this was an apology or an attack when a postcard slid under the door.
“Rhonda?”
No answer. “Brent?”
Hands shaking, she walked around the desk. Picked up the postcard, gritty with dirt from the floorboards. Not a cactus. A canyon. Red and gold and burnt umber.
She turned it over.
Roses are so overdone. And when it comes to thorns, they’re second best.
She opened the door and found Finn on the other side.
Simone wasn’t smiling.
“This is a shit ton of cactuses, Rimes.”
She was, however, wearing the cactus sweater.
“Cacti.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Do you hate them?”
“They’re corny and unnecessary and superfluous.” She picked up the hem of the sweater, which reached to her knees. Smoothing her thumbs over the fabric, she peered down at the appliquéd cactus.
When she looked up again, a grin lit her face. “And I adore them, you big weirdo.”
“Oh, good,” he said, and he realized his hand was fisted in his hair. He let go and ran his fingers over it, trying to tidy the strands. He’d had a whole week to plan out his apology, and he had, sort of. Broad strokes ofI messed upandWill you give me another chanceandI want you, always have.
But now that he was here and she was wearing the sweater—she’d actually worn it, even though it was tacky and hideous—all his thoughts were clashing cymbals ofShe might still like you, and all that came out was, “I’m sorry.”
She crossed her arms, warping the cactus, and leaned against the doorframe. “I’m listening.”
That was good. Really good. If he could dredge up something coherent to say ...
“I didn’t come over to heckle you, that first day,” he said, surprising himself. It was true, though. “I came over because I thought maybe we could bond over barbecue. I came looking for a friend.”
Simone licked her lips, head cocked.
“But then I saw you and—” His breath punched out of his lungs at the memory, at the reality of her here in front of him. “It was never going to be just friends with us.”
She put a hand over her mouth, and her eyes turned suspiciously bright before she tilted up her chin, blinking at the ceiling.
“I know you probably think love at first sight is a myth, because you’re practical and sensible and everything I’m not.”
Hand still over her mouth, she breathed out in what might’ve been a laugh, or a snort, or even a sob.
“But I felt a spark that day,” he said. “I tried to ignore it and write it off.” Tried tofightit off. “I’m done trying, because how I feel about you is real, and it’s grown into something deeper and more powerful than I’ve ever experienced. It’s not rational and I can’t explain how it happened, but I do know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I love you, Simone.”
She dropped her hand to her neck, pressing like she was checking her pulse, and he stepped closer, put a hand on the doorframe so their thumbs were touching. “And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. Or maybe you only like me, just a little. Just enough to give me another chance to not screw things up by being up in my head and—”
“Stop.”
He did.
